Today I cleaned my daughter's room. I know, I know - what on earth am I doing? How is she going to learn any lessons that way? You have to understand that I really, really, really tried this time. I waited, and reminded, and cajoled (which isn't easy) her about the condition of her room. Oh, she would clean it - you know, the Kid Kind of Clean, but being borderline OCD it was never good enough for me. So, as things began to get lost I was more and more on edge. Finally I threw up my hands and screamed "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" and ran into the room with a garbage bag, a Swiffer Duster and a mini vac.
The family knows after many years to seek shelter when there's a Carl Cleaning Warning in effect. They usually go to the basement and find a sturdy wall and play UNO until the warning is over. Actually, they watch from a distance and feign boredom, but I know inside they're secretly jumping in glee knowing that I've broken down. It's like when Kasparov played that computer in chess, and the computer won, and you just know the geek programmers (I say that with fondness, of course) were jumping up and down and high-five-ing each other and yelling "WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!"
The final straw was asking my dear daughter where the cable to charge her cellphone was and she didn't know.
"I don't know." she said plaintively, which isn't easy for a daughter.
"Is it in your room?" I asked, vexed, which is very easy for a father and comes naturally.
So I attacked the room and found all sorts of things. Most of the things were buried under layers of stuff in the closet. I'm not going to go into most of what those things were in order to protect the guilty and quite messy, but I will list four things that were found:
1. Almost $30, which the aforementioned daughter had no idea she had. (Now I have to take her shopping; I haven't yet told her about my Finder's Fee.)
2. Moose antlers
3. Bigfoot
4. A cellphone cable to charge a cellphone
Bigfoot was cowering in the closet under a pile of dirty laundry. I'm not sure how he got in there; I checked and he definitely was not a rubber suit. When I went to get my digital camera and came back I found the window open and no sign of him anywhere. Oddly enough, the moose antlers were gone as well. Draw your own conclusions.
So now I have one really clean and organized room in the house which I can enjoy for another, oh, three or four hours. But it's clean, darn it. And that makes me really exultant.
And that's not easy for an OCDish-neat-freak-Dad. Really.
National Online Shopping For Someone Else Day Follow-Up
May 20, 2008
I wanted to lead by example and let everyone know that I made my online purchase for someone else just now. I sent a Ghirardelli chocolate gift basket, quite possibly the best chocolate in the world - a chocolate so good it was probably given to us by Aliens millennia ago. The person(s) I sent it to I have never met, but we've chatted via email over common web design interests. I'll let you know what, if any, reaction I get.
So, there you go. It's pretty easy,,,and I feel really good about it. I've seen Cassie cheer up maybe hundreds of Disney Cast Members merely by engaging them, asking for their autograph and giving them a few miinutes, at least, to feel like a star. It's a great thing to watch. And while I am unlikely to ask the local townsfolk for their autographs, I don't think I'm ready to give up that feeling of seeing someone hit with "Disney Magic" and so I'm going to explore similar options. A gift-giving-just-because holiday seems like a good start.
Any other suggestions would be warmly welcome! Maybe it would make a good book.
We saw Prince Caspian on opening day - I enjoyed it, although I think I may have enjoyed The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe more. A few notes about the two films:
1. Wardrobe had Tilda Swinton*, who did an amazing job (I thought) as the White Witch. Conversely, Caspian has an animated mouse who is very entertaining. And short.
2. Wardrobe is a better known story, I think, than Caspian. Although all of us die-hard fans have read each of the books several times.
3. Caspian had some intriguing bits with Susan that I think begin to lay some ground work for her character development moving forward. I don't want to write anything that's a spoiler, so for now I'll leave it at that.
4. I have to say that the water and tree computer animation in Caspian is amazing. And Aslan looks so real you don't even think of him as a computer-generated character. Or even a lion. (At least, I didn't. But then again, I was entertained by the mouse and the squirrel.)
If you get a chance definitely go see it. Weekend BO is being described as weak. My theories about that is that Iron Man siphoned off some business because it's a similar demo (fantasy/sci-fi and generally family fare) and because of it's running time (147 minutes although Wardrobe was a similar 143.) I expect that Caspian's worldwide gross will equal or exceed Wardrobe, but we'll see.
*I could write (and probably will, one day) a post or two about the conflict I experience when I judge an actor's performance in a movie against their own personal views and lifestyle. If you support the performance does this mean you are lending support (even tacitly) to the actor's personal views or lifestyle? Ms. Swinton has turned in a number of unusual, if not critically acclaimed, performances and some of her personal viewsare not those I would share. It terms of acting skill, though, her brief appearance in Caspian had a great deal of power and weight that I thought was missing from the rest of the cast.
I confess I don't know what that would be (the sound of a sigh caught in a black hole) but I thought the phrase would make a great blog post title. It seems very deep, like the "sound of one hand clapping" until you think about it and realize that it's completely meaningless. I suppose a sigh caught in a black hole would sound like siiiiiighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. There might even be a pfffft! right at the end there when it crosses the event horizon. For more on sighing and black holes and event horizons consult your local wikipedia.
Some of you have wondered why I haven't been posting as regularly as in the past. Some surmised I was in a terrible corn canning accident. Others have suggested that the Japanese Mafia finally caught up with me late one night at Wal-Mart, during an ill-fated Twinkies and Pepsi run. A few inquired about my health, given all of the bionics from poorly waged light saber battles and my diet of Twinkies and Pepsi. All good guesses, of course, but in truth I was on vacation at Disney World for the last six months.*
As proof I offer this photo snapped at EPCOT. It is part of the current Tin Toy exhibit being held in the Japan section of EPCOT, right behind the Japanese Mafia booth - which I carefully circumvented while dressed in my Speed Racer disguise. I think this is a Tin Godzilla, desperately in search of some Tin Japanese Soldiers to stomp on. He had just stomped on the Mach 5, Speed Racer and his box office receipts - but was still hungry.
*Okay, I made that up. I can hardly afford to put gas in my well-made but gas-guzzling SUV let alone vacation at Disney World for six months. But vacation is, after all, just a state of mind.
In an amazing show of forgiveness and compassion, the Amish community that lost five girls last year in a shooting has donated an unspecified amount to the widow of the killer.
Milk truck driver Charles Carl Roberts seized an Amish school building in Lancaster county, Pennsylvania, tied up the children and started shooting. He killed five children and wounded five before turning the gun on himself.
The Nickel Mines Accountability Committee (set up to handle the more than $4 million dollars of donations that have poured in from around the world) issued a statement on behalf of the community, which read in part:
"Many from Nickel Mines have pointed out that forgiveness is a journey, that you need help from your community of faith and from God ... to make and hold on to a decision not to become a hostage to hostility.
Forgiveness of this magnitude is difficult to imagine. We live in a world which is very much me-centered, where the slightest affront, delay, botched fast food order, is nurtured until it blossoms into hate or anger. If this community can not only forgive but reach out in love after what they've been through then it gives me hope that I practice a little more grace in my day-to-day life.
I came across an old bookmark last night - I have a bad habit of bookmarking things and putting them in a list called "Read Later." Usually, I never read them or if I do, the entire site is gone by the time I get there. I believe an Alert Reader sent this in but it's been a while.
HeroMachine is a website that allows you to create your own comic book character by selecting various pieces (shirt, pants, headgear, etc.) and then coloring them. It's really quite amazing. Cassie and I created a number of characters today. Here's my set:
A bunch of characters that hopefully don't infringe on anybody's rights. If you're infringed drop me an email and scold me.
You can click here for the larger-than-life super heroic version which shows off the HeroMachine's work much better. No drawing was involved in any of this - the only thing I did in Photoshop was to add the names (Cassie helped with at least one of those) and the obligatory Apple-ish reflection. All of the rest of the artwork is generated by the website.
Cassie had a Tae Kwan Do exhibition today at a baseball game. Well, actually, before the baseball game. The event was at "Medlar Field at Lubrano Park" which sounds to me like some sort of naming compromise, as in the Medlars and the Lubranos both help build the park. But really, I have no idea and haven't looked into it.
The park and the field are really beautiful. MFaLP is home to the State College Spikes, which at first might sound like some sort of ninja weapon but actually refers to a deer or a moose or something. You can find their site here. Their mascot is "Ike the Spike" who in addition to being a deer or a moose or something is also a third degree black belt and master of the katana.
Many of Cassie's TKD classmates were on hand for a special demonstration of TKD forms, battling, catapult usage, walking on coals and breaking boards with one's head. Cassie, having inherited a good bit of common sense from the Schaad side of the family (recessive trait) decided to volunteer for board breaking with the elbow. She did marvelously - the board had little chance really - and the crowd at the Spikes' game was very supportive, especially Ike who waved his katana in a sort of moose-like salute.
The weather was gorgeous, and Carl managed to snap a few pictures that accidentally came out okay.
Cassie practices her "karate chop action" before the big event.
Cassie discusses the catapult plans with some other students.
Master Sam Chaar walks onto the field to prepare the students for the big fire walk.
I haven't blogged about Heroes all season. At least, I don't think I have. Let me check. Okay, I I did once. It was a brief post about time-travel that really didn't solve any of my own personal dilemmas with time-travel. For example, if there will ever be time travel, way far down the road in the future, someone surely would have come back to this time just to talk with me about all of those coffee cans I'm sealing up and burying everywhere. But so far: nothing. Of course, if time-travel gets developed in the future, they probably will also develop some sort of toothpaste that makes you forget everything (and fight tartar) when you brush your teeth, and maybe they visited me and slipped that into my medicine cabinet, which would explain why I can't find my car keys.
Anyway, Heroes is a television show that debuted this season on NBC. The main story revolves around a number of "heroes" that have extraordinary gifts. We'll just call them "super powers" because I know that's what all of you are thinking. So far we've seen an amazing array of super powers: telepathy, the ability to create fire, super healing, flight, walking through walls, and the ability to never completely get written out of the script no matter how final your last scene seems to be. Two of the most annoying powers are precognition (the ability to see the future) and time-travel (the ability to completely muck-up the past, making the guy who saw the future look like a complete idiot for getting it wrong.)
At first I thought to myself: "Self, don't get interested in this show, even if they DO create a guy with heat vision, because all sci-fi shows last two seasons max." So I avoided it like the plague, or like someone who carried the plague, or even like someone who could create super plagues just by thinking about it and leave them on door knobs, toilet seats and the handles of office coffee pots. But co-workers (or, if you prefer, coworkers) at AccuWeather kept hammering me with all sorts of tidbits (Hey! They're going to have a guy with heat vision on tonight!) until I broke down and watched an episode.
Actually, I ended up watching something like 8 episodes right in a row. I won't do the math there on how much time that was in front of the computer, but I went to bed at a ridiculous hour. I was hooked.
The series is remarkable not because of the super powers, although I'm still holding out for someone who can turn themselves into lambs and sloths, and carp and anchovies, and orangutans and breakfast cereals... but it's remarkable because of the writing and acting. What would the world be like if people suddenly started acquiring super powers? This show gives you a good guess, and it's very entertaining.
The season recently concluded so now is a good time to try it out. The most interesting character (IMO) has to be Hiro Nakamura, a former office cubical dweller who has the power to "bend space and time." He's the time traveler who catches a glimpse of a desolate future and takes it upon himself to set things right. His transformation from meek office worker to hero took the length of season one but was a great trip. At the end of the season, Hiro ends up traveling back in time to feudal Japan.
At least, that's one theory. I think he ended up at the World Showcase in Epcot during some sort of show. But now we all have to wait several months to find out.
Jump on board!
*The Blog Hero wishes everyone to know that the title of this post was the result of hours - nay, weeks! - of brainstorming and he's quite proud of it. He's working on his next Heroes blog title but so far isn't coming up with much other than "She sells sea shells down by the seashore right before unleashing her deadly heat vision" which really isn't very good. Suggestions welcome.
I came across this via a search for Global Warming news. I have my RSS reader set up to peruse various search engines, blogs, feeds, etc., for certain keywords and an article popped up from Business Week about the L that had this bit:
A beautifully absurd piece of machinery, the Superleggera reminds you that it will be a chilly day in Hell before the Italians (and the Germans egging them on) let global warming take the heat off their amazingly nimble, rocketlike Gallardo.
I had to laugh out-loud at that. Or, LOL. Although I won't say that because it would be weird and geeky.
Here's a photo of the Superleggera:
By now you probably want to know how much it will cost, because you're all set to contribute to the Blog Hero Needs A Cool Vehicle To Fight Crime Fund. You'll find that tidbit on page 2:
Base price:$240,000 (est.)
Ah well. I guess I'll keep fighting crime with my Saturn.
Jesse has an interesting post here about the NHC/NOAA/CPC/JM hurricane predictions, and contends that they're basically predicting 10-20 storms this season. Give or take.
And SciGuy Eric Berger, who may or may not have gotten beaten up as a kid for his milk money, has a post here discussing the pre-season predictions. He lets Joe Bastardi have it, stating that Joe's prediction of named storms is "doom and death" and "Bastardi doesn't predict specific numbers." He adds, "His chief currency is fear."
This is interesting because it's almost completely wrong. First, Joe Bastardi (and AccuWeather.com team) have predicted actual numbers - you can read the press release here. The forecast is for 13-14 storms, 3+ being "major" (major meaning that Anderson Cooper will likely be drawn to the coast.)
Given the "Bastardi Number" is actually less than Gray's number, or the upper limit of the NOAA/NHC forecast, why is Bastardi tagged as the "doom and death" guy?
I'll give Mr. Berger the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to a lack of research. Apparently he took a look at the pre-season discussion, not the forecast which was issued later, and drew conclusions from that.
Finally, there's a telling comment in the comments section of the SciGuy's post. It goes like this:
There is no publicity to be gained by predicting an inactive season. Without public interest, it is difficult to justify funding. Why fund research into a problem that is observed to be waning?
To keep funding up, to keep people employed, to to win attention, every hurricane season will be active.
If people were any good at predicting hurricanes with any accuracy, there would be no insurance market.
My experience tells me this is exactly the opposite of how it works in the private sector. The AccuWeather team has a number of private clients (and a growing website) that receive our detailed hurricane forecasts. If you accept the "doom and death" fear-mongering position, AccuWeather wouldn't have these clients - the free market would punish any company providing content that was continuously wrong, bad and created for the purpose of inciting fear. Just the opposite is occurring - AccuWeather is growing because the hurricane information is very valuable to the clients AccuWeather serves. I've observed Joe at AccuWeather and he's passionate, works long, insane hours, and put everything into his forecasting - keeping what works and learning from any mistakes. And his clients understand that.
Disclaimer: The Blog Hero, who may or may not work at AccuWeather, would like to say that he has never met the SciGuy, Dr. Gray, Dr. Gray's team, most of NOAA and the NHC. Furthermore, the Blog Hero has never been to Houston, which I'm sure is a delightful city, and has never picked up a copy of the Houston Chronicle to read over a double half-caf decaffinated ginger latte expresso (with cream.) No body builders were harmed in the writing of this post. Thank you.
Pictionary, for those of you not in the know, is a tool of the devil created by Hasbro. Well okay that's a little harsh. I actually enjoy Pictionary, except for the part at the end where I (and my team member) inevitably lose. We had some friends over last week and we played Pictionary. Whenever you play Pictionary you have to have a partner, and this partner is almost always your spouse, as it is terribly bad form to say "Ooh! Let's all exchange spouses for this game!"
My spouse is Alert Pictographer Tammy, who ordinarily draws and guesses with the kind of mental acuity reserved for Mensa members. However there were at least two incidents in this particular game of Pictionary that probably sank our chances at victory although I'm not actually saying that or blaming anyone or being bitter. I will let you, the Alert Reader, decide.
The first incident involves an "All Play." This is where every team gets an opportunity to drawn the same object, and whoever can guess it first wins. (If it's your turn and you win, you get to roll the dice and advance. Otherwise you lose the turn and it advances to the next team.) I thought I had this one nailed, and here's what I drew:
You can now play along at home. What did Carl draw? Was it:
A. A Daisy
B. Jimmy Hoffa
C. A Fire Extinguisher
D. None of the Above
If you guessed A CLOWN you would be right! But Alert Interpreter Tammy just stared at the paper unable to guess CLOWN. CLOWN. Again, I am NOT BITTER. Just for the record though that line underneath the CLOWN is me beginning to drawn arrows AT THE CLOWN because aside from drawing fire engines and big feet and squirting flowers and bottles of seltzer that was about as good a CLOWN as a person can draw under pressure.
That was the first incident, which I will forever refer to as the CLOWN INCIDENT and everyone will know exactly what I mean or I will go into painful detail to explain what I mean including taking this picture out of my wallet and passing it around because yes I am saving it forever. The second incident involves this picture by Tammy. This was not an All Play and I had all the time in the world to guess it:
Give up? I almost did, until I had the paper turned for me (whoops!)
Ah ha! I bet you think you know what this is. Is it:
A. A Wing from KFC
B. The Southeast United States
C. Washington D.C.
D. Jimmy Hoffa
If you guessed MARYLAND you would be right! Look again! That's actually Maryland up there! Now, it wasn't the fact that I didn't get this right that was particularly disturbing, and I mean disturbing like you come home at 2 am and open the garage and there's a man standing there dressed like a scarecrow and holding a gigantic scythe disturbing - no, what was really disturbing is that Alert Cartographer Tammy insisted I should have gotten this immediately!*
So, I guess I'm not going to shock you when I tell you that we lost. Not only did we lose, but we lost big. I mean, really big.
Jimmy Hoffa big.
*The Blog Hero wishes to add this late-breaking disclaimer for his own personal safety and say that Alert Artist Tammy did a far better job at drawing, overall, than did her graphic designer husband and that really, if she had just had the good sense to trade spouses at the beginning of the game she would have won. But that still doesn't look anything like MARYLAND.
Jesse started video-blogging at AccuWeather, video-blogging being all the rage now. I would video-blog except for my fear of video cameras (I was beat up by a video camera as a child, and therapy has really never gotten me past it) and I don't have a video camera, which could make video blogging difficult.
In any event, the automatic video process at AccuWeather stamps a play button on the screen and generates a still image. This has to be the best combination I've seen to date. He should buy that mask! He could fight crime as "Jesse Man." I assume his powers would be weather related: he could cause intense headaches and pain in people's knees by mimicking an approaching front.
Tonight it was my turn to take Cassie to her Tae Kwon Do testing. It was my turn for three reasons:
1. I hadn't gone last time.
2. Alert Volunteer Tammy was volunteering at the crisis pregnancy center in town.
3. It is the coldest night here in 400 years, or something.
Now, any situation where I should be present in order to support my child(ren) and ALSO have to be in close proximity to other humans that I don't know creates a lot of tension for me. I find making small talk difficult, and tend to want to just cut to the chase and discuss religion, or politics, or something controversial like trans-fats. But those are generally not the sorts of things you discuss in these situations, so I try to control myself and just listen instead.*
Listening, though, only serves to further convince me I need to work on my patience. Because I find that if I hear something I disagree with I have this chivalrous urge to wade in, long sword swinging to and fro, in an attempt to Make It All Right. Past experience has taught me that's a misdemeanor.
Cassie's instructor is Master Chaar. Master Chaar runs the Chaar Tae Kwon Do & Martial Arts Center. So far I've been very impressed with Master Chaar personally and professionally. As an example, he puts together extra movie nights for the kids to come, play with some of the equipment and just unwind with a good, kid-friendly movie. I think that's great - fostering that sense of community amongst the students. Professionally his accomplishments are very substantial.
Although he's really a nice guy - you don't want to cross him. If you do, it would probably go down like this: First, he would raise his hand into some sort of animal shape. Then he would say: "DANCING PYTHON IN THE CLOUDS!" without moving that hand at all, for about ten seconds. But then you would realize he haf been moving it all along - too fast for the human eye to see - and then your head would fall off your body. (I know all of this because he ordered extra anchovies one night and the pizza boy didn't come through and, well, I think the next guy made sure there was a whole bunch on there.
Cassie's testing went very well. She had to break a board again, but instead of using her head, she was only allowed to use her left ear (she's left-handed.) Eventually, as she progresses, she'll have to learn how to break a board with a harsh word, and then at the last test - she'll break a board with a stern look. I have no doubt that she can do it. I get that same look from Alert Reader Tammy all of the time. Oh, I know she tones it down because so far I've only suffered some minor abrasions, a bruise or two, and once a pretty good sprain. I'm convinced that one day she'll lay it on me big time and I'll probably show up at work with crutches the next day. And lot of pain medication.
Cassie did wonderfully and I'm very proud of her. She sacrificed last week to attend extra classes in advance of her testing, even though I'm sure there were other things she wanted to do. And she was a trooper tonight, still feeling a little queasy from her weekend bug. Now that she passed the test there will be a new belt ceremony this weekend complete with cake. I hate getting my arm twisted like that but I think I can make it.
*Okay, that was pretty vague, even for me. So here's a sample, which I write at my peril because we know that this sort of thing will go around and the next time I show up at TKD I'll get a look from this person that seems to say "Oh THERE'S the Smug Blog Hero with his Smug Blog WhoThinksHeKNOWSEVERYTHING!" But, really, this is just an example of my challenge interacting with other humans. I observed a woman talking with her young son, who was slightly nervous. The mother remarked "What can I do to give you good luck?" and she sort of hemmed and hawed and actually there was this extended semi-embarassing pause as it seemed inevitable that the young lad was now going to enter his testing sans any luck of any sort. Without thinking I almost said, "You could say a prayer for him" which I would have said respectfully, but that's one of those things that you never know how it would be taken. (I ended saying a silent prayer) Should I have said anything? Introvert Carl says no and is breathing into a paper bag at just the thought. Perfectionist Carl says yes and is figuring out how to commandeer the brain when another situation like this turns up.
As some of you might remember the Schaads have a tradition of getting rid of their Christmas Tree before January 1. In fact, here is a flashback:
January 1, 2006
I discovered something about our own Holiday Traditions that I never knew. Actually, I was probably completely debriefed one year and have totally forgotten it. Or, I wasn't paying attention. Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, traditions. Well my wife explained to me that the Christmas Tree had to come down by midnight on New Year's eve. I didn't know this. I don't know if I had just managed to get it out of the house before then and it never came up or what.
So tonight, at 10:34 pm, I suddenly remembered the tree. It looked lonely, sitting in the darkened living room, completely bare of lights or decorations. Its needles were still on the boughs, delicately balanced, waiting to drop en masse at the slightest jarring or barest breeze. We sized each other up. I could feel the tension between us. I, the victor, chopper of the douglas fir. And it, the fir, hoping for one last act of defiance. We stood like that for what seemed like hours. Then I lunged. In a blur of plastic I grabbed the giant tree bag we had laid at the base of the tree and in one quick move had the entire beast bagged up. It shook with rage, and the bottom of the bag swelled with thousands of needles. But it was too late; I had won. And the fir knew it.
I'm happy to report that this year I was a huge Tree Hero. I obtained the nasty beast (a genuine Scandinavian Emerald Fir), I set it up, put lights on it, decorated it, undecorated it, took the lights off, and dragged its sorry carcass out to the back yard, where it now sits in the same grass-less patch as its predecessor. I was the Tree Hero this year partly because Alert Cashier Tammy, who may or may not be my wife, was clever and wily enough to get a job during the weekends when one would normally bag, stuff and mount a Scandinavian Emerald Fir. The other part of being a Tree Hero was selfless loving Carl, but that was probably the much smaller part. (This part is usually kicked in the behind and given a wedgie by grumpy headache-y Carl.)
All of this trauma with the Scandinavian Emerald Fir this year (hereafter SEF, as my hands are cramping again) made me think of my childhood. Yes, that's the ominous music you hear cueing. It happened when I was trying to get the tree out of the house.
When it came time to get rid of the tree, I realized that no one has ever taught me how to get rid of a tree. It seems pretty obvious, doesn't it? I mean, how to get rid of a tree. The tree is in the house - the tree needs to be out of the house - just take the tree out. But there's a way to do just about everything. Several tree disposal methods came to mind while I was brainstorming after having removed the ornaments and lights:
1. Fire. This seemed to be the most enjoyable method. But even I knew that setting your tree on fire while it's still inside of the house will just make your spouse mad.
2. Saw. I thought about sawing off the top half of the tree and then removing them in two separate pieces. This would require sawing, which is about as rewarding and as much fun as removing wallpaper, or paint, or tartar, or...well, you get the idea. But taking out two smaller, half-trees would be easier than one big fat tree. But then I remembered the needle dilemma.
3. Dragging. Next I thought I could just kick the tree over and drag it out of the house. This would have the benefit of sending a message to other trees that would be watching - no tree likes to see that sort of thing. But again, even though the tree was 15 feet from the front door there wouldn't be a single needle left on its bitter boughs after that sort of rough-housing.
4. Carry it. Ultimately, this is what I decided. But how do you carry a tree? This is where my total Lack of Training entered. I decided that I would reach into the boughs, grab the trunk, lift it straight up, and walk like that out of the house - tree in front of me at arm's length.
This might have sounded like a good plan, but something you need to know about SEFs - once they're cut, their sap slowly turns into lead. By the time the New Year rolls around, your SEF can weigh up to 2000 pounds. (907 kg for you folks in Scandinavia.) And so, here I sit blogging away with a painful back. And wondering, where does a person learn these sorts of things? Wikipedia, I guess. Once upon a time I think it fell upon the Fathers to teach their Sons these sorts of things. I guess I'll have to come up with a good plan to pass on to Connor. Okay, I've got one.
"Connor, we're going to Lowes. They're having a sale on Artificial Trees."
Several people asked via comment and email for the Schaad Christmas Letter, which is really nothing spectacular. I would feel better about charging $29.95 a copy if something even mildly interesting would have happened in 2006. As it is, aside from that ugly episode at the grocery store involving the pickles nothing noteworthy occurred. (Note to self: make sure I can allude to the ugly pickle episode before posting this.)
In any event, the Schaad Christmas Letter (hereafter known only as "SCL" because my fingers are starting to cramp) appears below via a link. For now, this will be the only link to the SCL (see! paying off already) and so it will eventually disappear into obscurity, although the entire contents will, by then, be scanned by Google and splayed all over the Internet for ever and ever.
Comments about the SCL (woo hoo! that's two!) can be left here, although the author reserves the right to only publish the most flattering ones on the blog. (As well as comments about lorazepam, viagra, Xbox 360 or great refi deals. Because the author knows it's only a matter of time before he slips up and publishes those instead of deleting them.)
This thought occurred to me today, probably because I've spent part of my vacation watching the entire season of "Heroes" which was recommended to me by several co-workers (or, if you prefer, coworkers) and since I write a blog called "Blog Hero" I suppose I have an obligation to check that sort of thing out. In any event, it was great and I'll have a full review later. But this thought occurred to me today:
If humans ever do manage to figure out Time Travel, we would already know.
So see if you can follow me. Let's say that sometime in the future, like 2459 (I'm being optimistic about our chances here, obviously) someone makes a time machine. It goes without saying that their first thought would be to go back in time and steal really cool stuff. (See "Time Bandits") Well, since we still have really cool stuff, and it wasn't stolen (like Little LEGO people) we can assume that no one ever invents a time machine, because if they did they would have ALREADY gone back in time to steal cool stuff, and that would be in the past, which has already happened, except that it didn't happen, so it never will.
That thought occurred to me today, which put a damper on my day since I think time travel would be really cool. For example, if I had a time machine I could go back in time and knock out the sales person who would sell Henry his snow blower and instead I (now cleverly disguised as the sales person) would convince Henry that it was a bad idea to spend the money on a snow blower and that he instead should by the Mrs. Henry a nice necklace. Something in gold, with lots of little snow flakes made of diamonds or something. Barring that, I would just knock Henry out and sell his snow blower to someone else.
Disclaimer: If you're reading this and you're from the future I'm really very sorry about that whole "stealing cool stuff" thing and didn't mean it personally. But please email me because there are some things I really need to do over in high school and I'm sure we could reach some sort of agreement. I have lot of little LEGO people. Thank you.
Way back in 1994 Alert Christmas Letter Writer Tammy asked me if I would type up a Christmas Letter that we could sent to all of our family and friends. Without realizing what I was doing I agreed, thinking "How hard could THAT be?" Well, here we are in 2006, a dozen years later, and I'm still writing the Christmas Letter. At first the letter was quite boring; a recitation of the year's events whose sole purpose was to bring everyone up-to-date. But then it took on a life of its own, and became this long-winded, bizarre, why-doesn't-he-just-get-a-blog sort of letter. Now people pass the letter around to their friends and family, and more people than necessary know the inner workings of the Schaad clan.
I thought about posting a PDF version of the letter here. I'm not sure there would be any interest, and I think everything covered in the letter was blogged about at one point or another. (Well, almost everything.) If you'd like your copy, drop me a note or a comment. I take MC, VISA and Paypal...
In any event, just in case I forget or get too busy fighting off shopping Ninjas in my last minute dash to wrap up the Christmas Gift procurement - a very Merry Christmas to all, and a joy-filled and prosperous New Year!
Jaimen Ortiz's quick thinking and action is credited with saving a two-year-old girl from serious harm, and possibly death, when he caught her as she fell from a two story window. A great story, and not the first time Ortiz has been a hero...
My brain is apparently stuck in the "on" position and I'm going to be hurting today. A Severe Non Sequitur Watch is in effect for the entire day. I spent a little time recently playing a video game for the PS2. I hope the developers of the PS3 remember the PS2, since I have neither the money nor the courage to face the violent masses in line to get a PS3. Anyway in this game I have that will remain nameless you go on various quests, all heroic-like, but I got stuck on this one particular part. I had to defeat a giant turtle, but I kept dying. How embarrassing is that? I had to answer all sorts of uncomfortable questions from my geek friends about how I was doing, what part was I on, and under my breath I had to say "IGotKilledByTheGiantTurtle." It would probably be one thing if a Ginormous Black and Green Dragon breathed fire on me, melted my armor and then ate me like a shelled peanut but no, I was stepped on by a turtle. Ah, well.
Just let the record show that I did, in the end, defeat the turtle and I'm now trapped in another area by a large pudding.
I was wrestling with the RSS feed last night, which is not unlike wrestling with the hydra and Hercules can tell you how difficult that was. Fortunately I'm using a Mac, not the PC laptop Hercules had (given to him by Hera, of course.) I think I managed to do something to the feed to make it work. This is usually how I fix things: I do random things until something seems to work properly or whatever I'm working on explodes and there's nothing let to work on anymore. (Then I would call an expert, or email Hercules.)
If you have a minute and use any sort of RSS reader, particularly Yahoo! which has always hated my feed, try this out and let me know if you have any luck*
You've probably heard about the "carbon footprint" - which is a measurement of emitted CO2. When people talk about their personal carbon footprint they're talking about the amount of CO2 they generate. Laura Hannon at AccuWeather's Global Warming blog has a post on this you can find here.
Today I was thinking about something almost completely unrelated. I'm going to call it the "compassion footprint" since footprints are in vogue. The Compassion Footprint would be a measurement of emitted compassion. I have to confess that I don't always emit a high level of compassion. This past week I was challenged to think about my own personal compassion and how I can make a difference in the lives of others less fortunate.
I also spent some time thinking about my Compassion Footprint in years past and how that's measured up. That brought to mind the original "Compassion Footprint" movie, It's a Wonderful Life. I'm sure you know it: In the movie George Bailey (played by the inimitable James Stewart) has convinced himself that he's better off dead and is about to end it all - but is saved by his wingless guardian angel Clarence. Clarence then takes George on a trip through a world that hadn't been blessed by George's generosity, compassion and caring.
It's a classic movie, and Clarence sums up the whole of it in this line:
Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?
But to take that one step further, not only do our lives touch so many other lives, but every day we have the opportunity to consciously choose to multiply that. It might seem to us a small gesture, but we never know how a small act will domino into something huge. Whether you drop off some groceries at the local food bank, pack a shoebox for "Operation Christmas Child," drop off a toy in a Toys for Tots barrel or something else, consider how you can increase your own Compassion Footprint in the coming weeks. And remember that no matter how small you might think the kindness is, it's going to be a blessing to the person receiving it.
Well Halloween has come and gone, which can only mean one thing: It's time to get ready for Christmas. I confess to being an unabashed Christmas freak. I find it very easy to get excited about Christmas (it usually begins in September) and very depressed December 26. Of course, while I love Christmas I could do without the Christmas Shopping.
This is because I'm a male, and the extent of my Christmas Shopping Finesse is "Gift Card." But this year, in an attempt to be an even more useful blog, I've decided to help all of the other males in the audience with gift ideas.
This first series of gift ideas will actually be downloadable, printable coupons. You can download/save/print the coupons right out of the blog, or get the framed set for only $199.95. The framed set will look very impressive. For an extra $39.95 I'll create a digital picture* of you working hard on your computer making the printable coupons. (*Digital picture of you working hard on your computer making the printable coupons requires a digital photo of yourself and your computer. Or, well, it won't be very believable unless you look a lot like Henry.)
Here's the first coupon:
Men, ladies love a Bug Hero - but even more, they love a Bug Hero who doesn't say things like "What's all the screaming? A spider? Are you serious?" This coupon will say that you really care about how she feels. Not only will you take care of the bug, and dispose of it afterwards, but no complaining about the request! This also means you shouldn't try to show your wife the smished/smushed/smooshed bug before the disposal.
Good luck!
NOTE: Please note that I have a disclaimer on the card for bugs over 2' tall. This is for your own safety. While you are free to try and destroy bugs over 2' tall, Blog Hero Enterprises does not recommend this unless you have something handy like a rolled up newspaper, a bat, tazer, pitchfork or flaming nunchakus of death.
Until now. Last night in true, ironic Blog Hero form I made myself a Hungry Man Dinner. This was ironic because the previous post talked about giant male lizards going extinct because they will eventually run out of Hungry Man dinners. (Well, you have to read the post for any of that to make any sense at all.) The Hungry Man Dinner that I had was the "Turkey Breast" variety. Previously it came with peas and a cranberry compote. But NOW, it comes with corn and a brownie. I know what you're thinking: "How can you get a brownie into a microwavable dinner?" Unfortunately the answer does not involve any of the following words: appetizing, delightful, tasty or yummy.
Before you cook the meal, you have remove the Protective Plastic Cooking Film over the brownie area. Then you microwave the meal for five minutes, which sounds pretty quick but when you're hungry it really is an eternity. Then you take the meal out of the microwave. At this point the Brownie has ballooned out of it's small area and is attempting to flee. You have to scoop out the brownie, stir up your turkey, and then cook the meal for three more minutes. I am not making this up. Sure, I could have bought a meal that you just put in the microwave, cook and then eat, but where's the fun in that?
While the meal was cooking for the last three minutes I examined the brownie I had carefully scooped out of my dinner. It was all crumbly-like on a napkin. Surely the saddest looking "brownie" that ever was. In spite of this, I tried some. I mean, how bad could it be? It was a brownie!
I was forced to conclude that the answer was "pretty bad" as I threw it out. In defense of brownies everywhere, it's possible that it wasn't really a brownie, but some other cake-like food thing that vaguely resembled a brownie.
The rest of the meal was okay, although my Extremely Hot Protective Plastic Cooking Film got everywhere and then at point point clung to my hand causing me to scream like a little girl.
This morning as I arrived at work the crows, grackles, and starlings were all laughing at me. You know, that annoying, obnoxious "caw caw" thing that sounds like "ha ha." As I got my bag out I thought, "The Crows are Laughing at Me." Then I thought, "That's a great name for a book, maybe even an autobiography." Last night, someone got that question out of the Bag.* "What title would you pick for your autobiography?"
I'd love to hear autobiography thoughts out there - leave them in comments. Although I'm, you know, trademarking the crow thing.
*Mysterious references to the Bag will remain mysterious until further notice.
Someone wrote me today asking why I was AWOL from the blog. Actually, I'm paraphrasing but AWOL does stand for "Absent Without Official Leave" which describes not blogging perfecting. I'm not sure whom/where to petition to get Official Leave, but I imagine it's some sort of giant blogging committee located in Hoboken.
In any event, I've been blogged-out having recently designed and constructed a global warming blog, with the help of dedicated, talented brainy types too numerous to mention. (But hat tip to MT genius James Spears) Global Warming is a fascinating subject. I can blog all I want to about Global Warming here because this is my own, private, not-connected-to-any-weather-company, no-one-reads blog. In fact, I can even say "Global Warming, Schmarming" and I don't have to get that cleared by anyone anywhere, particularly Official Types in Hoboken.
But Laura is doing an admirable job on a very difficult topic, so stop by and say hello. Bonus points for using my name, although if she replies and says "Who?" don't, you know, put much stock in that she's just kidding. Really.
AccuWeather Global Warming Blog Header Thing
The pain of working on another blog has faded, some, and I think I might be able to get back to writing. I'm going to watch the stats, though, and if all of you have found something better to do, like scour the web for downloadable pdf coloring pages of elk and deer and print them out and color them in, well then I may retire. The only possible caveat is the winter; if we get a mild winter that doesn't make much of a difference, but if we were to have a severe apocalyptic winter it would be nice to blog about all of that snow. Normally I would say we have a snowball's you know in you know of having an actual winter. But this winter is different, because Alert Future Cashier Tammy may have to drive every weekend to Target which means snow over the entire northeast each Friday and Saturday.
Speaking of Target, Alert Applicant Tammy passed her drug test with flying colors. Orientation starts tomorrow, wherein she learn things like "How to take down an irate Christmas Shopper with only your bare hands and a DVD of Santa Clause 2 which coincidentally is on sale for $12.99 this week only."
Finally, I close with a Global Warming story that may not be featured on any weather blogs that you frequent. Via Drudge I see that the U.N. has created a booklet called "Tore and the Town on Thin Ice" which you can find as a PDF here. My favorite two-page spread would have to be this:
Scene from "Tore and the Desolate Planet Once Called Earth"
Personally, I'm looking forward to future titles in the series, such as "Tore and the Town of Skin Cancer Zombies Living Under the Ginormous Ozone Hole" and "Tore and the Meteorologist Who Lived Next Door with a Snow Blower." Scary stuff.
Alert Reader and Concert Goer Tammy, who may or may not be my wife, found herself at Target today working one of their Employment Application Computer Kiosks. I spent twenty minutes trying to turn that into a witty acronym, but the closest I could come to something semi-intelligent was CAKE and at that point I just gave up. Tammy was applying for a part-time position for the holidays, because everyone knows that the best time to work in retail is during the holidays. I, of course, am a wonderfully empathetic and supportive husband and when approached about the idea said, "You want to do WHAT?"
Okay, I made that up. I mean, the part about what I said not being a wonderfully empathetic and supportive husband. I encouraged her to check it out because I figured it would be a great source of blogging material. Shoppers - a group to which I sadly belong - are already thoroughly brain-damaged. Mix in the stress of the holiday season and you have the makings of great drama, if not outright comedy.
(Full disclaimer: In addition to Target being a great source of blogging material the thought did cross my mind that having an inside plant during the holiday season might make obtaining rare, sold-out LEGO sets actually possible.)
Tammy reports that the Target CAKE was slightly easier than the SATs. It took about as long, though, as I sat in the Target Cafe waiting like any empathetic and supportive husband would. My empathetic and supportive brain was thinking things like, "Do I have time to buy, accessorize and eat a hot dog without being caught, even though dinner is in an hour?" and "Should I go check the LEGO aisle?" and "How long am I reasonably expected to be supportive and empathetic?"
The Target CAKE is a brilliant idea though. They use a computer, essentially, to screen candidates. There were all sorts of interesting, difficult and employee-screening questions. At one point, and I am not making this up, the person operating the CAKE next to Tammy leaned over and asked "What number is November?" Tammy, in the midst of the following question on her own application:
Fawn lives on a hill. She goes to work by bicycle at an average speed of 21 miles an hour. Work is 10.7 miles away. She returns home at an average speed of 13 miles per hour along the same 10.7 mile route. What do you tell Fawn when she approaches you in an eggnog-enhanced rage because the LEGO aisles are completely bare?
was too distracted to reply properly, and so said "11."
Now, you might be thinking "But, that's right!" Ha! You have a lot to learn about the cold hard work world. This person sitting next to Tammy was applying at the same company as Tammy. (Target - please try to keep up.) Therefore, she was a competitor. And as any male (such as myself) knows, the objective is to crush all competitors. So the appropriate answer in this case was one of the following:
1. "6"
2. "14"
3. "Pi"
In all seriousness, you have to wonder about a question like that. This person was somewhere between 17-21, we estimate, and by then you should probably be able to convert months into numbers. At another point, this person also asked about references. "Is that me?" Tammy, again entirely too helpful, replied that references were "friends." The appropriate, competition-crushing answer would have been one of the following:
1. "6"
2. "Yes."
3. "Just put down 'No drug test please.'"
After the CAKE episode Tammy was actually ushered into a small employee-culling room for a mini-interview. She was asked all sorts of interview questions like "Why do you want to work here instead of Wal-Mart?" and "If you find a cart full of bags with "Target Money, Large Bills" written on the side what would you do?" which she handled beautifully. I say that because I know her, not because I butted into the interview or anything. That's usually bad form, when the husband just crashes the interview. I was busy being supportive, empathetic and hungry in the cafe, watching weenies roll over and over endlessly in the little weenie-roasting machine.
After the mini-interview Tammy met me in the cafe, where I was busy stuffing an accessorized hot dog into my mouth and trying to look nonchalant. It turns out that not only did the mini-interview go beautifully but she earned a trip to round two for the maxi-interview and then the complementary drug test after that. She's still not sure about taking a job, should they offer one, but for now I'm just paying her for the material.
I've also coached her on how to "help" people applying to the same job as she, in case that should ever come up again.
The following photo was recently snapped somewhere which may or may not be within the hallowed halls of the World's Largest Private Forecasting Company™. It appears to show...well, here:
I think the photo speaks for itself, but for those of you struggling here's a hint. It's either:
A. a rare cartoon sketch of "Nerdy Smurf,"
B. the latest member of the Hall of Justice, "Blue Foam Rubber Man,"
C. meteorologist Henry Margusity dressed as a giant rain drop.
I was wondering if anybody else does this: If I go to the car wash, and pay to use the Vacuum Thingy, and I finish cleaning my car and have extra time I will look around and if it's all clear I'll start vacuuming outside the car. You know, little rocks, cigarette butts, paper, small bugs - whatever is handy. I mean, they don't say you can't do that and I paid for the time and all. It seems like a waste to just hang the hose back up there while it's still running.
Now that you're an adult how do you act like a kid?
October 16, 2006
I thinking about this the other day. I was stopped at a traffic light and after about twenty seconds I was extremely bored and "thought up" something to think about. And I "thought up" that I'm often doing things now that I wasn't allowed to do as a kid, mostly because now I'm "mature" and allowed to do those things because I set the rules for me with the exception of those times that Alert Reader Tammy makes me do something.
For example, I often open the refrigerator door and just...stare. I mean, I don't even know why I'm in there. But it's sort of hypnotic, looking into that bright light while the Miracle Whip stares back. Meanwhile all of my food is dethawing and the temperature in the kitchen has dropped fifteen degrees and there I am with the door still open, just starting. Eventually I break free of the hypnotic refrigerator light and decide there's nothing in there worth my attention and I shut the door.
But if I my kids do that it would be more like "Are you crazy the food in there is spoiling and our electricity bill just shot up another forty dollars shut that door quick!"
Another example is eating ice cream for breakfast. I actually don't do this too often, since even as an adult I'm not suppose to (pauses to thank inferior genes, continues.) As a kid not only weren't you allowed to have ice cream for breakfast, or any other cookie, candy or treat, but you always had to eat your meal before you got something really good.
Sometimes I stay up until 2 am playing video games. I did that as a kid, though, even if I wasn't suppose to. (Thank you, Commodore 64 in my bedroom.) Sometimes I run with scissors. I'll put quarters into those cheap, plastic toys dispensers you see at the grocery store just to see what kind of junk I'll get, like a bouncy ball, spider ring or (if I'm really lucky) something that looks like a plastic globe full of snot.
And any time I make brownies, I do a really poor job of scraping the batter into the pan so that there's that much more left to sit down with a spoon and eat. Yup. Raw eggs, salmonella and all.
By now the light had changed two or three times, and people were passing me and beeping their horns and making the rudest gestures. Sometimes people are hard to figure out.
Anyway, I was curious - not that you're grown up and mature (I know, I'm assuming here) do you relive your childhood in any obvious, therapy required ways? That you can discuss? Leave a comment!
Hot Water is one of those things that you take completely for granted until it's gone, and then you get really cranky and irritable and all you can do is think about washing the dishes or doing the laundry or taking a bath. I really wanted to soak my polar-bear-ravaged-foot tonight too. Notice that I have no hot water and it's a Friday Night. These things always happen on Friday after 5 p.m. Still, I will break down and call someone tomorrow - a Knowledgeable Service Person - and ask them to come over and fix the water heater. They will pause, and look at their calendar, and then laugh a deep, hollow, evil laugh, and wait until they visit me to tell me that the Visiting Charge is $295 and the Working Charge is $79.95 an hour with a minimum of eight hours. But, I have dirty dishes so my fate is sealed.
There are only two more letters left. This is great news because I'm feeling this post-every-evening-burden quite acutely. It will be nice to wrap up the story, and then reveal the little plot twist I've discovered, which will have you all crying "Foul!" and insisting that I made up the whole thing. No, not the part about Aquaman. I plan to post Saturday and Sunday, and then have a little epilogue on Sunday night, let all of you digest that, and then wrap it up Monday. Then I will dance a jig.
(I'm assuming here that everyone can digest an epilogue - I know certain conditions may require some over-the-counter medication for that.)
Apparently my casual remark about the polar bear attack has taken some of you off guard. I guess I didn't go into details and only mentioned I wasn't "feeling well."
The attack occurred last week. I was at the grocery store in the ten item or less aisle when this polar bear cut in front of me. Not only that, but he had two Pepsis, a cantaloupe and eleven herrings. So I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hey Buddy! This is the ten items or less aisle!" That's when he turned around and I saw that he was a Wikipedia Polar Bear:
A Wikipedia Polar Bear: The most viscous vicious kind.
Well, of course it didn't go well. I held my own, but Wikipedia Polar Bears can bench-press 30,000 pounds. I take a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that although he put me in a body cast, I did manage to swipe two of his herrings.
Aside from getting to post the words "Weeki Wachee" which apparently is a real town in Florida, I get to write about a 13-year-old hero. I thought now that I have "bloghero.com" I should write about some real heroes who have the greatest super power I know: selflessness.
Mikey Evans and his friend Dustin Wright, (age 10) were hiding from some boys who were chasing them. Mikey felt a sting on his foot and realized he had been bitten by a snake. So he picked up his friend, put him on his back, and carried him out of the woods. He was bitten a total of four times. When paramedics arrived he was hallucinating and convulsing - the exertion of carrying his friend having spread the venom through his body more quickly.
I recently obtained bloghero.com thanks to an extremely generous Pete Blackshaw who graciously agreed to pass it on so that I can continue battling super-villains such as Pimply-Faced Drive Thru Boy. This new URL super power is guaranteed to do... not a whole lot, except generate at least one blog post (always a good thing) and help Carl to remember how to get to his own website.
Of course, I suppose I shouldn't discount the powerful Word-of-Mouth Tsunami that will now ensue. Before, you would have to tell your friends, "There's this awesome website with very important graphics like the current Godzilla™ Track - just go to carlschaad.com/blog - no, Schaad like shod but spelled s-c-h-a-a-d. No, two a's. I mean, right together. S-c-h-a-a here GIVE ME THAT PEN." Now you can just say "Go to Bloghero.com!" Won't that be easier?
If you have any difficulties let me know. I'm still working on the bloghero.com email and plotting my Blog Hero world tour. More on that later.
Godzilla™ is a trademark of Japanese entertainment company Toho. Any references here to Godzilla do not imply an endorsement by Godzilla, Toho, Mothra or King Ghidorah. Thank you.
As you can plainly see, the earthquake that occurred today in the Gulf of Mexico was indeed caused by Godzilla. Furthermore, Godzilla is quite angry and on the move. You should keep in mind that this Godzilla Warning Graphic features the Godzilla Cone of Movement™. While there is a line plotted here to show the most likely path Godzilla will take, people should not focus on the line. Focus on the cone - because even a slight deviation in the movement of Godzilla could result in landfall anywhere within this cone.
Currently the most likely landfall will occur in the St. Pete/Tampa area. Already the combined forces of Homeland Security and FEMA are being marshaled. As such, Governor Jeb Bush has declared a state of emergency and asked that everyone south of Gainesville save themselves and flee to Houston.
People are reminded that this is a dangerous monster. Damage to structures and power lines within the path of Godzilla is extremely likely and will be severe. Please DO NOT TRY TO BE A HERO and ride out the monster. Board up your home, secure your pets and leave the area as soon as possible. States beginning with the letters "I" "K" and "O" are designated safe states and are good places to ride out the monster.
Once Godzilla makes landfall, he's expected to continue north and east until he hits Daytona Beach, where he will pick up a "Life's a Beach" towel and an oval bumper sticker that reads "DB" before he returns to the ocean.
Further bulletins as events warrant.
*Usually Alert Reader Tammy just stopped by and took a look at the map and wanted to know when that happened, and what was going to hit Florida and why there hasn't been anything on the news. I tried to explain about Godzilla and the earthquake and FEMA not wanting anyone to panic, etc., but she just sort of stared at me. So, after a brief phone call with the Blog Hero Legal Team, I've been instructed to add this clarifying disclaimer:
Godzilla™ is a trademark of Japanese entertainment company Toho. Toho is not responsible for any damage or panic that Godzilla™ causes. Any warning information about Godzilla™ that this blog issues is provided "as is" and no warranty, expressed, instant, dehydrated or otherwise, is inferred, interned, chauffeured or bean curd. Thank you.
I apologize for not posting this sooner - I'm sure all of you have had to go to other sites to find out the news. Oh, and I guess this is a spoiler, too - in case you have this TIVO'ed or are planning on buying the DVD set. (Who isn't, really?)
In any event, here's the final rundown on the series "Who Wants to be a Superhero" from the SciFi channel:
That means Feedback is the winner! This further demonstrates my omnipotence/dumb luck, as I said back in this post:
FEEDBACK
Pros: Just based on the profile I'm guessing Feedback is a huge computer/video game geek. This gives him a tremendous advantage. Even his catch phrase sounds like something a fanboy would come up with. And kudos for the Power Rangers-like costume.
Cons: Probably very easy to get dialogging. Could see him getting trapped by a PS3 offer, or maybe lured too close to the microwaves in the break room of his secret identity's place of work.
Handicap: I think he can go all of the way.
This of course is meaningless, because I didn't put any money down on it, and I also said things like "Fat Momma will be gone in two episodes." Ah, well, like any good reality show, there will be two or three sequels, so there's always next time.
Congratulations to Feedback and all of the contestants because you're all Heroes in my book! (And money doesn't grow on trees, you know!)
Plastic Wrap was invented by either an evil super villain bent on destroying humanity, the Lord of the Underworld, or both working together. I got the Reynolds® Plastic Wrap with EZ Slide™ Cutter and was close to completely losing it tonight. Sure, it was all for a great cause but things like this are further proof that I shouldn't be anywhere near a kitchen. I would make a great Rich Super Hero, like Bruce Wayne. THAT I could do. "Alfred, wrap these in plastic wrap." "Right away, Master Carl."
But Nooooooooooo, I couldn't be a Rich Super Hero. So I battled with the Reynolds® Plastic Wrap with EZ Slide™ Cutter for ten minutes and definitely experienced Plastic Wrap Rage. I would pull out a sheet, use the EZ Slide™ Cutter, and in FOUR SECONDS FLAT the wrap would curl up and stick to itself and there would be this deep, hollow laughing noise that echoed throughout the house and a booming voice that said "I HAVE YOU NOW SCHAAD!" This happened OVER, OVER, and OVER again. Finally Alert Reader Tammy, who had purchased the Reynolds® Plastic Wrap with so called "EZ Slide™ Cutter" either decided that I was going to have an aneurysm, or she was going to run out of Reynolds® Plastic Wrap, or she wanted to go to bed, because she came to my rescue. Of course, she took her time and when she finally arrived I was literally covered in plastic wrap. I hadn't left any "breathing holes" either so it was only a matter of minutes before I would have expired.
So I'm doing my part here to warn everyone of the dangers of plastic wrap, and the "EZ Slide™ Cutter." You can see it here and sure it may sound good but You. Were. Warned.
I went to Office Depot yesterday. I don't know why but I love the smell at Office Depot. It's that perfect mix of paper, plastic binders, crayons, erasers and (maybe) Wite Out. I'm sure it's some sort of petroleum product smell that causes brain cancer, but it just brings back all sorts of memories. Strangely enough, they're good memories. I always loved getting school supplies before the start of school. This shouldn't be the case, since purchasing school supplies lead to, well, going to school. But somehow the "built-in sharpener" always worked its magic.
In case you're curious, I resisted the urge to buy paper, pencils, pens, and even Wite Out. I was there to hunt down a bulletin board for Alert Reader Tammy. My super power is not shopping, however, and I was forced to order the bulletin board. (Which is just as well; if I would have found it and gone through he check-out aisle, I probably would have grabbed some Sharpies or something.)
On another note, I wanted to thank everyone who emailed me with Birthday Wishes. My last year in the thirties has now commenced, which is not discouraging at all. It's more like Completely Horrifying. The only thing I can compare it to is being shoved into a little wooden barrel and being tossed into the Niagara River and knowing that you're headed towards the falls. And your barrel has several leaks. And it's on fire. And you're wearing Dry Clean Only clothes. And...well, you get the picture.
Of course, my analogy is doesn't work very well considering that a 63 year-old Annie Taylor actually did go over in a barrel and survived. No word on how her clothes fared.
I don't really feel 39 years old. I feel more like 28. I mean mentally. Physically I feel like I'm 112. Of course, Alert Reader Tammy would be quick to point out that I'm more like eight, or six. Of course that's just silly, I'm much more mature than that. (Pause for laughter.)
If you watch this intro, which is extremely cool because a runaway planet hurtles between the earth and the moon, unleashing cosmic destruction, you'll note that the date of this impending catastrophe is 1994. I watched this back in 1980 as a 13 year-old, did the math and realized that I would be 27 when the earth was destroyed. In 1997 I would be 30! And I thought to myself:
"Man, that is old."
And yet, here I am - even older than that. I don't have a fabulous sun-sword to pit against the forces of evil, which is kind of disappointing, but I do write a blog occasionally. I suppose that counts for something, although I haven't been very successful in pitting it against the forces of evil. Send any suggestions to pitting@carlschaad.com.
Now I'm off to sneak a little more Cold Stone Creamery Ice Cream Cake. Shhh.
After dinner today Alert Reader Tammy and I were sitting on our porch. Porch-sitting is huge for us ever since we moved into suburbia and the new house. Ha - I typed "hose" just then. That would be silly, moving into a new hose.
The reason that porch-sitting (Ha - I just typed "pooch-sitting" and we don't even own a dog) is so big with us is that the old house wasn't a very good porch-sitting house, for these reasons:
1. There was no porch.
(I could stop now, but I'm on a roll.)
2. If there had been a porch, it would have overlooked our "lawn" which consisted of dirt, gravel from the driveway that had been plowed into the "lawn" the previous winter, weeds, nests of hornets, wasps and yellow-jackets, unexploded land mines, an old tree stump, and two Viet Cong pit traps.
3. Our house was on a mountain road with no sidewalks, set back in the woods a bit, in an area of Pennsylvania where insects actually cooperated with one another. (The Best Team Effort Award would have gone to the mosquitos who would carry and drop gypsy moth caterpillars into your hair. And then bite you.)
So now that we don't have any of these problems, we're quite happy to sit out on the porch and watch people go by. Sometimes we nod that nod old people nod to other people, the nod that says "Well I'm just too dang tired to say anything right about now and the rheumatism in my knees is acting up because that front is moving through." I'm sure you nod this to people too.
Today while we were porch-sitting and nodding we noticed a colorfully-dressed elderly woman walking towards our corner lot. She rang as she walked, as she was apparently decorated with tiny little bells. Bells on her shoes, bells on her shawl, even her earrings were bells. She had snow-white hair, a white you can't even get with bleach, and walked with a cane that looked to be made from an old gnarled beech-tree branch. (Note to self: Look up beech trees and make sure they get gnarled before posting this.) (And take this comment out.) As she "entered" our property I made eye contact and nodded to her.
Well, it wasn't until my nod was complete that I realized that this was a Gypsy Woman. Not only that, but she must have been one-hundred-years old if she was a day over forty. And the last thing you do is nod to a Gypsy Woman, as nodding is considered very offensive in BavariaHungaryViet Nam the land of the Gypsies. Alert Reader Tammy, taking all of this in, started to say "Hello!" to distract the Old Gypsy Woman, but it was too late. She raised her gnarled beech tree cane in the air and yelled in a voice that sounded like dry leaves:
"A POX on yer lawn for noddin' at me!"
Then she calmed down and continued on her way. That was the really awkward part, because she was pretty slow and it took her about 15 minutes to round the corner. Even before she was gone, though, I could see my lawn drying up. I went in for the camera, came back and snapped this picture:
As you can see I have a severe case of Lawn Pox. I don't know if I should water it or not. It looks pretty far gone, and I can't find anything about "Lawn Pox" on Chemlawn's site. Still, I suppose it could be worse. There could be unexploded land mines or Viet Cong pit traps out there.
Ha - I just typed "unexploded land mimes." It really could be worse.
"Ooo, Me! Me!"
"Put your hand down Henry, that's just a blog post title."
Alert Reader and TV Viewer Tammy was surfing channels and came across "Who Wants to be a Super Hero." I would have left the confines of my chair and taken a look but I was locked in a vicious game of Tetris at the time. I've since done a little reading on this and may actually have to watch the next episode, even though I generally dislike reality TV since the first season of Survivor. (I confess to watching most of the first season of survivor, as I thought it was actually some sort of government-sponsored psychological experiment that was made public by the producers of Dateline. I was crushed when I learned that wasn't the case.)
Apparently "Who Wants to be a Super Hero" is a reality TV show that will pit various wanna-be super heroes against each other. The winner will get to pick from a variety of super-power-inducing methods to give themselves REAL powers, namely:
1. Being doused with various unnamed chemicals and then being struck by lightning
2. Donning a mask made of cursed Aztec gold
3. Staying overnight at Club Quarters
4. Being bitten by various radioactive pests, including but not limited to: spiders, goats, bison, very angry squirrels, meteorologists, grackles, Wal-Mart greeters.
5. Blogging
So the stakes are naturally high. I have to say you should check out the heroes that are competing. These are some very committed people. Because I'm naturally drawn to the whole super hero thing, I thought I would handicap the remaining contestants. If you're the kind of person who bets on these sorts of things I should say up front that I don't guarantee any of this, unless of course you win something in which case I'd like a cut thank you very much.
CELL PHONE GIRL
Pros: Great powers; in particular, who hasn't thought about being able to teleport from one cell phone to another? How many times have you stood next to someone in a public location (I don't know...say, church?) who keeps repeating something over and over and OVER again to the person at the other end? Well, if you were Cell Phone Girl, you could teleport there and beat the snot out of the person who just can't seem to get it. OR, fire beams from your cell phone, whatever that means.
Cons: CPG can't talk in a normal voice, and must constantly yell in order to be heard. Also, she just start playing annonying ringtones at inopportune times. And always loud enough to stun a charging rhino.
Handicap: Goes the distance but doesn't win.
CREATURE
Pros: Most blond contestant. Her catch phrase is "Why Not!?" which is likely to confuse and stun most of your entry-level henchmen. A whip is an interesting weapon choice (see below) although it's very easy to kill yourself with one.
Cons: Unusual combination of powers that apparently have nothing to do with each other. How many people can heal others with fruit and raw foods (okay, so that's pretty common on the west coast) but ALSO have a magical whip AND can shoot fire-beams? AND, can throw knives with unerring precision? This really flies in the face of Darwinism, which suggests that as soon as you evolve into something able to shoot fire-beams you'd really loose any ability/interest in throwing knives.
Handicap: Loses towards the end, but gets spokesmodel job with Jack Lalanne's Power Juicer.
IRON ENFORCER
Pros: GREAT secret identity name of "Steel Chambers." This alone should send him to the finals. He claims to have the densest bone structure of any human, but I know some meteorologists who also claim the densest title, so I'm not sure about that.
Cons: He has a five-year life span, which frankly limits his long-term, ah, future.
Handicap: His fear of flying will make it impossible to get him to signing engagements and various crises on time. Gone by episode four. Ends up as a bounty hunter; eventually sued by the ACLU for using his "mind-blowing death punch" one too many times.
FAT MOMMA
Pros: She's a huge...doughnut fan.
Cons: She's a huge...doughnut fan.
Handicap: Gone in the next two episodes. Starts her own sitcom though, which proves very successful. (And is for...the children.)
FEEDBACK
Pros: Just based on the profile I'm guessing Feedback is a huge computer/video game geek. This gives him a tremendous advantage. Even his catch phrase sounds like something a fanboy would come up with. And kudos for the Power Rangers-like costume.
Cons: Probably very easy to get dialogging. Could see him getting trapped by a PS3 offer, or maybe lured too close to the microwaves in the break room of his secret identity's place of work.
Handicap: I think he can go all of the way.
LEMURIA
Pros: Drains energy from plants and animals. I have seen WAY too many hyperactive plants and animals in need of a good draining. Can also shoot laser-beams and fireballs, which is something I've always wanted to do, particularly when I'm stuck in the ten items or less aisle behind a strange (hyperactive) fruit.
Cons: Vulnerable to "the night" which really puts a cramp in crime fighting. (It's a well-established fact that super villains tend to operate after 7 p.m., when they're done with their day job and have had dinner with the family.)
Handicap: Out by episode 4.
MAJOR VICTORY
Pros: Major Victory can "manipulate sound waves to create noises or throw his voice." Now, c'mon, who HASN'T wanted to throw his/her voice or create noises at some point. I know you all are reading this right now and thinking how great it would have been to create a certain "gas-passing sound" (gps) behind the boss at the company party.
Cons: Unfortunately, Major Victory has a lot of baggage. First, he's lactose intolerant, and as soon as that gets out the Evil Overload of Dairy, the Fromage of Fright - the Milkman - will eat his lunch. Also, he's equipped with the worst catch phrase in history: "Be a winner, not a weiner!" This alone will have super villains gunning for him because there will be a huge bounty on his head, and accolades galore, for whoever takes him out. Lastly, he's called "Major Victory" and, well, it would be a little weird to say that "Major Victory" gets the..."Victory." Cries of "Fix! Fix!" would abound.
Handicap: Out by episode 5. Unable to accept taunts of "Hey, Major Failure!" he goes a little nuts, and punctuates everything he says with a drum-roll and his own laugh track.
MONKEY WOMAN
Pros: Inventive use of the word "Monkey."
Cons: Disguising your weapons as bananas will work a few times, but after you've aimed a banana at the fourth or fifth super villain, only to have them say "Ooo a banana! I'm scared!" and then get disintegrated - well, people will start talking. The Banana Growers Council will get angry too, as that will probably hurt business. There will be lawsuits, embargoes, angry tirades on Larry King Live - no, I just can't see it working.
Handicapp: Out next episode.
TY'VECULUS
Pros: He appears to have a helmet, which is really cool. It also means he could ride a motorcycle in any state (not that he would need it in Pennsylvania). His powers are formidable: super-strength, super-speed, and fire resistance.
Cons: He apparently can only hear the truth, which means he's effectively deaf when he's amongst politicians and advertisers. Apparently he's also "blinded by beauty," so it's likely he'll go down to defeat as soon as he runs up against Council Woman Courtney, the (cute as a button) super villain of Reedsville. (It's this tiny town about an hour outside of Atlanta you just HAVE to visit sometime.)
Handicap: Out by Episode 4. Ends up becoming an amateur super hero, saves 23 of the 24 elders fails to save the 24th elder from a chicken bone, thereby dooming the entire planet.
So there you go. It's hard for me to predict who leaves when because I haven't actually seen the show yet, and I don't know how many people get eliminated each time. Has anyone actually seen this show? If so leave a comment. In my "rose-colored-glasses world" I would expect it to be fun and wholesome. So if we all turn in and it's a *bleep* fest of back-stabbing, conniving and betrayal I apologize. I'll also wonder why it wasn't called "Who Wants to be a Super Villain?"
I may have had some luck In my continuing quest to find my super powers. (reference) I've been to a number of stores recently and realized that I must have some latent power to pick the worst possible check-out line. Oh, I know some of you are thinking "THAT power? I've had that for years..." and "That's no super power! That's like saying Aquaman has super powers." You might be right. But I had something happen to me the other day that I've never experienced.
I had three items so I did a quick scan and saw that there was a ten item or less aisle opened. I leapt into action and got in line behind only one person. "Surely," I thought to myself, "this will be quick." I put my items down and noticed that there was a set of items on the conveyor belt that clearly didn't belong to the person checking out. A bit baffled, I looked around and a few minutes later a woman appeared out of no where, I mean appeared like they were using their camoflage power, and got in front of me next to the items.
Well, still, that's only two people, so it couldn't be that bad. Even if they BOTH paid by check, or paid by Bahraini Dinars, I should still do well. Then IT happened.
It was the last item of the person currently checking out. I'll be generous here and say that it was some sort of fruit. However, when it came time to ring it up, the hapless checkout guy sort of turned it around and around and finally mumbled something like "What is this?" He eventually looked at the customer and asked her what it was. The customer didn't speak English very well (not that I do either) and so now...we had a situation. The emergency checkout aisle beacon was turned on, and we all settled in. I spent my time looking through the checkout aisle magazines, and was very distraught to learn that Brad Pitt had apparently divorced Jennifer Aniston and has been seeing Angelina Jolie. Just as I finished that story, the checkout aisle sentry appeared and asked what the problem was. "Weird fruit." was all the hapless checkout guy said, and the sentry stared at it for a few minutes. He then picked it up and turned it around and around. Finally, he asked the customer what it was.
The customer sort of shrugged, and he then asked her where she got it from. She pointed to the other side of the store, and he dashed off leaving a cloud of dust and plastic bags. The woman who was in front of me, who had appeared out of nowhere, now disappeared again and reappeared near a stand of film supplies. Apparently she wasn't done shopping.
At this point I began looking around for another aisle, but I knew that my power to pick the worst aisle would just get triggered again and who knows what would happen this time. Well, I couldn't guess but it would probably involve a clown and a bottle of seltzer. So I stayed put.
After finding out that Brad and Angelina apparently had a child and photographs of the child were sold to GoldenPalace.com for ten billion dollars, the Sentry came back with the magic number on the unidentifiable fruit. She paid, and the person in front of me who wasn't in front of me reappeared in front of me and also paid, fairly quickly as she didn't have any weird fruit.
Then I finally got to the front of the ten items or less aisle and the hapless checkout guy asked me how I was doing.
Alert Reader Sharon asked about a possible Blog Hero Stamp, and I'm actually considering it. You can make your own stamps with Photo Stamps at Stamps.com. You can find it here. It's not cheap though. I'll have to give it some more thought... I suppose I could make the artwork available for anyone who wanted to use that to purchase their own stamps.
You've just run a load of wash in your clothes washing machine. When do you take the clothes out of the washing machine and put them in the dryer?
1. Why, as soon as the washing machine is done, why are you even asking this?
2. Sometime that day.
3. Usually within 24 hours.
4. 2-3 days.
5. When I start to smell something really bad.
6. When the vulture arrives, perches on the washing machine and starts pecking at it.
I'm just curious because this is one of my failings in my neat, organized little world. I usually fall somewhere between 4-6. Our vulture's name is "Jean-Claude" and we usually have to throw him a dead carp to make him go away.
In what will be (n my opinion) one of the biggest coups for DC Comics in history the United States Postal Service will be issuing a set of 16 different Super Hero Stamps tomorrow. From the USPS website:
This is the first stamp pane (20 stamps) honoring comic book super heroes to be issued by the Postal Service.
Half of the stamps on the DC Comics Super Heroes pane show portraits of characters; the others show covers of individual comic books devoted to their exploits. Beginning with the classic covers, a separate paragraph below briefly comments on each stamp.
Ever since Superman was introduced to readers in 1938, super heroes have been nearly synonymous with the comic book medium. Their fantastic adventures provide an escape from the everyday while simultaneously encouraging readers to feel that individuals can make a difference.
Comic books aren't simply "kid stuff" - adults have always been among their readers, and the form has attracted its share of serious artists and writers. And super heroes have responded to social and political issues from the start, fighting corporate greed and political corruption during the Depression, for example, and then becoming patriotic defenders of national interests during World War II.
People who aren't familiar with comic books in general may not know that there are two different power houses in the industry, DC Comics (stamps and heroes/heroines shown below) and Marvel Comics, who owns the rights to such characters as Spiderman, Hulk, Captain America, as well as Ant-Man, Mole Man, Purple Man and Machine Man. So the question here is how long until Ant-Man is gracing a stamp?
Here's a photo of the stamps that will be available, courtesy the USPS:
And here's a close up of the cover used for the Superman stamp, courtesy DC Comics:
And a final observation: Why not just go all out and sell postage stamp space to the highest bidder? Wouldn't Coke, Pepsi, et. al. love to have their product on there? And wouldn't we as tax payers like cheaper mail? I did a little research and there are Disney stamps, which I somehow missed. Seems like we're practically there - thoughts?
A while back I mentioned that we bought a couch. I was forced to go couch-shopping because I painted my living room, and you can't just leave old furniture in a newly painted room, especially furniture that you made yourself from cardboard boxes and duct tape (fashionable though it be.) So on May 30 we went to a Furniture Store That Shall Remain Nameless and purchased a couch and matching chair. This was a huge stretch for us, as we're not furniture shoppers by nature but the 18 months without a payment deal was too good to pass up.
Yesterday we received a cryptic call from the furniture store. Well, Alert Reader Tammy (who may or may not be my wife) received the call. Apparently it was our Furniture Sales Person saying that she had good news and bad news. The good news was that our furniture was finished, and had been loaded up on the furniture truck and was being shipped to their store!
That was it. It's not often that I'm accused of listening with all of my listening super powers when someone is talking to me about furniture, or similarly weighty subjects. But this time I was really tuned in, and it seemed like something was missing. Oh, I know! The bad news! So I asked about that and Tammy didn't know what the bad news was either. She also didn't know why the Sales Person was calling us just to say that the furniture was NOT in their store yet.
So...where is my furniture? Apparently no one knows. It's somewhere between there (where they make these things) and here (my house.) When will it be "here?" No idea. WILL it EVER be here? No idea.
Unless the bad news was "and the furniture truck drove into a ditch and burst into flames" I can only assume that my couch is roaming the countryside, looking for its owner. Please - if you see it, direct it to State College Pennsylvania. Or, just send it to "the vast wasteland known as the Middle of Pennsylvania." Either will do.
My previous entry, cleverly titled "Schaads in Richmond - Part One", detailed our trip from Thursday to Saturday. You would think that would be the end of it; Sunday we would just drive back and the trip would be over right? But no, we had to be spontaneous.
First, I should say that in between racing around to historic sites we visited a Barnes and Noble twice, on Friday and Saturday evening. We're both big Book People, meaning we'll buy more books than we'll ever read. My Love of Books directly conflicts with my Love of Not Having Stuff and yes it's stressful but therapy is helping. I suppose I get through it by deluding myself that I really WILL read every single one, especially such classics as "Dental Emergencies and How to Avoid Them", "The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World (years 1984 to 2002)" and "Spontaneity in Seven Easy Steps for Idiot Dummy Fools." One day. Ideally while sitting on a beach somewhere amidst the roar of the waves and very low humidity.
We really enjoyed B&N, as there were a number of great sales and the store was the size of eight football fields. It even had valet parking, a roller rink and a Laundromat. That was convenient, since we stopped at the cafe, bought over-priced drinks and then spilled them all over ourselves.
Sunday morning we packed up, bid farewell to the Grand Parents and headed north. We had decided to be spontaneous and stop at Luray Caverns. We have this running joke now about caves; I think they're fascinating, but Tammy thinks that once you've seen one stalactite you've seen them all. We've been to two of the local caves in central Pennsylvania, so I was not prepared for Luray. The cave is IMMENSE.
Photography was actually allowed inside the cave, but my tiny digital camera and itty-bitty flash were completely out classed. At right is a photo of some stalactites, one of many formations inside the caverns. (I also have a large, fancy-shmancy wallpaper you can download here.) I wish I could share just how amazing the view was. And just how much room there was - the Pennsylvania caves we've been in were tiny by comparison.
While we were below ground, Connor noted that the air seemed very clean and that his headache was gone. I did a little reading on Wikipedia and saw that the air is very pure, the temperature is a constant 54° and the humidity is comfortable - all things we experienced.
Besides the immensity of the caves, and the stark beauty, there were a few more things worth noting.
The first was a calm, still pool - only a few inches deep - that was as reflective as a mirror. You couldn't tell where the water was without studying it for a few minutes, it looked like stalagmites growing out of the ground instead of a reflection of the ceiling's stalactites. I have a photo but it just doesn't do justice to the completely weird sensation of looking into the water and not knowing where the reflection began:
The other really cool thing was a giant wishing well. Apparently they clean out all of the coins each January and donate them to a charitable cause (the caverns are actually privately owned). The well looked like a mini-version of the last scene in the first Pirates of the Caribbean - the cave with all of the treasure. Granted, this was just pocket change and there wasn't a doubloon, crown or chest of cursed Aztec gold to be found, but it was still an amazing sight. I threw in a penny and it didn't hit the water, but instead landed on a rock. So, I suppose, "I Got A Rock" yet again. I'm not sure if you get your wish in that case or not.
If you're really into caves, and are passing Luray, I would suggest stopping. If, however, you feel that "if you've seen one stalactite you've seen them all" I would suggest stopping anyway because it was extremely cool. Cool in a nature-look-what-God-has-wrought sort of way, not in a look-at-the-dwarves-mining-gold sort of way. Try as I might I did not discover a single dwarf, gnome, goblin or Balrog while we were down there. Not even a single giant poisonous albino cave slug. I did see an area cordoned off with a sign that said "Armory" but when I tried to go that way the Tour Master (who, come to think of it, WAS wearing chain mail the whole time) produced a staff and rapped me about the head.
The last bit of adventure took place on Skyline Drive. In addition to being a sucker for a giant cave I'm a sucker for a gorgeous view of mountains and valleys. Particularly in Virginia, where everything seems cleaner and more beautiful than Pennsylvania. (Sorry Pennsylvania! We'll always have "Road Construction Ahead.") So I convinced my family to go through the rest of Skyline Drive. Okay, I made that up. They were held hostage as I was driving.
Skyline Drive is a 106 mile road through Shenandoah National Park in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. The views are absolutely breath-taking. You would know this for sure if I was even somewhat competent with a camera. But more on that in a minute. Okay, I just saw you scroll down for the pictures, real nice. Try to stay with me here.
When you enter the park, there are signs apparently posted everywhere that the speed limit is 35 miles per hour. You see where I'm headed with this, don't you? Well then, let the justification commence. These signs are posted where you enter the park - the place that has you otherwise occupied with trying to figure out how much the park costs, what plan you want to buy, where you're going, and so on.* After you start out on your drive, the speed limit is not posted anywhere else. This could be because we hadn't yet gotten to one of the other two signs posted somewhere on the 106 mile long road, or it could be that bears ate the signs.**
So there I am, taking in all of the beautiful scenery - dazzled, as it were - and driving along a practically deserted road because it costs three hundred dollars to get into the park. And the road is in mint condition (no reserve) because no one ever drives on it.*** So how fast does one end up going?
Let's take some more time here to review. You have no idea what the speed limit is, because you missed the posted signs. (I know it's a National Park, but try to help me out here.) You're on a deserted well-made road and you're traveling from scenic outlook to scenic outlook, pining for the fjords. How fast would YOU travel?
(At this point my better judgement, which looks like a very small version of me on my shoulder dressed in a fine suit with polished shoes and perfectly applied mousse, has appeared and is telling me to wrap this post up there's really no need to get into this further. But my writing self, which looks like a very small version of me on my other shoulder dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt (probably from Eddie Bauer) with no mousse or even any hair gel has appeared and says "You think too much." )
Where was I? Driving, yes. I was going a rather conservative, safe, not-a-problem-with-my-super-human-lightning-reflexes 54 mph when I passed by Officer Antony's car. His Officer Car. With the Radar Thingy. And wouldn't you know it, the speed limit was actually 35 mph. Thinking quickly, I pulled over and told my home-schooled kids that we were going to see the Justice System in action, and that there would be a quiz afterwards. My daughter asked what was going to happen, and I told her that I would get a ticket for speeding or that there was a bear on the roof, I wasn't sure which since I didn't know that the speed limit was 35 mph.*
The officer was very polite. He only shot me with the stun gun once, and really I was feeling a little sleepy anyway before that and not sure I would make it all the way back to State College. He took all of my information and called it in, to make sure we weren't a terrorist cell driving through to blow up a scenic outlook. After what seemed like an hour, but was only 48 minutes, he came back and asked me if I was feeling lucky.
What do you say to an armed officer of the law named Antony who has just asked you if you're feeling lucky?
My better judgement appeared and was about to answer until my writing self appeared and shot him with a stun gun. I figured if I said "Yes" I might appear brazen. (And you never want to appear that.) If I said "No" well, I might end up not lucky. So I said the only reasonable thing that popped into my head:
Okay I made that up. I actually said "I don't know, am I?" in as polite and respectful a tone as I could muster, given he had just shot me with a stun gun 49 minutes earlier. See, I was basically communicating that he was in charge. They love that. And it turned out I was lucky, as he gave me "a warning." He then explained how the entire 106 miles was a 35 mph zone, and that I probably wouldn't see any more signs because the bears ate them, and that I should be very careful in the future. I told him I would be, that I would never speed again, that I was sorry about that time I cheated off of Mikey Dabrowski in fifth grade math, and a bunch of other stuff he really didn't seem interested in. He then let us resume our trip, and I pulled out into traffic, swerved off the road and hit a tree.
Okay I made that up too. Don't you get nervous about the post-police-stop driving resumption? I haven't been stopped that often, but I always think that I'll pull into traffic and hit someone head on, or hit the police car, or something silly like that.
After we got out of the Shenandoah National Park I stopped the car and called my spontaneity advisor and explained what had happened during my attempt at spontaneity. He said "Hold on" and then fumbled with the phone and called some people over and explained my story and they all started laughing hysterically until one said "Hey you didn't press the mute button, that's the speaker button" and then there was a click and a few minutes of silence and he came on the phone again and told me to keep trying.
The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. Below are a few pictures from Skyline Drive. If you're ever in the area, and like beautiful vistas and driving 35 mph with a sign-hungry bear on your roof, I highly recommend it. Just ask for Officer Antony.
You can tell him "Lucky Carl" sent you.
*Initial justification - Carl was confused. (I know, this is hard to accept.)
**Secondary justification - bears eating speed limit signs. (Talk to a Park Ranger; this happens all of the time.)
***Tertiary justification - I just wanted to use the word "tertiary."
Skyline Drive; Objects in Photo Even More Beautiful in Real Life
Skyline Drive; Objects in Photo Even More Beautiful in Real Life
Alert Reader Tammy & unnamed Blog Hero; Object on left side of Photo Even More Beautiful in Real Life. (This Photo taken by budding photographer Connor.)
Thanks to everyone who decided not to steal our stuff while we were away. Of course, now half of you are thinking, "D'oh! We could have stolen his stuff!" Well - probably, although you would have ran into our high tech security system, which (in case you want to steal our stuff next time) involves:
1. Locking all of the doors,
2. Leaving all of the lights on for the entire trip, particularly the light in Connor's closet which is never, EVER off unless it has burned out from being on 24/7,
3. The giant swinging guillotine-like blades on the other side of every door and window,
4. Our cat.
So don't get any ideas next time I publicly advertise I'll be out of town. Who knows, I may do so again in the near future and hide in the bushes, just to see what happens.
The only reason I'm writing this after being on the road for 11 hours is that the likelihood that I'll do any sort of post "vacation" wrap-up diminishes rapidly after said "vacation" is concluded. (Remember to make those little quote marks with your fingers while reading this aloud to friends, family, pets and your dentist.) In fact, the likelihood diminishes to exactly zero after about 12 hours. So as public service I'm typing away even though my brain fell out of my head somewhere around Winchester and my right foot is still trying to brake and accelerate. Incidentally, if anyone driving along 81 sees my brain hitchhiking do NOT give it a ride. It will probably be surly and keep yelling, to no one in particular, "NO we are NOT THERE YET!"
First, the recap: We decided to take a "vacation" and drive to Richmond, Virginia, to see Alert Reader Tammy's parents, a.k.a. "the Grand Parents", for four days - we left State College Thursday, July 13 and left Richmond Sunday, July 16. I suppose I should explain that I put vacation in quotes because really the only true vacation is going to Disney World where they wait on you hand and foot, albeit for huge sums of money. Anything less is really a different form of work, not a vacation, although even driving to Disney World with the promise of being waited on hand and foot is work until around the Florida State Line at which point your brain has melted and your fists are glued to the steering wheel and you're just muttering over and over "I WILL get to the happy place I WILL get to the happy place I WILL..."
The drive down was uneventful. Okay, I made that up. On the way down we stopped at the Winchester-Frederick County tourism hut to get some brochures, because we had no idea what we were going to do in Virginia. Well, we had a good idea what we were going to do in Richmond, but we thought there might (MIGHT) be an opportunity for some spontaneity on Sunday which would help me out in my course so we thought we would make some spontaneity plans. Of course, as soon as I saw the brochures I seized up and was overcome with Brochure Madness and took about 40. The amount of time needed to do everything that I had a brochure for was just under three complete lifetimes.
As if experiencing Brochure Madness wasn't enough, outside the tourism hut was a giant pineapple! I made the kids get in front of it for a picture, and this is the sort of cooperation I get from my son:
He wanted me to tell you that "the sun was in his eyes" but yes, you guessed it, he was mortified that his Dad made him stand next to a giant pineapple. And speaking of giant pineapples, I took this photo of the plaque:
The left side is what the plaque actually looked like; the right side is my "enhancement" so that you can read it. I guess it washed out over time. So. Not only was this a giant pineapple - it was the welcome pineapple! How cool is that? (Pause for oohs and aahs.) I did a quick web search, and apparently this giant welcoming pineapple was one of a series.
We arrived in Richmond safe and sound and spent some time catching up with the Grand Parents. We ended up retiring early at 10. I slept like a rock from 10 p.m. to 10 a.m. I haven't slept 12 hours in ages, outside of being sick/near death/watching the Pride and Prejudice Marathon with Alert Reader Tammy. (Okay, I made that up; I can only watch P&P in three minute segments.)
The next day (which was Friday, for those who are lost already) was spent in downtown Richmond at the Museum of the Confederacy, alternately known as the "Museum In Richmond You'll Never Find by Yourself" and the "Museum of the Side that Didn't Do Quite as Well as those Damned Yankees." Before I launch into a completely inadequate description of the MotC, and other historical sites, I should confess up front that I am not a historical type person. I like history, it's very nice and I'd be happy to buy it a cappuccino if I ran into it in a Barnes & Noble, but I wouldn't say we're really great friends. (For example, I wouldn't buy history a giant chocolate chip cookie with the cappuccino, nor would I let history borrow my B&N discount card.) I like archaeology, and old stuff that people dig up, but once it's cleaned up and put behind glass...I dunno. So I was a little outside of my comfort zone with the museum thing. But I went in with an open mind.
The museum was actually very interesting. It consisted of three floors and a tour of the nearby "White House of the Confederacy." (More on that in a minute.) Most of the exhibits were artifacts from the period. These fell loosely into three categories: Flags, Things to Kill People With, and Other Stuff. The photo above is one of the items from the "Flags" category. You can find a super-large-high-res-my-webhost-will-hate-me version here. A lot of the exhibits still appealed to the wanna be archaeologist in me (although I suppose many of these items were not "dug up" in that sense.)
This item was from the "Other Stuff" category. Okay I made that up, this came from the "Things to Kill People With" category. There were a lot of those sorts of things.
After looking at a lot of Things to Kill People With we went on a guided tour of the "White House of the Confederacy." (I know, your fingers are getting tired but please, keep making those quote marks. It really does make a difference.) What's the "White House of the Confederacy"? Great question! I would show you, being a visual person, but I was not allowed to take any pictures. At the beginning of the tour the Tour Master looked at me square in the eye and said, "No pictures of the White House of the Confederacy!" He even drew his sword as if to drive home the point.
Ah, you know what I mean.
So I don't have any pictures. But, "White House of the Confederacy" is a "meticulously restored neoclassical masterpiece that, in terms of quality, historical associations and authenticity, probably is second only to Mount Vernon among restorations of historic American dwellings." (At least, according to the Washington Post.) It was the home of President Jefferson Davis and his family during the war, as well as the military and political heart of the Confederacy. As far as meticulously restored neoclassical masterpieces go, the WHotC was top notch. I learned a number of things I hadn't known. For example, did you know that the Confederacy had a President? I didn't know that. I thought he was a Duke or Earl or something. We learned a great deal about his family, the history of the house, and about the artifacts that currently reside there. The only unfortunate thing was this clown who was juggling flaming batons in the reading room. I really wanted to take a picture of the conflagration but my camera had been confiscated by a sword-weilding Tour Master.
That was Friday. Saturday we spent traveling to Jamestown, and from there Yorktown.
Jamestown was almost exactly like Disney World except that it was even hotter and more humid. And it was smaller, and dustier, and we never once saw animals in costume. And it wasn't about magical fantasy worlds but more like Virginia in 1607. But other than that it was very similar.
Although I never checked, the AccuWeather.com RealFeel Temperature during our tour of Jamestown was probably... 491. I know I joke about the South being sticky, but the humidity Saturday was "swamp-like." (Keep working those quote fingers, everyone's counting on you.) Jamestown consisted of indoor exhibits, a 15 minute film on Jamestown (the 1607 settlement, not the place we were at - try to keep up) and a re-creation of what life was like back in 1607.
I would have taken some photos of the indoor exhibits at Jamestown, but photographs were prohibited. It was funny, too, because one of the last exhibits was a Virginia quarter (you know, the "State Quarter" series - you probably have one in your pocket right now) and I thought "Man this is a blog post waiting to happen" and would have taken a picture if I didn't think some irate Tour Master would have run me through with a saber had I tried. The history here was a bit more compelling, if only because it was older history. In fact, the settlement is coming up on its 400th anniversary in 2007, and many exhibits were gone as part of the big Fiesta they're planning. (This was unfortunate timing, and nothing I would hold against them.) I would have taken pictures of the missing artifacts, had I not been concerned that an insane Tour Master would have gutted me with his cutlass just then.
The film was interesting; the settlers went through some very difficult times what with the famine, indians and lack of plumbing. The film set up the rest of the experience well - as we toured the indian huts, fort and ships we had a better sense of how they fit into the larger Jamestown picture.
Our tour included re-creations of the Susan Constant, Godspeed and Discovery, the three ships that brought the colonists to Virginia. This was a huge score for two kids who had just seen "Pirates of the Caribbean" a week ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. I hadn't even considered that until the sails came into view over the trees. It was one of those moments that happen rarely - a chance to connect pop culture and history in a meaningful way. The last time that happened to me I was playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with Twinkie the Kid at that Apple Festival in Denver. But that, as they say, is another story.
After Jamestown we visited Yorktown. Yorktown was the site of a pivotal battle in the Revolutionary War that culminated in the surrender of the British to American and French forces under George Washington. So here we were fast-forwarding from around 1607 to 1781. Yorktown consisted of an indoor exhibition hall, an 18 minute film and an outdoor re-creation of the life and times of that period. I know you will not believe this (and I am NOT making this up) but photography was not permitted indoors. That's too bad, because they had a number of Flags and Things to Kill People With that I wanted to take a picture of but I was scared some crazy Tour Master would disembowel me with his scimitar should I even attempt it.
The exhibits were very interesting, including a series that told the story of salvage operations on some of the sunken ships involved in the Battle of Yorktown. That appealed to the frustrated archaeologist in me, and I thoroughly enjoyed those. The film was also great, and starred James Earl Jones as "General Washington", Adam Sandler as "French Lieutenant #1" and Steven Seagal as "Private Mike", the soldier who has to defeat 40 British soldiers with nothing more than a bugle and a deck of playing cards.
We toured the outdoor area (which you can take pictures of, if you're competent with a camera unlike a blogger I know) and heard a fascinating story told by a fellow who played the part of a field doctor. Most of the story is too gruesome to tell here (this IS a family blog, after all) but he did relate some stories that sounded exactly like my dental tales. In fact, some of these tools below can be found at my dentist's office. Can you identify them?
Here ends Part 1 of "Schaads in Richmond". Part 2, which will probably be published tomorrow if Carl can get out of bed, will include the answers to these startling questions:
Where do the Alert Parents choose to go when the children are left with the Grand Parents?
What did Connor say when he was 100' below ground?
Can the Schaads be spontaneous? (Is that even possible?)
Who is "Officer Antony" and why is he following Carl?
And get at least one more limited edition, rare, downloadable Schaadpaper for your computer. How does a family cram all of this into four days? Find out tomorrow!
I just found this on a CD of mine. It was tucked away in a very sparse folder called "writing." I'm sure I was using that term loosely. I read it and chuckled. I find it interesting that my writing style, if you could call it that, hasn't changed much in sixteen years. I don't know if that's good or bad. In any event, I hope you'll enjoy it as well. The story is more or less true, except maybe the muffled scream part. And no human being can drink nine Yoo Hoos in a row. It occurred at Penn State a university in central Pennsylvania that will remain purposefully nameless...
Sign Here
"This form must be signed by your advisor, twice, here and here, and then by the dean of your college, and then by your professor, and then by your aunt, and then by the King of Angorra*, and then by the Pope, and then..."
"Oh, what a tangled web..."
Even with the advent of the computer, university students still for some unknowable reason find themselves digging out from beneath a morass of forms and bureaucracy. Anything remotely connected with the university has a requisite form, and the more significant the action the more fearsome the paperwork.
Recently I attempted to add an Independent Learning class. This is an out-of-classroom course of study that the student completes at his or her own pace, even at his or her leisure. I though that it might be a good idea to add such a class since I needed X credits to graduate. (X will remain purposely vague.) When I arrived at Mitchell building, home of Independent Learning, I quickly found the room I needed and approached the formica altar.
"I'm here to add a class."
"Are you a student?"
This, of course, took me aback. Was I a student? Was I in the right building? What was I majoring in? Why did I have those fries at lunch? After checking my wallet, I breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, I am. I am a student."
"Then you'll need to fill out that form over there. Get your advisor's signature, and the signature of your dean."
"Thank you."
I got the form and left Mitchell building, much happier for the time I spent getting forms to complete. I then journeyed to my advisor to get him to sign my form.
When I got to his door, it was locked and the room within was dark. (My advisor will remain purposely unnamed.) I knocked anyway. Perhaps he was hiding in there. After several minutes of waiting I decided he was either particularly adept at hiding or not present. I checked his schedule on the door and noticed, with little surprise, that all of his office hours conflicted with my school and work schedule.
I sat in the hallway and started thinking.
I considered skipping Class X (this class will remain purposely unlabeled) but after much thought I came to the conclusion that all of my classes were interesting, thought-provoking and actually quite exciting, so I decided to at least try to call my advisor first and set up an appointment during a time mutually suitable for both of us.
I eventually met with my advisor. He said that I should speak with the instructor of the Independent Learning class I was going to take, before he would sign my form. I thanked him for his "helpfulness" and went to the office of the professor of the class I wanted to take.
When I arrived at her office, the door was locked and the room within was dark. I knocked anyway. I thought I heard a sudden shuffle within, and then a noise like someone smashing their big toe on a large wooden desk leg, and then a muffled scream of anguish, but I wasn't sure. I checked her office hours and they all coincided with my classes and work. Perhaps I just have work and class at popular hours? I decided to call her and set up an appointment.
After meeting with the professor of the Independent Learning class, I returned to my advisor. His door was locked, and I had forgotten that I had to call him and set up an appointment if I wanted to be advised. A few days later I met with him.
"Are you sure that you want to take this class?"
I paused. Was I sure? Perhaps I'd gone through all of this trouble so far, without really being sure. Maybe this wasn't for me. Maybe I should speak to a counselor. Maybe I should have some fries for lunch. Was I ready for this?
"Yes."
"Well, okay then, I guess I can sign your form."
As soon as his pen left the paper I jumped up, grabbed my form and laughed maniacally. Then I then ran all the way to the office of my college's dean.
"Can I help you?"
I looked about the room. I wondered how it could be so incredibly hot in this room while it was cold everywhere else on campus.
"Yes, I need the dean to sign this form..."
"What is it pertaining to?"
"Independent Learning."
"Did you get your advisor's signature?"
I looked at the form. It looked like my advisor's signature. I remembered being told to get my advisor's signature, and yes, I remembered doing it too.
"Yes, see? It's right here."
"Okay, then, leave it with me and you can pick it up in two days."
I looked at the form. It was crinkled with wear and age. Its corners were bent. I hesitated, then gave it to the secretary.
"Thank you."
I left the office. It was 20 degrees in the hallway. The form was out of my hands for a day and I had managed to get one signature. It was time to celebrate. I bought a Yoo Hoo and later took a nap.
The next day I picked up my form. It had the dean's signature on it. It looked like a stamp but I wasn't sure. Then I saw a stamp pad on the secretary's desk that said "DEAN STAMP 1". She saw me looking at it and hurriedly covered it up. I left the office and went back to Mitchell Building.
The secretary there recognized me. I handed over my form.
"Is it signed by your advisor and the dean?"
I just pointed to the signatures.
"Okay, thank you. Let me see. Oh, I'm sorry."
"Yes?"
"This course was closed out last week. There aren't any more spots available. I'm really sorry."
I took my form and left.
After drinking my ninth Yoo Hoo while listening to my Kenny Loggins collection I decided it was time to stop punishing myself. What's a little bureaucracy? I still needed an Independent Learning course. There were a few more courses I could try. And since it would take a while, I should get to it.
"Hi, I'm here to add an Independent Learning course."
"Are you a student?" a different secretary asked me.
I sighed. "This is the form I need right here, right?"
*So, okay, they have a Prime Minister. I was young, politically inept and drank too many Yoo Hoos.
It appears that we have enough people for the First Annual Brownie Round Robin, which stars Carl as Brownie Eating Man, which may or may not be one of my undiscovered super powers. Here's what I'm proposing - those interested can email me their thoughts. I'll extend the Free Registration Period until Wednesday 5:00 pm eastern, at which time the cupboard doors will shut with a resounding thud and you'll have to wait until next year for the Second Annual Brownie Round Robin, which will be held at Kitty's house.
First Annual Brownie Round Robin Rules:
1. Participants send me their mailing address. Credit card number optional.
2. As each participant will get and receive one batch, Carl will create the list of who sends to whom.
3. Each participant bakes a batch of brownies, marks on a small card what's included (i.e. chocolate chips, chocolate chunks, chocolate bars, gigantic wedges of chocolate, raisins, etc.), and mails it to their brownie victim compatriot.
4. When the batch of brownies comes in, have everyone within twelve feet sample and send your review to Carl.
5. Once the entire circle is complete, Carl will declare himself the winner Carl will carefully and thoughtfully digest (sorry) the feedback and share any relevant feedback.
Ideally, the period of time between getting a batch of brownies and mailing off your batch of brownies would be small. Say, fifteen minutes. But since we're really not in any hurry, I think a time period of one week would be good.
I've been writing a blog in some form or another for a while; probably a year-and-a-half. In that time I thought writing about the weather, nuclear disarmament* and the origins of life** were the sorts of weighty, important subjects that people wanted to hear about. But no. Apparently, based on the number of responses to this post it's all brownies.
Alert Reader and Curds Fan Kitty has suggested, somewhere in the comments there, that we have a brownie round robin. I suggested that was a great idea, because it would involve me eating brownies which is a good thing. If anyone out there is interested in participating, then this is your "call to arms." Or spatulas. Or something.
I'm not sure what the rules will be yet, but if you commit to the process and then break the chain you would likely have seven years of bad luck, grow a mullet, stay at Club Quarters at least twice and get a personal visit from BABO™ - and he wouldn't be very happy.
So make sure you think about it and talk it over with two or three close friends before you email me. If we get at least 7 we'll make a go of it. If not, I'll have to make my own brownie mix. I'll just, you know, try to keep my tears out of it. (*sob*)
Wednesday afternoon we ("we" being a group of us from AccuWeather) left State College for Philadelphia. Thursday we had an all-day meeting scheduled to do some serious focus group type testing and we didn't want to leave at 5 a.m. to get to the meeting on time. (The meeting was held at 1 South Broad Street, which appeared to be in the heart of the city.)
We were booked to stay at "Club Quarters." This seemed like a reasonable thing to do. For one, "Club Quarters" was located only three blocks from our meeting location. It was competitively priced for being "right downtown" and lastly, our focus group type testing partners had suggested it.
What follows is a review of the accomodations which I hope to submit to every hotel review site on Earth because it may very well be that my only purpose in life is to serve as a warning for others. On the whole I think the review is fairly balanced and presents both sides: the Hotel side and the Shoot Me In The Head With A Bazooka side. I'll let you, the alert reader, decide.
Review of Club Quarters in Philadelphia
Club Quarters (http://www.clubquarters.com/) is the "Smart Hotel for the Sensible Organization." Immediately I felt put at ease because we're certainly a sensible organization if nothing else, and so we were obviously at the right place. Club Quarters is located directly across the street from Liberty Place, which is a collection of shops that most would describe as "hoity-toity." On the surface, being located across from a collection of hoity-toity shops might seem like a benefit but it isn't, really, if you don't have time to shop. Liberty Place was the location of the below-ground parking garage, which seemed to be the only place to park, which is what we did. The garage was fine, except that it was 2,000 degrees and our tires melted.
We checked into the hotel which went smoothly enough. Even though our rooms were booked at the same time, when we checked in we were dispersed to all corners of the hotel. No big deal, so far so good.
I made my way up to my room and was surprised when I got there. I was surprised not like "Whoa! Why is there a clown in my bed!" but more like "Whoa! Who stole the other two-thirds of my room?" When reviewers say things like "small rooms" you think, "Well, how small could they be?" The answer is, "Just a little bit bigger than a bed and a TV." It really felt like someone had taken a normal room and cut it into thirds to make two more rooms. Below is a size comparison chart for the visual learners in the audience.
After coming to grips with the size of the room, which I could accept (all I was planning to do was sleep, not run laps, juggle or play frisbee) I threw my bag down and looked around. The first thing I check (and this will sound silly, I know) is the quality of the free soap and shampoo. So I went into the (tiny) bathroom, which consisted of a tiny sink, a tiny shower stall and a (small) toilet and looked over the soap situation. It was nicely labeled although I didn't recognize the brand. I examined the toilet a little more closely. I'm not sure how to describe this, but the toilet was set under the counter a bit, so that the seat could not be raised fully. That was fine, since I wasn't planning to be in there too often. Then I noticed that it was one of those "public restroom" style toilets, with those metal handles that most people probably just flush with their foot for fear of contracting some horrible, antibiotic-resistant plague should they touch it with their hands. It flushed fine, (my foot fit under there without any problems) so no worries.
The only other point of interest was another door in my room. The handle was broken and it wouldn't open, so I still have no idea what was in there. It may have been a clown however, as I heard a muffled "honk!" and some giggling when I tried to get in.
At this point I would probably give the hotel two-and-a-half stars. (See figure below.)
However, the night was far from over (cue ominous music). At about 9:40 p.m. while I was watching my tiny television from my tiny bed the power went out. It was very dark. This wasn't a normal dark; this was a dark like when you go into a cave and the cave guide says, "Hey, wanna see something really cool?" and then turns off the flashlight and everyone screams, even the clown, because it is DARK like before the sun was made dark.
My first thought was, "Man, it is dark." My second thought was, "Wasn't O.J. Simpson in the Towering Inferno?" Since I was on the eighth floor, which is seven floors higher than you want to be if there's a problem like a fire or O.J. Simpson, I grabbed my cell phone for light, my wallet, and headed down to the lobby.
Ha! In most buildings, you would expect that the stairs would go to the ground floor with stops at every level, right? Not at Club Quarters: Philadelphia. I made my way down the stairs but there either was not a door at the lobby level, or it was a one-way door. So I continued down to the ground level, and it was like I was in different building. The walls were pock-marked, plaster littered the floor, there were boards nailed up here and there, small piles of trash strewn around the hallway and at least one cockroach as big as a Volkswagen.
Finally I found a door and exited into an alley. I was a little disoriented, not being accustomed to exiting into alleys, but managed to circle the building and find the hotel entrance again. Once inside, I tried the stairs to get to the lobby (the lobby was on the second floor) but the stairs ended in a one-way door that no one opened when banged upon. (Although, I did hear a "honk!" and then a muffled giggle, and a sound like someone taking a custard pie in the face.)
So at that point I gambled and got in an elevator. Well, only after watching someone else first try it and go from G to L. (Ground to lobby, I figured.) Normally I wouldn't recommend entering an elevator like this. Once the doors opened I was greeted by Lobby Chaos. The staff (I'm not making this up) was passing out flashlights to guests while trying to figure out what was happening. Guests were milling about, some angry, some amused, waiting to see what was going to happen. I decided to wait a little while in the lobby with the hopes that the power would come back momentarily. About 30 minutes later the backup power, which had been keeping some lights on and running the elevators, shut off. I was seated near the elevators at the time and heard management calling to a group now trapped in one of the elevators.
Shortly after I heard some manager tell an employee to "keep them calm" (i.e. the people in the elevator, not the clowns juggling in the lobby) the fire department showed up. They proceeded to pry apart the elevator doors with their patent-pending Club Quarters Elevator Staff™ also known as a huge crowbar. After the four women were freed from the elevator I watched the Philly FD talk to someone who must have been the building superintendent. Apparently, there had been a loss of power earlier in the day, and someone somewhere, who is responsible for these sorts of things, thought the problem was corrected but the problem reoccurred, and they were trying to get ahold of those people to get it fixed. I did hear that the fire systems were on some sort of battery back up and should work for three hours. (No one asked if the batteries were now drained given there had been a loss of power earlier.) Just then a clown ran through and sprayed the super with a bottle of seltzer.
By now I had drank too much of the "complimentary water" the hotel had made available because of the inconvenience and was experiencing "full bladder." So I searched the lobby area for a restroom but came up empty (so to speak.) The lines to talk to anyone in charge were quite long, and somewhat agitated, so I decided I would head back to my tiny, fire-trap-like room. The emergency power had been restored, (but not the main power) and the elevators were working but after the fire department scene I decided to walk up the six flights to get back to my room. The first two flights were easy, the second two a little more difficult, and by the last two I decided to just lasso and ride a cockroach up I was so tired.
I got back to the room (and thanked Nigel for the ride) and - what do you know! - the power was back on. It was after 11 pm. I collapsed into bed, certain that I would either wake up an hour late, or wake up to being tossed out of the room by the fire department, or wake up surrounded by Nigel and his family. For some reason I didn't sleep well.
In the morning there were only three incidents pertinent to this review. First, when I turned on the water in the morning, only half awake, the faucet gave that roaring sound you get when the water flow is interrupted because of a power outage. I nearly had a heart attack, but I heard a great deal of chortling from the closet I couldn't open. Second, the front desk said nothing about the outage, no apology, no "How was your evening?" or "How was your stay?" and no offer to take anything off of the price of the room. Third, the front desk somehow messed up our group's billing and billed two rooms to one of our party.
Finally, in an effort to be "balanced" I should point out that the restaurant located in the hotel (Davio's) was very nicely decorated, and each table had a candle which came in very handy during the power outage. Also, to the front desk's credit, not a single staff member screamed in terror and ran out of the building when the power went out. And as I mentioned they did give out free water during the power outage.
So what's the final score? I know you all scrolled down here and skipped the good stuff. Get back up there and read! Anyway, here's how I think it all breaks down. (Final score not an "average." These things are subjective, you know.)
So I probably wouldn't recommend it. But then again, I'm not a big fan of clowns.
Father's Day occurred this past Sunday. Did you know that the first "Father's Day" was celebrated on June 19, 1910, in Spokane, Washington? This is important to note, because in just four short years there will be a plethora of stories about the 100th anniversary of Father's Day. If you're not a father now I highly recommend that you have a child before June 2010 so that you can take part in the hysteria festivities.
Father's Day means three things to me, all of which are important, meaningful and weighty. The first is that I try to sleep as much as possible. I figure it's "my" day and there's probably no other day during the year when I can use guilt as effectively. I suppose there's my birthday, but 5 times out of 7 that falls on a work day and, well, you can't sleep until noon on a work day. (At least, not every work day.)
The second meaning of Father's Day, to me, is that it's sort of the "New Year's Day" of fatherhood. Fathering. Parenthood? Well, you know what I mean. It's a time to reflect on my job as a father. How am I doing? Is there anything I could have done better? Are there areas I need to work on? (These are all rhetorical, no email thanks.) Of course there's always room for improvement. I may seem like I have a clue from reading this blog but that's all bluster and clever writing. I actually have no idea what I'm doing. Fortunately, kids are pretty resilient and there aren't too many mistakes that can't be forgiven by the use of high caloric, trans-fat-enriched, carbohydrate bombs.
The last opportunity Father's Day presents is to look back at the fertile ground that was my childhood and dig for lessons learned. I suppose every child who grows up and eventually has his/her own family does this. There are certain events that shape you as a person, certain morals that live with you forever. I've shared some of these with my children - others I'll share with them when the right moment comes. Here's a brief list for those of you planning on having children before June 2010. I'd recommend that you print this out, because I'm not sure the blog will still be around then.
1. Money Doesn't Grow On Trees
This was probably the number one lesson I learned. After weeks of combing neighbor's trees for so much as a $1 bill, it was with great gravity that I was "sat down" and talked to about the real source of money. "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!" I was told. Money, I learned, was actually printed by the dwarves of Middle Earth, and I wasn't allowed to go there or they would feed me to their pet dragon Binky who guards the printing presses.
2. Any Attempt to Air Condition the Neighborhood is Doomed to Meet With Failure
In spite of my best efforts to air condition the neighborhood (by keeping the front door opened, while the air conditioning was running) met with dismal failure. Once, after leaving the door opened for Three Whole Hours, I went door to door and asked neighbors if they noticed a difference. They would look at me, shake their heads sadly, and say "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!" Eventually I was told that trying to air condition the entire neighborhood was a lost cause. However, experiments are still being conducted to this day (primarily by my children, whom I've tried to talk to about this.)
3. Touching Car Windows With Your Fingers Will Leave Spots and Cause Brain Damage
As a child I always thought glass existed to be touched. It wasn't for protection, or to prevent the neighborhood from becoming air conditioned, or for seeing through. It was for touching. Why else would human beings create a hard, completely clear material? So I touched all of the glass I could find. The best glass of all was the stuff they put in cars, because that glass would get fogged up and then you could actually draw stuff with your fingers. Usually this only amounted to smiley faces and tic-tac-toe boards (even if I had no one to play with) but then I wasn't an imaginative child. Oh, sure, there was the occasional stick figure - but that was rare. It was years later that I was eventually "sat down" and told that all of that touching left marks behind (yeaahhh) and caused brain damage. To my parents.
4. Character Building is Very Important and Must Always Include Pain
I didn't even understand what character was until I was out of high school. I was always wondering who this character was and when would he/she/it would finally be built. I noticed early on that any time the character was being built something uncomfortable was happening. Clean room? Character building. Shovel the driveway of four feet of snow? Character building. Drive off that hungry bear with a can of Pringles? Character building. And a little foolish, too - those Pringles aren't half bad.
5. No Matter How Badly You're Hurt - Have on Clean Underwear or Don't Come Home
For years I thought that the first thing that would happen if I ever got into an accident, was hit by a car, fell down on my bike, or was stopped at the Mexican border was that my underwear would somehow get checked. First thing! I lived in fear of the underwear check. I thought, "If this car hits me I hope I get finished off because I don't want to go through the underwear check, clean or not." I thought the chances of clean underwear going bad if you're hit by a car were pretty good. Or say you don't have a can of Pringles and a bear approaches. That's right - there's an underwear check in your future! It was really frightening to live with the possibility. I eventually learned, as all kids do, what the truth is about Santa, the Easter Bunny and Underwear Checking.
Good luck out there. I would have saved all of this for my upcoming book but I would have gotten a lot of email saying, "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!" If you have any parenting tips or bits o' wisdom drop me a note.
Tonight we had drill practice. My LEGO® army and I, that is. The photo above shows them right before drill practice, when they were just standing around all awkward-like trying to make conversation even though they don't know each other very well (different walks of life, and all.) I expect to have them whipped into shape before they go into battle. This is only a small portion of the army. There are actually 23,000 LEGO soldiers off-camera that you can't see. They were milling around trying to make conversation too.
As you know, (if you've been following closely,) I'm amassing a LEGO army to conquer my office. I expect that once Henry is subdued the rest of the meteorologists will fall faster than brownies at a potluck. I've been very fortunate so far in my recruitment efforts - I've managed to secure a red ninja, a black ninja, and Santa Claus, who as we know is a Jolly Old Ninja. See if you can spot all three in the picture above. (I'll have the answer soon...I wouldn't want to leave anyone hanging. In the meantime, if you MUST know NOW, I take Paypal.)
This is part two of my Dental Day post, you can find the first part here.
First, I have to clear something up. I made up that whole thing about Gary Coleman being my dentist. Sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time - you know, the ideal cliff hanger: "What? His dentist is GARY COLEMAN?" Again, sorry. I'm not even sure if Gary Coleman has gone into dentistry, although I'm sure he would make a fine dentist.
My actual dentist took a look in my mouth and told me that I had broken a tooth. It was at that point that I handed him my Ziploc® baggie full of tooth parts. I don't know what I expected. "Hmm, I'll glue these together right away!" was probably not the response I was looking for, but I thought I would get some sort of Boy Scoutish credit for saving the pieces. Or maybe a discount. But none of that happened. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what happened to that baggie. I suppose, if this was a movie, we'd cut to a scene of my dentist typing up his eBay entry "L@@K! Blog Hero Tooth Parts - Mint in Baggie! No Reserve!"
After we all agreed that my tooth was gone and there was a giant smoking crater where it used to be, I was told that we would have to put a post in and then put a crown on the post. This is a dentist's way of saying "I thank you. My Mortgage thanks you. My Kid's College Fund thanks you."
Dentistry is one of the few fields where the professional involved gives you specific advice and asks you what you want to do, but you and the professional both know that you have no choice and you're going to do whatever he says. For example, when the dentist says, "Well, you have a hole in your mouth and the only solution is to put a post in and a crown on that" he doesn't expect you to say, "Hmmm. Well, let me take my toothless maw home and think about it." No, you're pretty much putty in the good dentist's hands at that point.
So I (believe it or not) decided to go ahead with the dentist's proposal. I got twelve shots of Novocain (three of these were actually in my mouth) and the dentist started working. Of course, I was an unplanned appointment, so they did some work, left for a little while, did some work, and so on. All told I was in the Chair for about three hours that day. It went rather well, except for the fact that I was conscious. Some things can't be fixed by a shot of Novocain, such as hearing the dentist say to the assistant (and I'm not making this up):
"Hand me the knife. No, the sharp one." Pause. "We're going to need a new blade for this."
That was when I almost lost all control over my bodily functions. But, I held it together and mumbled through chunks of gauze:
Cassie had a recital Sunday night. Carl and Music Recitals are like Superman and Kryptonite. First Carl gets weak, then collapses, then turns green. I really do try to be the supportive parent. And for two minutes I was extremely interested, and the recital was interesting and I paid close attention. (These were the two minutes that Cassie was playing her flute. And she did a marvelous job, too.) The other 98 minutes were pure torture. But I did manage to make a few observations I want to pass along.
The first thing I discovered was this: If my last name was Moon, and I had a son, I would name him Spoon. Why? Because Spoon Moon would be an awesome name. He would likely be a first round draft pick for the NFL, given that he survived adolescence, high school and college. I discovered this because there was someone on the program with the last name of "Moon" but with an otherwise ordinary first name.
The second thing I discovered was this: 99.9% of kids are not music savants, despite what their parents might think. There was one kid at the recital that was definitely some sort of genius. I think he was six, and played this complex piano thing that was amazing. I was watching his hands and they were just a blur. In ten years time, given that he sticks with it, he'll likely be brilliant. Of course, while he was playing my brain started arguing with itself over whether this was great genetics at work or something else. He was so young that it seemed very unlikely that his skill was due to years of hard work and practice. But if it was genetics, is that something extraordinary or a gift? Do you applaud something like that if it's just genetics, or are you applauding the one who gave him the gift? And did I really need those fries with lunch? Probably not. Oh wait, he's done time to clap.
The third thing I discovered was this: People are pretty self-absorbed, except me of course. Okay I made that up. I mean about me not being self-absorbed, not about other people being self-absorbed. I noticed this whole thing because there was a gentleman who was planning on video taping their child's performance, and so this man sat at the end of a row and then plugged his camcorder into the wall, stretching the cord across the aisle people had to walk down. Now, I KNOW you know where this is going. And as soon as I saw this happening I knew where this was going, but did HE know where it was going? Of course not. And sure enough, after two people stumbled over the cord (the first two to pass by, incidentally) he unplugged it. Why did I know that was a bad idea, and everyone reading this knew it was a bad idea, but he did it anyway? Did I really need those fries with lunch? Probably not.
Finally, according to Albert Einstein and time dilation everyone at the recital must have been traveling at the speed of light because time slowed to a near stand-still. I had to actually give my watch to my son to save his life, because otherwise he would have asked me what time it was so often I would have exploded, killing him and probably everyone around me, including the guy with the camcorder. We had cleverly planned to have dinner after the recital, for some reason I can't understand, and that helped time to move even slower. However it did eventually end, and everyone slowed down returning time to its normal flow, and to everyone outside of the recital it only appeared as though one hour and forty minutes had passed. This time discrepancy left me with one question though.
(This is a reprint of something I wrote a long, long time ago. I wanted to get it into MT so it was searchable and whatnot. My apologies if you've seen it before :)
Some say that the culture is coarsening. They say we're in moral free-fall. I've done some study on the subject, and I'm afraid to report it's all true. You can see for yourself, and you don't have to go much farther than the nearest supermarket.
The sign says it all. "Ten Items or Less". It's not hard to understand. There are no asterisks or footnotes. No directions to the nearest customer service desk. We can all do the math: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. What could be easier?
Unfortunately, there are those that either a. don't get it, or b. refuse to get it. So they try to maneuver around the rule. We've all seen them. Here are a few:
Grandma with Cat
She's the cute, elderly woman, doesn't seem to hear well, may be legally blind. She pulls in front of you as you approach the check out aisle with your loaf of bread and jug of milk. You smile politely and wait for her to get in line ahead of you. Then you see it: The cart must have 139 cans of Purina in it. (And, oddly enough, 1 can of chewing tobacco.) She slowly begins placing them on the conveyor belt, ONE... BY... ONE... You're certain that the cat will be long dead, with rigormortis fully set in, before she gets home.
The Rule: Age is no excuse! That's AGEISM and we WILL NOT STAND FOR IT. GET BACK GRANNIE! BACK!!
Bonnie and Clyde
Ever see this one? The couple in front of you seem to know each other. Maybe they shop here often? Must be a coincidence. He's in front of her, so he puts his stuff on the belt. But then, amazingly, I mean amazing like "Parting the Red Sea amazing", she puts her stuff down too! They not only know each other, but they're married and are shopping together!!
The Rule: 10 + 10 STILL equals 20. TRY ANOTHER AISLE, YOU IDIOTS!
Captain Vegetables
How about this one: Young college student, in sweats and torn t-shirt, dumps 8 cabbages, 14 onions, a dozen tomatoes and a kiwi down and waits for his total. What? They have baggies in the produce aisle? I didn't know!
The Rule: 14 onions are 14 items, unless YOU BAG THEM YOU FOOL! GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL! DO NOT PASS GO!
Ms. 'Rules Can Be Bent'
Mom-type with two noisy kids. Does a careful count of her items, as do you over her shoulder, has ten, proceeds to check out. Son grabs a snickers, screams loudly that he must have it or he'll tell EVERYONE about that time you overfed "Twinky" the pet goldfish and had to flush him, and throws a royal fit until Mom adds the candy to the total and hastily checks out.
The Rule: Sorry Mom! 10 + 1 = 11! Try flushing your son's bad manners instead and GET IN THE NEXT AISLE OVER!
So what to do about this problem? Unbelievably, the solution where I shop for food is - I am not making this up - changing the signs to read: "ABOUT Ten Items or Less." What is THAT? New Math? Look, 10 is 10. Putting ABOUT up there is just the same as putting "Ten Items or less or more or SHUCKS, WE DON'T CARE! BRING IT ON!!" This is no solution.
So, in the interest of helping society out, or at least making MY grocery trip less annoying, I've come up with a new, simple, easy-to-understand system of checking out in the TEN items or less aisle:
First, and most importantly, the sign should read: 1-10 items. I mean, let's say what we mean.
(In smaller print: "or else". There. They were warned.)
Second, we need to have a graduated list for how to score items:
Veggies are separate items unless YOU BAG THEM. Then they are one item per bag.
Any items attached together are 1 item. Bananas - 1 item a bunch. Case of soda? 1 item. Gizzards? 1 item.
Cigarettes are the exception. They count as 1 item/cigarette. Hey, smoke on your own time buddy.
Any meat by-product is 1 item + 1 item/pound. Man, that stuff is gross.
Cans of Pet Food count as 1 item/can. Careful Grannie, they add up fast!
Milk is a freebie. That's right, 0 items. I mean, they put it way in the back there. I hate that.
Certain combinations can get you in trouble. Watch out for these - they result in automatic rejection:
Ice Cream + Meat Product + Anything For Foot Care
Anything Fatty + Tums
Diet Coke + Light Chips + Lard
Drano + Bacon Bits + Organic Produce
And now, even though we have these simple, easy to understand rules, what should we do with the scofflaws? And make no mistake - there
will still be those who try to "get ahead" of the rest of us law-abiding citizens. Well, that depends on the seriousness of the offense:
First Offense:
Total = 11 items: 1 Slap upside the head with the Stupid Stick
Total = 12-15 items: 2 Slaps with the Stupid Stick, 5 minutes public jeering
Total = 16-20 items: Everyone behind you in line gets a turn with the Stupid Stick
Total = 21+ items: Everyone IN THE STORE gets a turn with the Stupid Stick
Second Offense:
Total = 11 items: Wallet gets emptied, kicked out of the store with loud jeering
Total = 12-15 items: Your wallet and glove compartment get emptied, and your shoe laces are tied together
Total = 16-20 items: Your wallet and glove compartment get emptied, head gets shaved, and you are forced to wear a placard that reads
"HOW MANY items?" while pacing back and front in front of the store
Total = 21+ items: Your items are rung up as usual, then passed around the store for the clerks to sample, while you are
lead away to serve 10 to 20
Alert Reader Tammy, who may or may not be my wife, is making me sleep on the floor. Of course, there's a perfectly rational explanation for this, which I've gone to great lengths to diagram and explain here. I'm doing this for NGR (no good reason) although Tammy says that this is amusing.
If you consult figure 1, above, you'll see the Great Circle of Furniture, which was immortalized in that song by Elton John. The Great Circle of Furniture is the story of how furniture gets used and reused until it eventually dissolves into potting soil, which then is eaten by worms that are used in the making of foot stools and ottomans, et cetera and so on.
In figure 1, which again is above in case you weren't paying attention, you'll see the three main characters in my story. After we purchased the new bed, which you can read all about here if you haven't and I highly recommend that you do because it's very amusing, we came home and got a great flyer about a future bedding sale we would not be attending. We then went upstairs and stared at our old bed with tremendous disdain, at which point two supporting boards fell out from under the bed. This started the Great Circle of Furniture.
For you see, the old bed (this would be "A" in figure 1, which is above) was going to be passed to our son to replace his bunk bed (this would be "B" in figure 1, which is also above.) The bunk bed would then be donated to someone worthy, and we would get our new bed. I had planned to do all of this at some Later Date, because I put off things that I don't want to do, or that are impossible, or both. However, because our bed shed two supporting boards Tammy suggested that we start the Great Circle of Furniture immediately because at a minimum we would have to fix these supporting boards and, well, why not just do everything now.
So we took apart our bed and then I started taking apart my son's bunk bed. This was the impossible thing I was putting off, because the bunk bed is actually one solid molded piece of iron. I had to use a screw driver, hammer, hack saw and eventually an acetylene torch to take it apart. It was after I had disassembled the bunk bed that I realized I didn't know what the master plan was. Because if we gave my son our bed, and we didn't have the new bed, where would I sleep? It was then that Tammy explained, rather matter-of-factly, that we were only giving him the frame and box spring, and he would keep his mattress for the time being, and we would just sleep on our mattress on the floor. (This would be "C" in figure 1, which is around here somewhere.) Then the Twilight Zone music started playing, and I heard Rod Sterling say:
"You are looking at Mr. Schaad. Until now he's lived an ordinary life, with his house, family, cat and fourteen-year-old bed. But Mr. Schaad is about to take his bed apart. Why? So that he can sleep on the floor. For you see, Mr. Schaad has entered another dimension, not only of dust and carpet fuzz, but a dimension slightly closer to sea level. Mr. Schaad has regressed to his college years - next stop, the Futon Zone."
I shook the Rod Serling out of my head and finished my assembling and disassembling heroics. Now my son has my bed and I'm trying to survive my dust allergy for the next week. But see, this way I didn't have to fix those two supporting boards and then just take the bed apart again next weeked. Or, as Elton might sing:
Some say eat or be eaten,
Some say live and let live,
But all are agreed, as they join the stampede,
You should never take apart your bed before the new one comes..."
Our mad shopping spree continues unbated as we've just added a bed to the list. I decided several days ago, when I got out of bed and every bone in my body hurt, and then simultaneously broke, that it was time for a new bed. I asked Alert Reader Tammy when we bought our current bed, and apparently it was back in 1992 and was a "Five-Year Bed." I don't know what that means; maybe after five years it was supposed to explode or turn into dust or something. But we figured we had the bed long enough so I began the Great Schaad Bed Hunt of 2006. This started with me calling Bed Stores:
Carl: "Hello, do you have any beds?" Savvy Salesperson: "Why yes, we do." Carl: "Do you have any free beds?" Savvy Salesperson: Long pause. "What do you mean?" Carl: "I mean like beds, but they wouldn't cost anything, because that fits best in my budget." Savvy Salesperson: Longer pause. "Um, no. You have to pay for these beds." Carl: Pause. "Do you have any special deals where I can arrange for no payments until 2016?" Savvy Salesperson: "Well, we do have an 18 month payment and interest free period..." Carl: "Sold! Wrap one up, we'll be right over."
Okay I made that up, but that was my initial thought. If we could get something free, or payment free for ten years, I figured I would probably be dead by then and - HA! - joke's on them. But trying this sort of arrangement in the past and then having so many customers unexpectedly croak probably soured them to the entire thing.
So we went to the furniture store, which was quite impressive and filled with lots of beds. Being hapless consumers, we flopped down on each bed and made "oooh" and "aaah" noises because, unlike our current bed, each one did not feel like flopping onto a box of rusty, poorly sharpened potato peelers. And since they were all a dramatic improvement over what we had, all that was left to do was haggling with each other over the price. We could get the cheapest thing they offered, which is what we would normally do, but where's the Exciting Debt Challenge in that? Fortunately for Tammy and I a Savvy Salesperson came along just then.
The Savvy Salesperson confessed that he was a wood worker at heart, and if we wanted to buy a wardrobe he could bore us to death and this feature and that feature and intricate wood working facts. But since we weren't buying a wardrobe (alas) all he could do was to tell us to flop on all of the beds and wait for three minutes (the exact amount of time, I've learned, it takes for the human body to sink into a new mattress) and decide what we liked best. This sort of Reverse Psychology of Selling always baffles me, and it was right before lunch so I became a little stunned. Sort of like the male lion who has just been hit by the tranquilizer dart. Not quite down yet, but getting woozy and as a result pretty much disinterested in eating the film crew.
So I was prepared to start flopping when the Savvy Salesperson asked if we wanted to do the Kingsdown Sleep To Live DormoDiagnostics Sleep Study. Ordinarily if someone walked up to you on the street or in a store and said, "Hey! How would you like to do the Kingsdown Sleep To Live Domodiagnostics Sleep Study?" you would run, or hit them, or scream like a little girl. But being a little stunned I said "Yes." Now Tammy became stunned because I said had yes to such a bizarre thing.
The KSTLDSS involved entering some basic demographic information into a computer, such as height, gender, SSN, if you've ever brought something into the country you haven't declared, favorite foods, and the last four movies you've rented, and then lying down on a Space Age Test Mattress. The KSTLDSS scans your body, or claims to, and prints out a color profile of what the computer sees when it scans you (or claims to.) The Savvy Salesperson then asked Tammy to undergo the KSTLDSS and she did, surprisingly, probably because she was also stunned. Afterward we compared our body scans (or what the KSTLDSS claims were our body scans) and sure enough mine was larger and more lumpy. This in in line with all of the other body scans we've done and compared, so perhaps it was on the up-and-up.
What was the point of all of that? Well, other than knowing we've recently rented The Seven Samurai and Pride and Prejudice, (which would make a GREAT cross-over combo) the KSTLDSS gives you a number. This magic number corresponds to a specific, insanely expensive mattress in the showroom that is Your Perfect Mattress. Perfect as in the little mattress elves had your unique physiology in mind when they crafted it from the finest elven gold and mythril. (Mythril is a difficult to find elemental metal, MY on the periodic table, that is firm yet springy in all of the right spots.) So we walked over and flopped on the Just Right Mattress and waited for three minutes.
Oooh. Aaah.
While we were waiting, we noticed a sign hung above the KSTLDSS site, which explained that Bad Mattresses, aside from being the work of the devil, were the cause of things such as "Premature Aging," "Insomnia," "Acid Reflux Disease," "Renting Movies Such as Pride and Prejudice," and "Death." Fortunately a decent, made-by-elves mythril mattress of the appropriate number would cure all of these, particularly Death but probably not the video rental issue (once that takes hold not even a good mattress will shake it loose.)
Three minutes and nine seconds after we started sinking the Savvy Salesperson came back and asked us what we thought. We confirmed the Pay Nothing Until 2008 thing and said we'd take it. The only caveat was, since we couldn't get out of the bed that they had to deliver it with us lying on it.
Okay I made that part up. Several Savvy Salespersons used these electric cattle prod things and kept shocking us until we got up, and then about eight of them corralled us towards the payment desk.
So now we have a new bed arriving in a week. This is very exciting, although it wouldn't be a True Schaad Story™ unless there was some sort of sick twist at the end. So, here you go: When we got home we checked the mail, and there was a letter from the exact same furniture store.
It was about their Friends and Family Event this coming Saturday, June 10th, wherein you (that would be me, or would have been) would receive "incredible savings on every piece of furniture, bedding and accessory item" as well as free refreshments and raffle prizes. They are even going to give away free copies of Pride and Prejudice. Life can be cruel sometimes.
We have a lemming leader in our neighborhood. I don't know who it is yet, because s/he is always outside way, way early in the morning, sometimes even before 9 a.m. A garbage lemming is a person or persons who disregards the Official Garbage Pick-Up Schedule and takes the garbage out to the curb every Thursday, no matter what. Sometimes his/her plans are very transparent - such as when Christmas falls on a Thursday. Sometimes they're much more insidious, such as this past week.
This past week started with a holiday - Memorial Day - on Monday. This is a perfect set-up for the garbage lemming to strike. Memorial Day isn't one of those high profile holidays, like Christmas, Thanksgiving or Flag Day. It also always falls on a Monday, and by the time you get to Thursday you've completely forgotten about it.
So the garbage lemming got up bright and early and took his/her garbage to the curb. What happened next? You guessed it. All of the OTHER lemmings started waddling out of their houses with the garbage. Pretty soon almost everyone on the street had taken their garbage out - including yours truly - even though no one was coming for it. Because the week started with a holiday, which moves pick-up forward one day.
Somewhere, behind some window curtain, the lemming was laughing at the chaos s/he wrought. Laughing, and looking forward to July 4.
I'm thinking about creating another website. It would be a cross between a portal and a weblog. I'm not sure I can come up with a buzzword more annoying and repulsive than "blog" but maybe we could call it a "plog." Or a "poblog," "polog," or "portog." In any event, it would be something else to do between 1:30 and 3 a.m.
Why would I want to add something else to do between 1:30 and 3 a.m.? THAT is a great question. Ordinarily I would just chalk it up to brain damage, but no...this time it's something more.
I've been a huge fan of Disney World for a long time. My earliest Disney memories are a bit clouded by age. I remember three distinct images from my youth during our one (and only) family trip to Disney.
The first is me standing next to some ginormous bipedal animal. Back in the day the Disney Characters were all 12' tall. In fact Disney could only hire former NBA stars to dress in the costumes, and even then they used stilts. I know the Characters are supposed to look cute and cuddly, but when they first started out they were a little rough around the edges. That, and I was smaller because I was younger. And, after we did the photograph thing Mickey ate my sister. So it was all a little weird, but very memorable.
The second image is reading the sign for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. You have to understand that at the time I was a horrible coaster sissy. I mean, Scream-Like-A-Girl sissy. But my family had convinced me that Big Thunder Mountain Railroad (BTMR) was this calm little railroad ride. We got in line and then I saw The Sign:
"ATTENTION: Anyone who has any heart condition, back condition, loose bones, bruises, a really bad cough, hemorrhoids, dry mouth, flatulence, freckles, allergies to dust, soy or peanuts, or has hair should reconsider before boarding this ride."
Just as I read that last part, "ride," the BTMR came SCREAMING past the guest line. It was moving 112 mph if it was moving five. I felt my bones go loose and I looked around, but there was no escape. That, and my father rapped me on the head with his fist (which made a noise like "bonk") (my head, not his fist) and said "Money doesn't grow on trees you know!"
The third image is me now on BTMR. I was in a cart with my father. My hands had fused on the "safety bar" in front of me and my eyes had sort of rolled into the back of my head, so I couldn't see very well. The ride was fine except when the BTMR would turn. If it turned the right way, things were okay. If it turned the wrong way, my father would slide towards me and crush me under his immense father-like frame. (He would then rap me on the head with his first and yell over the noise of the ride: "Money doesn't grow on trees you know!")
After all of this, I'm sure you now know why I want to create a new Disney-related website between the hours of 1:30 and 3 a.m. But what to call it? I went through the obvious choices, like "Yet Another Website About Disney World That Will Eventually Get A Cease-and-Desist Letter" or "Carl's Disney Site." But none of them felt right. Where was the magic? The joy?
So then I came up with this idea - are you sitting? - to call it "Cloud Nine and a Half." Actually, I was going to call it "Cloud Nine and Seven Eighths" but that's only because it was 3 a.m. at the time. But...I don't know. I'm still thinking about it. If you have a great, free, non-trademarked or copyrighted, not-owned-by-Disney name idea leave it in the comments. In the meantime, you can watch http://www.carlschaad.com/wdw/ for new developments. No there's nothing there now stop that. Check after 3 a.m. tonight.
You all know what that means. Three Day Weekend + Nice Weather + No Where To Go = House Painting.
At first I thought I was going to escape the whole painting thing. It started out last week with Alert Reader Tammy dropping subtle hints here and there. "I'm going to buy some paint." "What do you think of this color for the living room?" "I need to pick up some rollers and drop cloths FOR THE PAINTING THAT WILL OCCUR THIS WEEKEND." Needless to say, these hints were far too subtle for me. To my credit, I suspected that something was going to happen in the near future, and that it probably involved paint in some way.
As the weekend drew ever closer, not unlike that giant shark in Jaws that was so large and foreboding that it had its own theme music, things began to come into focus. And then, all of a sudden like, it hit me: WE'RE PAINTING THIS WEEKEND?! It was a total shock. I had just gotten back from the video store with a handful of mindless video games and planned to beat up deserving evil minions for three days straight.
To Alert Reader Tammy's credit, she DID say that I didn't need to get involved. But since there's no way I'd rather spend a three-day weekend than by TAPING THE WALLS I volunteered for that part. I saw a paint-taping commercial recently and like a lemming went to the store, found the product I had been brainwashed to buy, and began taping the ways. I almost always use too much tape, and tape things that never, EVER, should be taped, but I did apologize to Mysty and the vet says the hair will grow back in a few months.
After the room was taped the painting started. It turns out that Alert Reader Tammy had picked "Crusty Copper" or some such color and after painting she showed me how well it did NOT match anything we owned. Not only anything we owned in the actual room being painted. I mean anything we owned ANYWHERE IN THE HOUSE. Some may say this was just a random sort of thing, but I know it was planned so that I would have to get involved with the painting.
"You painted two walls 'Crusty Copper' just to get me involved, didn't you?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
So we sat down with the paint swatches and picked two new colors. We decided half of the room would be painted "Hershey® Chocolate" and the other half would be painted "Coma Beige." Together they would be guaranteed to please and give you a candy craving.
After painting the room we decided we would check the Memorial Day Furniture Sales for any furniture made specifically for Hershey's Chocolate. As luck would have it, we found the perfect couch! Apparently the color we picked has to be hand-made by Keebler® elves though and won't arrive for 6-8 weeks.
That's just enough time for me to recover from taping the walls and for Mysty to start looking like a cat again.
I was quite excited when I learned there was going to be a super power camp, until I found out that it was run by the church of Scientology. I mean, no offense to scientologists in the audience - I was just expecting that it would be run by the Super Friends or something.
I don't know a lot about Scientology, other than it involves jumping on furniture (preferably famous talk show host's furniture), not letting delivering women scream and telling Brooke Shields she's absolutely and totally wrong about whatever it is that she thinks she's right about. And I only know these things because it's what Tom Cruise and the media have told me. Given this was all I knew, and that Super Powers were at stake, I looked into it a little more.
I checked Wikipedia, font of obscure knowledge that it is, to get the inside scoop. While there was no mention of Brooke Shields, Oprah was quoted extensively. I learned that Scientology has its own cruise ship (The U.S.S. Asbestos) and that 75 million years ago the alien ruler Xenu "brought billions of people to Earth, stacked them around volcanoes and blew them up with hydrogen bombs." I know that sounds like that one issue of Buck Rogers but no it happened 75 million years ago before there were comics (try to keep up.)
So now that I was extremely versed in Scientology I had to decide if I should go to the camp or not. And what it really boils down to is - what sort of super powers would I get for my hard earned money? Although these things are very hush-hush, I think I probably have a few options:
1. The Super Power to jump on furniture. I already do this pretty well.
2. The Super Power to shush screaming delivering women. This could be very dangerous.
3. The Super Power to know when Brooke Shields is wrong about something. This would be cool, but useful? Not sure.
4. The Super Power to stack people around volcanoes and blow them up with hydrogen bombs. Okay, I'm in!
So all I need to know now is where to send my check. If you're interested in not being stacked by a volcano and blown up after I complete my course, send me an email. If I don't hear from you...well, I can't be held responsible.
Tonight (Tuesday night) I had an opportunity to get together with some friends and I learned that clowns have secret clown names. Did you know this? I didn't know this.
I'm still conducting some research, but this entry from Wikipedia mentions that clowns prefer funny names:
"Note that a clown would likely choose the word pastrami rather than corned beef, because pastrami is a funny word and corned beef is not. So clowns prefer: monkey wrenches to "spanners", doohickeys to "gadgets", kitchen gadgets to "small appliance" and monikers to "nicknames."
Personally I find the word "doohickey" to be hilarious, so I suppose I can understand that. But why not call a small appliance a "kitchen doohickey?"
This idea that names are important appeals to the sci-fi/fantasy fan in me. And I mean fan in probably the most geeky-monkey-wrench sort of way. A good sci-fi example that everyone can probably relate to is Darth Vader.
I can still remember sitting in the theatre as a nine-year old and watching the original Star Wars movie, which has since been renamed from Star Wars to Star Wars: The Original Movie Episode Four of Six. (This was done to avoid some confusion with other Star Wars movies.) Even though I was only nine I already had a good command of the German Language. So when they introduced Darth Vader I was floored by the genius of George Lucas. I mean, Darth Vader! Darth meaning "dark," of course, and Vader meaning "potato." Not only was he a dark potato, but he stank too. If you remember, in the beginning of the movie Princess Leia says that she smelled Vader's (Potato's) stench when he came on board her ship. And as everyone who's ever cleared out a pantry knows, a rotten potato can be pretty darn stinky, and messy, and they usually have those tentacles growing everywhere making them look like they are from another galaxy.
Of course, Darth Vader didn't start out that way. He originally (years later) was Anakin Skyw Alker. Again the naming genius here is hard to miss, as Anakin means "Morning" or "Light," Skyw means "Sweet" and an Alker is a yam. So originally the character was something like "Morning Sweet Yam." But as we all know, Yam gets sucked into the evil of the dark side of the force, and in a dramatic transformation becomes the Dark Potato.
So, names certainly do mean something and are quite important. If you're interested in becoming a clown and choosing a clown name, you can visit the Clowns of America International, the World Clown Association or Clown Ministry. Or, visit your local grocery store for a number of good vegetable ideas. I'm thinking about choosing the Clown Name "Rutabaga Jake" because, well, rutabaga sounds funnier than orange. Or corned beef.
(I felt a little agonizing, blinding, shoot-me-now pinch.)
I had the Dentist Appointment today. Just to review, this was the appointment that I was tricked into making. But I'm not bitter about that.
Overall, the appointment went well. There were a few bumps though. True to form, I had prepared myself to get two X-rays done. These are the dreaded "Bite Wing X-Rays" which are named after those Star Wars fighter ships that attacked the Death Star (the "Bite Wing Fighters.") They named them Bite Wing X-Rays because the little X-Ray pad things they put into your mouth are five times larger than your mouth could ever be, even on a good day at a great buffet, just like the Bite Wing Fighters are themselves quite large. They also are so sharp they pierce your mouth, not unlike the way the Bite Wing Fighters shot laser beams and laser bombs at the Death Star to pierce its tough outer shell.
But since I had only prepared myself to get two done, the Dental Hygienist said:
"It appears that the last time you had a Full Set of X-rays was 1975, so you're due to have that done."
I asked how many X-rays were in a full set, having no idea but realizing that sounded bad, and she said (I'm not making this up) "Eighteen." Somewhere in the distance I heard a woman scream, and a wolf baying at the moon, and the sound of a cash register ringing. And the serpentine belt on my car suddenly snapped.
"Let's wait to do that." I offered.
The examination went about as well as I expected. "Where'd you get these gums?" she asked at one point. I had five dental instruments in my mouth at the time and it was hard to speak except in pig latin, so all I could offer was "Adbay enesgay." Although they didn't have to preform an emergency gumectomy, it was seriously suggested that I get a Super Gum Cleaning. I mean Seriously as in stern looks, explanations about the risk of death from unclean gums, and someone hovering over me with the appointment book.
"Aybemay aterlay."
During the cleaning, in which every single one of my teeth were removed from my mouth, polished, and put back (okay I made that up, it only felt that way) several old fillings were noted. "You've got an old filling here." "Uhnnhuhn." "Ooo, here's another one. And another." Afterwards I just asked for someone to create a giant list of everything I needed to do, so that I could call the insurance company and we could have a good laugh. I asked them to put "diamond grill" on the list as well, so I could look like my favorite rap star. (And insurance companies love to cover that sort of thing.)
After all of this you would think I was done. Not so. The Actual Dentist then stopped by to look at my Bite Wings, my mouth, and to offer words of encouragement. These words included "You have insurance, right?" and "Try not to bite down hard on this tooth in the back on the left; it might crack and then explode, blasting all of the other teeth out of your mouth and then causing your head to fall off your shoulders." (At that point he turned to the Dental Hygienist and said, "Add Platinum Crown to the list."
As I was leaving I asked about a free plastic toy, but the ten minutes of crying at the beginning of the appointment apparently disqualified me. If I would have known that was an actual non-negotiable rule I would have been a bit more manly.
I did get a nice set of brochures about Dental Procedures, Diamond Grills and Sedatives as well as a list of everything I should have done. Anyone care to guess what the total cost* will be?
It's really nothing personal; I'm sure my dentist is a fine human being and we're all grateful - aren't we? - that there are people who are willing to go to Dental School because they're passionate about looking at the rotting teeth and gums of other human beings. My hat's off to all of the Dentists in the audience because I could never do that, and because I'm not really allowed to wear my hat in the Dentist Chair.
I'm giving this whole Dentist Thing a lot of thought because I'm going to the Dentist tomorrow. It's ostensibly to get my teeth cleaned. Because, let's face it, I can't clean them myself. Even the concept of the Teeth Cleaning is hard to understand. It would be like having to go to the doctor's once every six months for a bath. "Okay, Mr. Schaad, I understand you know all about the shower, but we really need you in here every six months for a thorough scrubbing."
Since I'm not a big fan of the Cleaning I haven't been in the office for a while. I was successfully dodging the Cleaning until my phone rang today. For some unknown reason I answered it. It was the Dentist's Office, asking if I would like to come in for a cleaning since it had been seven hundred and thirty odd days since I had last been Cleaned. Ordinarily I would have said "No." but they threw this part in: "Unless you're seeing someone else...?" Ouch. That really hurts a guy. Like I'm the kind of person to sneak out and get a Cleaning on the side. So I caved, and made an appointment for tomorrow.
The main reason I don't like the Dentist Visit (besides the pain, and the spitting, and the Dental Floss Grilling) is because it is almost exactly like going to the automotive repair center but with sharp pointy things being stuck in your mouth. What happens when you take your car to the automotive repair center? No matter how prepared you are, no matter what horrible situation you've steeled yourself for, no matter how much you think it could cost - IT IS ALWAYS WORSE:
"Well, Mr. Schaad, it seems that yes - your serpentine belt IS extremely frayed. However, we also found that your engine is half-melted, your spark plugs have turned into silly putty and the windshield wiper fluid reservoir is riddled with holes like a sieve. That will be twenty-two thousand dollars, or I can show you some nice new cars over here..."
That's exactly like the dentist! You go in for a Dental Cleaning, and it ALWAYS ends up being WORSE:
"Well, Mr. Schaad, it seems that yes - you don't know how to clean your teeth. However, we also found that you suffer from terminal gingivitis and gum disease. Unless we preform an emergency gumectomy RIGHT NOW your mouth won't become riddled with holes like a sieve. Now close your eyes, you're going to feel a little pinch."
And that little pinch they mention is not to your bank account. No, the bank account actually feels a dismemberment, not a little pinch. Every time I've gone in the past I've been asked about my insurance and when they find out I have some they say "That will be twenty-two thousand dollars." Of course, they really should ask how good the insurance is, not if I actually have any.
But, I'm going. That sucking sound is not the little sink I'm going to be spitting into; it's my sterling good mood and happiness being sucked down the drain of despair for the next several days. Or until my gumectomy is scheduled.
Incessantly Played Album of the Day: Lifesong, Casting Crowns
Doblerism of the Day: "How many of them really know what they want, though? I mean, a lot of them think they have to know, right? But inside they don't really know, so...I don't know, but I know that I don't know. " (Lloyd, on choosing a career.)
Most (Potentially) Ill-Fitting Project of the Day: Penn State Nanotechnology Website. (It's about wee little things.)
Once upon a time there was an old, Venezuelan Gypsy Woman. What? Sure, there are gypsies in Venezuela, don't change the subject. The old Venezuelan Gypsy Woman (OVGW) was shopping in an unnamed central Pennsylvania grocery store when a young, foolish college student cut in front of her in the ten items or less aisle. Really, he claims to this day he never saw her there. You know, she was kind of short and tiny the way old, Venezuelan Gypsy Women are. The college student had a bag of Lays Potato Chips, a carton of Breyer's Ice Cream and nineteen cans of Dinty-Moore Beef Stew. Not only did he have twenty-one items in the ten items or less aisle, but he had forgotten all forms of payment except his checkbook.
The OVGW, extremely put out, pronounced a curse on him.
"A curse on you!" the OVGW pronounced. "May your lawn ever grow, and your lawn mower never mow!" Then she cackled, the way only extremely put out gypsy women can.
Well, you may not have seen this coming, but that young, foolish college student was me. (Pause for gasps.) And yes, ever since then I have been unable to mow my lawn. At first I tried the gas mower. My gas mower would never start, no matter how many times I pulled on that cord. It looked like I was trying to take flight in a fit of gasping and puffing.
After we moved to the new house, I cleverly decided I would buy an electric mower. This worked really well the first few times. Sure, the mower weighs four thousand pounds, but it's a great work out. However this weekend, as I began passing the Mantle of Mowing to my son, the mower would mow for a little while and then just stop. "It's the battery!" you yell. Or, "It needs charged!" you offer. No, these options are too obvious.
Clearly, it's the curse of the old, Venezuelan Gypsy Woman, who even now is cackling somewhere. Probably quite loudly, like only an old gypsy woman can.
(UPDATE: As Jodi points out below, the so-called "OVGM" is the counterpart to the OVGW, and generally removes the curses the OVGW places on unsuspecting though deserving shoppers. Or, the OVGM is the one who makes the Dinty Moore Beef Stew. One or the other.)
Okay, you caught me. There's no such thing. But I had a few items to share and in order to trick you into reading them I thought I disguise them as "deep."
First I got these Chips Ahoy! White Fudge Chunky Cookies today. I would say for the most part stick with the regular Chips Ahoy! Chocolate Chip Cookies. I'm not sure what "white fudge" is but I know it's white chocolate. (Apparently it's "soy lecithin" or something.
I had a few comments about the unauthorized autobiography. These generally fall into two categories: "How can an autobiography be unauthorized?" and "Did you really throw yourself on a grenade in 'Nam?" In terms of how an autobiography can be unauthorized - well, okay, there's really no explanation for that you got me. At first I was going to call it an unauthorized biography but since I was writing it that wouldn't work. So then I was going to call it an authorized autobiography, but I put all of that stuff in there about the doomed planet Krypton* and, figuring it was only a matter of time before a cease and desist letter arrived I figured "Just call it unauthorized; that should cover you." I wasn't going to explain all of this because now the lawyers will be on me like soy lecithin on a cookie, but hey, I love my readers.
I've had a lot of feedback on the 38below thing. Some have said try both, some have said stick with Blog Hero, and some have asked how they can check to see if they have the super power of melting the brains of people taking too long in bank lines. I'm still pondering my options. I miss poking fun at Action Penstone, Henry and the entire crew. Of course, after my LEGO® Apocalypse there won't...well, you know. I really do appreciate everyone's input though. The emails and comments have been very kind.
While we're on the topic of comments, I've decided to try and comment on people's comments. At first I thought this would be weird. I mean, why comment on your own blog? But I've looked around and other people do just that. I found about four. So I thought I would give it a go. This is probably doomed for failure for some reason that should be readily apparent but for whatever reason escapes me.
And finally, I want to apologize for something. I think there may be some hard feelings about the 38below cards. All I can say is at the time is seemed like a great idea. To those of you who printed out a sheet and then took it to Fedex Kinko's and had two thousand printed up on colored card stock - please accept my sincere apologies. All you need to do tonight is get some sort of marker, cross out the URL and put "carlschaad.com/blog" on all of them. And then, I don't know, draw a little doodle of a super hero or a hamburger or something. (See Figure 3 for an example of the kind of thing I mean. Only your doodle should be better, and most super heroes have feet. And eyes, and stuff.)
Then sprinkle with soy lecithin and leave at the grocery store, diner, bus depot, public library and (clean, well kept) rest rooms. Thanks!
As some of you may remember, I decided that I was going to take over the office with an invincible, havoc-wrecking, fear-inspiring, unstoppable army of LEGO® people. I started by raiding the kid's LEGOs which only yielded parts of LEGO people, which I did manage to use to build a few Frankenstein-like creations. (You know, pirate hat, smiling face, farm body and space pants. That sort of thing.) So I was forced to resort to eBay, but then my funding suddenly dried up. However I stumbled across a secret recruiting source that has allowed my ranks to blossom. And it's not every day that you have blossoming ranks.
So things were going well when I made a tactical blunder™ and left my blossoming army in a bag on my desk. A coworked stopped by and said, "Hey what's this?" and picked up the bag. I cleverly replied, "That's the beginning of a LEGO® army that I'm going to use to conquer the entire office, BWAH HA HA HA HA!" He left quickly.
I had a small epiphany today about time. (Go easy on me, it was a long, boring, head-cold-endured day.) I mean epiphany as in "a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something," not as in "an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being" (thanks M-W.com!) although I really would have preferred the latter. In fact, that would have made for a great blog entry, book and probably major motion picture.
I had the S.E. (small epiphany) while I was sitting in my car on Science Park Road. Science Park Road is the small road on which several businesses are located, most of which I don't have much to do with. But two of them include AccuWeather and my credit union. So I'm forced to drive on the road almost every day. Well, I suppose I could bike, if I had one, or I could walk, if I had the time and patience, but no I drive as long as gas is under $8 a gallon. The reason I was epiphany-ing in my car was because I was basically parked due to construction. The local authorities have decided that the road should become three lanes instead of its present two, probably because of all of the people walking and biking.
At first I was really patient. This unusual patient period lasted the first 90 seconds, easily. Then I slipped from my patient mode to my apathetic mode. That lasted another 90 seconds, maybe. So here I had already blown 180 seconds, which comes out to three minutes. After trying on apathy I went right into impatient, claustrophobic freaking out mode. That lasted the rest of the time I was parked there. All sorts of thoughts went through my head, some of which included:
"I'm glad I don't have super meteor powers or this entire area would be gone."
"Why does the traffic going the OTHER way always get to go first?"
"I should turn around and drive 23 miles out of my way, because at least I would be driving."
"Boy that person holding the stop sign looks enthused. How do you get that job?"
"I'm really glad I don't have super meteor powers or this entire area would be gone."
"I could get farther, faster, if I was walking or biking."
When it was finally our side of the road's turn to move I checked the clock and did the math and ten minutes had elapsed. (This is where the S.E. comes in.) It was then that I realized my seven minutes of impatient, claustrophobic freaking out was an over reaction and that I really need to relax. It also made me think about time, and how time sometimes doesn't have any meaning apart from the context we give it. For example, 1/100th of a second for someone swimming the 100 metre freestyle in the Olympics can be huge. It can literally crush a person; someone who has trained for years to get to that moment only to lose not medal can be devastated by 1/100th of a second. However if you stand in line at "It's a Small World" for only twenty-five minutes you couldn't be happier ("We got on the ride in twenty-five minutes! Let's do that again!") Ultimately, then, it's a matter of attitude. That's a tough thing for me to remember, and even tougher to apply. But I'm pretty sure the next time (probably in an hour or two) I'm in a waiting situation my patient period will double to 180 seconds.
Of course, I wouldn't be honest with you if I didn't admit that I'd rather have super meteor powers. Just once.
Captain Immune System! We Have Need of Your Powers!
May 8, 2006
Thanks to everyone for the well-wishes, prayers, support, and especially your financial gifts. Okay I made that last part up - so far my mailbox is empty. But that's OKAY! I'm not, you know, holding that against you or anything.
My Sorry Immune System caved Friday, May 5 at 8 p.m. This is usually when my Sorry Immune System likes to cave, because then it can destroy my entire weekend. I know this is a fact because A. it happens all of the time and B. my body hates me. I'm sure of the time too because at 8 p.m. on Friday I felt that tell-tale tickle (TTT) in the back of the throat. As everyone knows, the throat cells are the first to fall victim being that they're the weakest. They're also picked last for dodgeball by the other cells, and blood cells routinely beat them up for their milk money.
By 1 a.m. Saturday I was in full-blown head cold mode. (There's probably a bad pun in there, sorry.) By the time I woke up Saturday (it was technically before noon) I felt miserable. At that point I had two options. I could grin and bear it, or I could let everyone know that I felt miserable and they should commiserate, empathize, and wait on me hand and foot. Being the kind, generous and loving family member that I am, I felt it only reasonable to give everyone else an opportunity to wait on me hand and foot.
Actually I don't think I did that badly. On the one hand, I did absolutely nothing. So hopefully I was low maintenance. On the other hand, I was very corpse-like, and pitiable, and generally an overall downer. But that's pretty much par for the course. I like to say that men have two states - the Eight Year Old Child state, and the Super Hero state - but the truth is there's a third, even less attractive state, and that's the Sick state. Ever since day one, when women had the whole child birth thing I think men decided, "Well...there's NO topping that. No sense even trying." The only two caveats to this that I've found are when men are in some sort of war, or when men get caught in some horrible combine accident. Then we do pretty well. (It must be the adrenaline.) But catch a cold and TIMBER!
Around 1 a.m. Monday I started to feel better. This was no doubt because I had been drinking orange juice, taking vitamins, resting a lot, and was waited on hand and foot. AND because the weekend was gone and completely shot. My body (which hates me) decided that it would stay awake all night to contemplate this turn of events, and so I didn't get to sleep until 7 a.m. Then I was generally weak and miserable (still) the rest of the day. Finally around dinner time I had regained my strength and ate some potato wedges, which were quite tasty especially with ketchup. (One nice side effect of not eating all weekend was dropping ten pounds, but I'm sure I can recoup by Friday.)
So, in summary, it wasn't clover mites, or the Japanese Mafia, or an alligator-riding accident, or sniffing too much Play-Doh® or anything of that sort. Just a nasty May cold, which is entirely too late in the year to be having colds but such is life. Now we wait and see if anyone else in the family gets sick. If they do I can tell them to grin and bear it.
A clover mite, for the uninitiated, is a tiny, very small mite. They eat clover, sap, ornamental plants, shrubbery, lead, smaller mites, and lasagna. You might think that a clover mite is an insect, but you would be wrong. They're actually mammals, in spite of their tiny size, although under a microscope they look like a relative of the spider or the tick. Clover mites are easily identified by their unusually long forelegs. That is, easily if you have microscopic vision, the super ability to shrink yourself, or you have a microscope handy.
Figure 2: Clover Mite, actual size.
Our first Clover Mite Invasion occurred last year. It happened something like this. Cassie was by the back door and said, "Dad, there's ten billion bugs on the wall." I scoffed, sort of a "HEH!" sound, because she's often exaggerating things like that especially when it comes to bugs. If I've heard "Dad there's a spider in my room the size of a cabbage!" once I've heard it a thousand times. (Don't worry; only once was there a spider in her room the size of a cabbage, and I was able to beat it to death with a lamp, but not before screaming like a girl.) However, when I went to look at the back door there was, in fact, ten billion bugs crawling on the wall. They were reddish-brown and the size of a period in an 8 pt line of type. I was tremendously put out. Here I was in a new house and I already had a huge infestation of some kind. I spent thirty minutes online trying to find out what it was with no luck. So then I actually captured one ( I set out some lasagna and just waited,) put it on a slide complete with cover slip, and looked at it under the microscope. I have a microscope exactly for this sort of emergency. And being the educational Dad that I am, I made my daughter look until she feigned interest.
I returned to the Internet, now armed with an idea of what the beast actually looked like. And then I found the Clover Mite. They come out in the Spring, usually invading by way of a door or window they've jimmied open. Their sole purpose is to crawl around on your walls and entice you to smash them, at which point they have the audacity to burst into a tiny red mark that stains the molecules of whatever they're on, making it impossible to clean apart from using some sort of nuclear weapon. (I've tried SOS® Pads but they just take off the paint.)
So what do the experts recommend? The primary strategy, which I'm employing this year for the first time, is to ignore them. Right now it's working out for me, although I just glanced over at the window in my study and they're crawling around in a synchronized fashion and have spelled out "SMISH US." Apparently clover mites aren't great spellers. If ignoring them doesn't work, or they get rowdy and start playing their music loudly, you can use a vacuum to suck them up. This leaves no marks and removes the clover mites, although you have to wonder what they're doing inside there after you suck them up.
Other strategies involve placing tape near the entry points of your house. This is particularly amusing if you have a cat; nothing is quite as entertaining as a cat with tape on its paw. (I would NEVER do this, of course.) If you're the kind of person who wants to keep them from coming in the house to begin with, all you have to do it get rid of your lawn. Clover mites are not known to live in/near/under concrete.
You can find info on Clover Mites here. I have to run, I just heard the refrigerator open, and I wanted to have that lasagna for lunch tomorrow.
Alert Reader Mark, who's going to Zurich but refuses to stuff me into his carry-on bag, wrote me this week to tell me he's going to Zurich. At the end of his nice email he mentioned that he hoped my eyes were behaving. That reminded me that I probably owe everyone an update on my latest vision issues. Vision, being somewhat useful, appears near the top of the blog list, higher even than the Japanese Mafia but not so high as a good Bigfoot update. So...here's the latest.
First an unnecessarily lengthy recap. Long time readers may remember that back in November I had a sudden, inexplicable change in my vision. Not only that, but no one I saw could explain to me why my vision changed. My doctor told me he didn't know what was happening and that I should go see my podiatrist. I almost made an appointment with my podiatrist until I realized that the podiatrist is a foot doctor and that I must have heard the doctor wrong. Although, come to think of it, he was kind of snickering when I left the office.
In any event, I ended up getting new glasses, which was a Major Life Event because it changed the way I looked so dramatically that no one really recognized me anymore, especially my podiatrist who still to this day refuses to see me. The glasses are cool Rectangle Shaped Glasses, which is all the rage now. My old, roundish, large, Harry-Potter-is-Ninety-Years-Old glasses are so 2001. In spite of the old glasses being as stylish as a root canal I packed them away thinking they might come in handy some day. (At the time it seemed likely that Connor or Cassie might go trick-or-treating as a ninety year old Harry Potter. I would just need a cane and cloak and I'd have one costume down.)
Well, about a month ago it started becoming difficult to read. My ability to focus on things was quickly moving from several inches to a foot or more. This is a hassle for all of the obvious reasons. It is also a hassle for the unobvious reasons. For example, as soon as Alert Reader Tammy realized that I couldn't focus on the food on my plate, she started cooking all sorts of vegetables which she formed into hamburger-patty shaped portions and put on hamburger buns. At first I wondered why we were having hamburgers every night, and I wondered why my hamburgers tasted like Asparagus, but you guys out there know that you comment on how a home cooked meal tastes at your own peril. Eventually one of the kids said, "Dad why do you keep eating those asparagus burgers?" and the cat was out of THAT bag.
Given that I was unwittingly eating Vegetables That Shall Not Be Named, I made an appointment with the podiatrist and had my eyes checked. It turned out that my prescription changed AGAIN, and now I was exactly half-way between November and March. This worked out perfectly, because it meant I couldn't see my burgers with my new glasses, and I couldn't see traffic signs with my old glasses. I tried wearing them both at the same time but I was setting fire to shrubbery everywhere I looked, so that was out.
So now I'm faced (sorry, that pun's accidental, really) with getting new glasses yet again. I have an appointment this coming Tuesday to have my vision checked again, and if there's been no further change I'll be able to order new lenses. I'm going to have them put in my cool, Rectangle Shaped Frames so that I can remain hip. I also don't want to be recognized in public any time soon.
“Don't be too proud of this culinary terror you've constructed. The ability to destroy a stomach is insignificant next to the power of the Force.”
I wanted to update everyone on Operation: WeatherCoup. It appears that I've run into a small snag as my funding has suddenly dried up. ("You bought WHAT?!?") I'm sure this is only a temporary setback, and I should be back on track recruiting the finest LEGO® Warriors available for my office coup any day now. At the moment I'm forced to build soldiers out of spare parts. Above you'll find the Sith Lord of Pizza, Darth Deep Dish. If the saber doesn't finish you, his pepperoni and anchovies definitely will...
That's the headline of this article, which tries to tell us that females are faster than males at timed tasks. However... it turns out that the article in question fails to mention a few important issues with the study.
First, the subject's time was measured from the beginning of the task to the end of the task, using very narrow definitions of each task. You'll see in a minute how this made a huge difference.
Second, the tasks chosen did demonstrate a female bias. I know this may be highly subjective. I'll present some of the tasks and let you, the Alert Reader, make your own decision. This is not an exhaustive list; just some of the things that stood out to me.
1. Brushing Teeth
Females: 5 minutes | Males: 2 hours
Normally you wouldn't see this sort of difference with such a simple task. However, the timing for all tasks ends automatically at 2 hours. It turns out that this task would not end unless the cap was put back on the toothpaste. As such, the men never technically completed their task, putting them 115 minutes behind the ladies.
2. Successfully Purchase "Tomato Paste" From The Grocery Store
Females: 10 minutes | Males: 1 hour 47 minutes
This was another fundamentally unfair task. Most men never got out of the grocery store, and in fact are still there milling around in the bread aisle, completely lost and unsure of what day it is. The few that did manage to locate "Tomato Paste" only did so after about an hour. In 82% of the cases where the male found the "Tomato Paste" it was because a store clerk eventually saw the lost male and directed them to the right location.
3. Apply Cream Rouge Make-up
Females: 51 seconds | Males: 2 hours
No male was willing to apply Cream Rouge Make-up, not even for science.
4. Watch a Television Program
Females: 1 hour | Males: 2 hours
Women were able to sit down, immediately select a program (usually American Idol) and watch it. Men, on the other hand, were physically unable to stay on any single program for more than nine minutes, and as such never completed the task. They did manage to watch parts of over ninety-four different programs. The longest any program was watched was a high-speed traffic chase in Los Angeles on FOXNews at 8 minutes, 12 seconds.
There's more, like calculating how many cups are in a quart, or replacing the roll of toilet paper, but I think you get the idea. Just remember - you never know how these studies are conducted...
Apparently the Berita Harian newspaper in Malaysia claimed that a young Bigfoot has been captured by the Wildlife and National Parks Department near Kota Tinggi in Malaysia. You can read about it here. Of course, Malaysian Wildlife Officials (MWOs) are denying this. But really, if YOU caught a baby Bigfoot would you tell anyone? No. Exactly.
I was curious about this whole baby Bigfoot thing, so I did some research. These beasts are huge! Here's a size comparison:
As you can see, the baby Bigfoots (Bigfeet) are still quite impressive at 10' tall. More than a match for most MWOs, even the more wily ones. Still, a well placed tranquilizer dart or twenty could do the job.
So why am I so sure the MWOs actually bagged a baby Bigfoot? Well, this story from the New Straits Times Online talked about the Johor Government making it illegal to transport a Bigfoot out of state. Coincidence? Ha!
I wrote about this story back here and at the time I just titled the post "Today's Why?" and linked to the article.
Now comes word that the television seance to contact John Lennon was successful! Not only that, but he apparently had some things to say, which you can hear about for only $9.95. Of course, after the show airs the media will cover it, and you'll know what he said for free, but I can imagine the wait must be killing you. So I've used my Blog Super Powers™ (Blog Super Powers™ is trademarked by Blog Hero, Inc. All Rights Reserved) to get the inside scoop before the program airs.
Apparently, John said:
"I've told you never to call me here. Please take this number off your list."
So there you have it. What? No, I didn't make that up. Where did you get that idea?
Here's the latest news in case you're curious and/or you don't, for some strange reason, believe me.
I saw him last night. I know, to everyone else he just looked like a middle-aged man, about 5'6", thin and neatly dressed. But he wasn't human, no way.
I saw him at the grocery store. I had gone in to get a few "stomach relief" items and was waiting in the "U Scan" aisle. This is the aisle where you can use a kiosk to ring up your own items and then pay for them. I was directly behind this guy. He proceed to ring up his items about as slowly as is possible without looking like you're purposefully creating a delay. Pick up the package. Examine EVERY SINGLE SIDE for the bar code; find the bar code on the last side checked. Rub the barcode over the scanner Three Billion Times. Have the item finally ring up. Then start all over again.
At this point I had steeled myself for the delay. I was pacing myself...I felt that I would probably make it okay. And then he was finished and had to pay. Credit card? Nope. Debit card? Nope. Cash and CHANGE. I watched in disbelief as he started feeding nickels into the machine. I didn't even know you could DO that.
Well, finally it was over, and I prepared to check out. I had paced myself and my patience had just barely lasted. But then, unbelievably, I mean unbelievable like seeing Bigfoot returning shopping carts, he started ALL OVER AGAIN. He had, for some reason, two "orders." And yes, the same exact process, including paying with change at the end.
It was at that point that I realized what I was dealing with. This was clearly an alien scout sent to test the patience and mettle of the folks in State College, Pennsylvania in advance of the invading army. These field scouts are gathering intelligence on our society, commerce, delicious breakfast snacks, as well as our patience, strengths and weaknesses.
I got the word today. "We have to do something about the grass." This is code, actually. What is means is, "You have to do something about the grass." I hate the grass. If I was rich, like some sort of mogul I would hire someone to take care of my lawn. (That MAY just be the first time I've used Mogul in a blog. Dances celebratory jig.) I don't know what sort of a mogul I would be; I suppose a Blogging Mogul. That would be cool in and of itself, except that I would be asked to appear on talk shows which involves a camera and we can't do that. I could get into the "generous bequeathing of links" to deserving B and C list bloggers everywhere, and then watching their poor servers get crushed in the ensuing traffic flood. Sigh.
So, not being a Mogul, or even slightly mogulish, I went to take care of the lawn. Unfortunately by the time I get the "We have to do something about the grass" alert it's usually six inches deep, which requires a painfully slow, careful mowing so that the lawn mower doesn't choke and die. There's nothing to build a guy's confidence and self-esteem like going outside to deal with your lawn, which looks like a South American jungle, and then in the midst of trying to deal with it watch your mower die. So given this was a possibility, I did what any self-respecting adult male would do: I made my son do it.
Actually it wasn't that bad. I was instructing him on the finer points of lawn mowing. You know, "This is the mower. That's the grass. You push the mower OVER the grass." He picked it up pretty quickly. I threw in some extra points to make sure he felt like he was getting his money's worth: "Make straight lines." I also explained to mow only grass; never rocks, toys, small rodents, lead, trees or parents. We managed to get half of the lawn done before dark. Next to having your lawn choke and kill your mower, mowing in total darkness is about as sorry as it gets. Unless you have headlights, then you're cool.
Tomorrow we'll tackle the back, and then repeat the whole thing in about...oh, a month or so.
The posting has been a little slow this holiday weekend - I hope that everyone is having/has had a great Easter. Our weekend has been uneventful; some spring cleaning, some playing with the new kitten.
We discovered that the kitten has two states - perhaps other cat owners can weigh in here. Mysty is either in Sleep Mode or in Spastic Mode. Of course, I'm not trying to offend anyone with the use of the word "spastic." I'm thinking here of the classic spastic as in "subject to outbursts of emotional excitement, excitable." I've heard that the use of the word "spastic" may be insensitive, as Tiger Woods recently found out. So please don't be offended, particularly if you're from the former Soviet Republic of Spastacistan, which is located somewhere east of Romania, I think. You're all great people in my book.
In any event, when the cat isn't sleeping it's attacking the feet of anyone walking by. This is okay if you walk around the house in thick leather boots, like I do. But for the people in socks or their bare feet it's a challenge. We're trying to encourage Proper Cat Behavior but it can be difficult. For example, when she arches her back, and her hair sticks up and she runs at you sideways - it's hard not to laugh. Sort of like taking your very young child to someone's house and the child, at the most inopportune time, yells "Booger!" at the top of his lungs. Well, I mean, you have to laugh at that, but you don't want to encourage it.
So we have a spray bottle filled with water that we're using for training. (It works well with the cat, too.)
Hurricane Wizard Dr. Gray sat down for an interview with NBC2 News in Orlando and answered some questions from viewers. He was stumped on the first question - what would happen if they ran out of Greek Letters in one season? Of course, I not only predicted this would happen but supplied the answer:
01. There will be 87 named storms this hurricane season, forcing the National Hurricane Center to use English names, Greek Letters and finally Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream Flavors, setting off one of the largest lawsuits in U.S. History: Ben & Jerry's v. U.S. Government v. Mickey Mouse when Orlando is crushed by Hurricane Chunky Monkey®.
Well, we got a cat today. I was out-voted seven to one. It was seven because Connor and Cassie voted for a cat (2), and Tammy voted for a cat (5). Tammy got five votes because she would be the one staying home with the pet. I'm still planning on how to get a dog; I suppose if the cat thing goes okay then we could get a dog in a few years.
The kids have named the cat "Misty." My suggestions had been "Dog," "Armageddon," "Apocalypse," and "Barry," (after Barry Manilow, naturally.) Armageddon was my favorite, because then you could nick-name it "Geddy" or something like that. I also liked "Dog" because it you can't have a dog, then the next best thing is having a cat that you call by saying, "C'mere Dog!"
So far the cat hasn't done anything extraordinary, like fetch, play dead or juggle flaming batons. She HAS decided that her home will be directly behind my Mac Cinema display. I don't know if that's because it's warm next to the computer, or the computer hums in that maternal way, or what. She also follows me around the house, which is amusing only because it's early.
The kids are beyond excited, which is nice. They were even arguing over who could change the litter box first. How long will that last?
I spent some time on eBay, with the hopes of amassing my army. I confess this is going to be harder than I thought. For example, I found a nice Jedi warrior - he had a special double-bladed light saber - but he was $20! And that was without the super saver shipping offer of $29.95 and the handling fee of $12.95.
Still, I could see him doing some sort of force thing on Henry. Maybe send him to the break room at the beginning of the assault. ("These are the Tastykakes you're looking for...")
After discovering what my army was going to cost I went through the kid's LEGOs figuring there was a fortune to be had in there - or at least some grunts for the army. All I could find were pieces of people. I mean, even the arms and hands were ripped out. It was as if millions of LEGOs suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced.
I'll keep everyone posted on my efforts. Don't, ah, tell anyone at work. You know, the element of surprise and all.
I've decided that I'm going to amass an army of LEGO® People and take over the office. I'm not sure how many I'll need; probably a thousand or so. I'm going to start with athletes, Jedi and military personnel because I figure they'll be tougher than, say, the Pizza Delivery LEGO® Guy (although he comes with a pizza stick™ thing which he could use as a weapon.)
I figure about a hundred could take Henry out, and from there the rest will fall like dominos.
Okay, so I went a little "category happy." It's not easy to put everything into a few neat categories. In fact, I had to stop myself from creating categories that would probably only ever apply to one post. That sort of self-restraint is difficult at this hour.
Also, I should warn you not to click on "March 2006" at left. I know now some of you are going to be drawn to it as if in a hypnotic trance... FIGHT IT! The issue is that it takes you to a page that has every single post I wrote in March, and even though I started mid-month it's a monstrous page. But, if you have a lunch hour to kill, just load it up, go make your soup and when you get back it may be done loading. If you're making, like, a huge kettle of soup for everyone in your house/workplace/village.
Feel free to leave comments on...whatever. I have to approve them currently but I'll check throughout the day.
I took the recyclables to the recycling center. I always hurt myself when I do this; I usually leave with some sort of scrape or paper-cut or something. So I was very, very careful this time and only managed to smash one of my knuckles. Thankfully it only hurts when I use that hand (and fortunately it's my right hand.)
I noticed three things while I was out and about that were pretty strange. I mean, they would be pretty strange if my life had creepy background music and inventive cutting. But as it is I don't even have a laugh track, so I'm stuck using my imagination.
The first item was found at Wal-Mart. I went to the Easter Candy aisle because Easter is the time of year that white chocolate makes its debut. So I searched up and down the aisles for white chocolate. All I found was a mother, a grandmother, and a girl - probably about 8 - shopping for candy. What was amazing was the way that the mother talked to/about the child. (Moderately strong language alert ahead.) The mother and child were arguing over some candy or toy, and the mother remarked to the grandmother, "She's a real p*sser today." I, of course, was horrified. That'll build up some self-esteem! But then a few minutes later I heard, from the mother directed at the child, "Shut the h*ll up." Now, I'm not exactly Captain Parenting, but that seemed a little out of order. I eventually left the area just because I couldn't take it anymore, and they only white chocolate I found came with peanut butter. Ew. Whose idea was that?
On the drive home I spotted oddity #2: I passed a car with one of those white oval stickers reading "OBX." However, the OBX was actually the front license plate. (Here in Pennsylvania we only have to have a plate in the back, leaving the front plate for whatever you want to put up there.) Someone was so enamored with OBX that they bought a license plate that looked like one of those giant white oval stickers. Amazing. Now, if this was the Mayor of the Outer Banks - MAYBE. But what would the Mayor of the Outer Banks be doing in State College?
The last thing I noted on the drive home was a suicide attempt by two ducks. They literally waddled right out in front of me. I had to swerve into the other lane to avoid them, and then flash my lights at oncoming traffic. I'm thinking, Ducks...can fly, right? What's with the waddling in the road?
The next few days will be a bit busy for me, with the weather, the consulting, the family and the blogging. Thanks for your patience. And thanks for reading :)
First I'm really not into the April Fool's Day thing at all. I really don't understand it. The really "good" jokes would be the ones that people would remember forever, and probably cut you out of their will for. So there's an inverse relationship between the quality of the joke and the quality of the relationship you have with the victim afterwards. (The better the joke...the worse the ensuing relationship.) At least, that's how I see it. And being a perfectionist I could see myself going overboard in the practical joke department. (Carl specifically avoids examples as he probably wouldn't even live down just sharing hypotheticals.) I was also diagnosed as diabetic on April 1, so I have that going for me, which is nice. (Gratuitous Caddyshack quote.)
Second, can we get rid of the daylight savings thing ONCE AND FOR ALL? Just set the clocks back 30 minutes sometime in July and let's call it even. I've never found myself at church an hour early or late Sunday morning, but this Playing with Time game is just begging for problems. Did you know that every year it's estimated by economists that switching the clocks back and forth costs the country $400 million in lost productivity, energy costs, fuel, and indigestion? No? Okay, I made that up. But there's probably some Reputable Economist somewhere who could come up with a figure like that. And then we could all see it for the Crisis it is and declare war on it. Which would lead to my :30 minute solution.
And really, if I go to sleep and fail to set the clocks forward and then wake up at, say, 2:18 a.m. - when am I? I'd probably get totally freaked out since I would be in Non-Time which Einstein often talked about, in theoretical fashion, usually concluding his thoughts with a solemn shake of his head and a "you don't want to be there."
And speaking of not wanting to be there, I cleaned the basement today. It's not completely done but I suppose it will do. My idea of cleaning is a little warped. For example, if I come across a box of the kid's school papers, clean to me would be putting them in chronological order in two separate groups (one for each child.) I know that sounds OCD but I generally don't clean that way because I don't have the time. So I make little "compromises." I'm also an anti-pack rat. I don't know what that would be. I think it's the rat that's always laughing at the pack rat, making derogatory comments, sending the pack rat anonymous notes about upcoming flea markets and yard sales - and yet inevitably finding itself completely unprepared for the next harsh winter. Or the unexpected guests. Or the alien invasion.
As an APR (Anti-Pack Rat) I err on the side of Throwing It Out. If I can't anticipate any use for Object X in the next six weeks, or I think it will be more trouble to store it than just buy another one, I would LOVE to toss it. Alert Reader Tammy is mostly the opposite way - so I suppose she would be an Anti-Anti-Pack Rat (note: I did NOT say she is a pack rat) which is good because we're somewhat balanced out and make a normal person. But when I clean I confess it's hard not to just get garbage bags and start chucking things. I think Americans in general have way too much stuff. I know that's a broad generalization, but it's late and I'm about to lose an hour in some great government black hole.
So when I cleaned the basement I felt a little dismayed at all of the stuff down there. I mean, a water heater. Do we really need that? It takes up an inordinate amount of space. And then there were boxes of old photos of the kids when they were little, the marriage ceremony, etc. That stuff should really be digitized and stored on a hard disk the size of a pencil eraser. That would save some room. And there's a whole bunch of kid's toys down there. I say pick your top three and then - Yard Sale!
But, I controlled myself, and stuck with sweeping, organizing and rearranging things. I do have a small pile of things to take to Good Will, as well as a giant pile of cardboard I now need to recycle. I suppose it's good enough until the basement gets finished. (When we bought our house, which was brand new, we were told the basement was unfinished. To which I responded, "Well go ahead and finish it! I'm not rushing you." They just stared at me and then took their tools and went home.)
The other thing I accomplished this weekend, which was borderline Male, was to hang a tool organizer in the garage. Actually if I may be permitted to boast a little I put up TWO tool organizers in the garage. AND, they actually look pretty level. After hanging them I scrounged around in the garage for tools to hang on them, since that was the whole point. Being an APR I had thrown out many of our tools after we moved out of the last house, but I managed to find a few.
The first I found was the ax. Or, if you live in England, axe. You're probably asking yourself, "What on earth does he have an ax(e) for?" Great question! The short answer is, I have an ax(e) because I'm not allowed to have a chain saw. The longer explanation is that we needed an ax(e) to chop up firewood at the old Schaad Hacienda, where we lived in the Woods™ and used a Wood Stove to heat our home. Wood Stoves are great; our living room during the peak of winter was about 96 degrees. Family members had to wear shorts indoors, or retreat to an interior room/the basement/the garage to cool down. When we moved you would think I would have gotten rid of the ax(e). But I had a moment of doubt; I wavered. "What if I NEED the ax(e)?" I thought. What on earth would I need an ax(e) for in suburbia? Another great question! To this day I have no idea. Burglar removal, maybe. Or if a fierce winter storm knocked over a tree in the neighborhood and I needed to hack my way to freedom. (Of course, the tallest tree in our development is eight foot tall and skinny enough that I could pick it up and lift it above my head, smile at the assembled crowd and then throw it across the yard. That, and Henry's Snowblower is protection enough from fierce winter storms.)
So I tried to hang the ax(e) on this new tool organizer and it teetered a little. It wasn't exactly the Good Fit. Given I think of my life as a movie, I cut to the scene where I came home from work, got out of the car and walked past the hanging ax(e). The ax(e) screamed "BONZAI!!!!" and jumped off the organizer and split me like an old, ripe cabbage. Okay, old cabbages are way past ripe and probably don't split like that, but you get the idea. Then the scene jumps back to present day and I decide not to hang the ax(e). I put it back in the corner where it's doomed to remain until the saplings in the neighborhood get out of hand, or a Yeti attacks, or there's a yard sale. I did find some other tools I could organize, such as my flame thrower, my hedge tongs and the pitchfork. Don't worry the flame thrower was empty. Every fall, after I'm done with the leaves, I invite all of the neighborhood kids and I let them take turns with the flamethrower to use up the fuel so I can store it for the winter. I'm very strict with it though: no shooting towards my house, and no shooting at siblings.
Okay, you caught me. The flame thrower is an April Fool's Day thing. I actually keep it fueled all year long; you never know when it might snow in spite of meteorologists owning snowblowers.
I think that every person possesses a unique set of gifts and talents. I even think this about myself, but it's been an area I've struggled with. How do you identify your talents? Which ones should you be using, and how? And then there's always Talent Envyitis. That's where you see someone else using their unique gift/set of gifts and you wish that you could do what they do. Maybe I can make pretty pictures, but can I code from scratch and make it 100% compliant? Or the pictures I create might be nice, but what about animating them? Or web design is great, but it's not brain surgery or cancer treatment or "fill in the blank."
I'm not sure I have any good answers to these questions (I did mention that I struggled with this) but I've found a terrific role model. Zan.
Zan is one half of the Wonder Twins, of course. He and his twin sister Jayna were busy saving the world back in 1977. When both twins touched and spoke the phrase, "Wonder Twin Powers, Activate!" Jayna could take the form of any animal, and Zan could take the form of...water. So Jayna could become a Giant Ixian Flame Dragon and Jan could become a puddle, or a wave, or an ice pick (that is, a pick made out of ice.) But did Zan ever complain? Nope. He knew what his gift was and he used it. He didn't spend time whining about not being able to turn into a sloth, or a groundhog, or a Venusian worm swoggler. He turned into a puddle and if the super villain slipped on him, well so much the better. If the Super Friends' Pepsi® was cold, he was all over the ice cube thing. Was he upset that Gleek carried around a bucket, just for him to fill up when the team needed to travel? Not Zan. He had a great attitude about everything. No doubt he spent hours dreaming up unusual tools made out of ice for different circumstances and various super villains. (Lex Luthor? Form of an ice club! The Joker? Form of an ice club! Barry Manilow? Form of an ice club!)
I think I need to be more like Zan. And no, I don't mean by wearing a purple spandex suit.
Once upon a time I saw Caddyshack. I was much younger, and not nearly as mature as I am now (pause for laughter) and I loved it. I saw it again, and again, and maybe a fourth time. I memorized many of Carl Spacker's lines. It's hard to pick a favorite, but I loved this one:
So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.
I'm not sure I can explain why I like this scene so much. I think part of it is just the way Bill Murray delivered it, pitchfork in hand. There's also the use of the words "gunga" and "galunga." And of course, the mental image of the Lama golfing in the Himalayas.
In any event, I saw the film again years later and was generally disappointed. It's interesting - you get older and (hopefully) a little wiser and things you once found funny seem crude. Many of the scenes with Bill Murray and his fight with the gopher, though, still make me laugh when I think about them.
The reason I mention any of this is because I recently designed a logo for an organization that had some connection to the Lama. I forget exactly what the connection is. Either the Lama is on some sort of advisory board, or he is answering phones, or maybe he's just an at-large golf partner. (He's a big hitter, the Lama.) I designed the logo after seeing a plea for logos on Craigslist. I love designing logos, and so I usually get sucked into these sorts of things even though this was framed as a "logo contest" which I normally deplore. It's the whole pro-bono-can't-say-no thing. I thought it turned out nice, though, and they liked it.
I can just picture it on the Lama's flowing robes. Or maybe, on some Titleist golf balls.
A ginormous iceberg, code-named D-16, has freed itself from an island near Antarctica and is headed straight for New Orleans, scientists said Monday.
The iceberg, which is being described as "ginormous," "huge," and "not too shabby," is moving due north at .02 miles per hour. While scientists are certain that it's headed straight for New Orleans, these same scientists are also pretty certain that global warming will have long since killed all of us before D-16 makes it to the city limits.
"We're pretty certain it will take a long time to get here," an unnamed scientist remarked. "Based on it's current speed, it will be here around October 12, 2114. Global warming will likely melt it long before then. Global Warming will also have melted everything else as well, putting New Orleans under 23 feet of water."
Scientists are not sure why D-16 broke away and started moving northward. Some Internet websites have suggested that the Japanese Mafia is using a Cold War Era Iceberg Control Machine to break away ginormous icebergs and steer them towards the United States in retaliation for the bombing of Hiroshima. No Japanese Mafia members responded to a request to be interviewed for this article.
Sweet, innocent Cassie prepares to run-through her opponents
First, sorry for the lack of posting Friday. Staying up past 3 a.m. every night finally caught up to me, and Friday I did the Bare Minimum and then went to bed and slept 11 hours. That was great, except for the getting up part, which was okay. Posting was light today because it was Fencing Tournament Day for our daughter.
Before I go into this, I want everyone to know that I am an extremely supportive Dad when it comes to these sorts of events. Okay I made that up. I'm a pretty supportive Dad. It's just that I have the attention span of an eight-year-old and a 4+ hour fencing tournament is very difficult for me. So I freely admit I don't do well in these sorts of situations.
While at the tournament I spent some time observing and trying to understand What Was Happening. The tournament consisted of kids from grades 4-8, and while some of them showed off some decent fencing skills it was, for the most part, kids charging each other, swinging their foils/sabers/rapiers wildly, and waiting for the referee to yell "Halt!" and render a verdict on who scored. I could never tell who scored unless it was a situation where opponent A tripped and fell backwards, and opponent B yelled "Hai!!" and leapt upon him, striking blow after blow about the head and chest. And since that situation never actually happened I was completely in the dark about scoring. (That's really a shame, too, because I would have loved to have seen that sort of thing.)
I also spent time studying the parents. I determined that there are three kinds of parents at Fencing Tournaments:
First, there are the Engaged Parents. You can identify these parents from their multiple cameras (usually one digital camera and one video camera,) from their t-shirts/sweatshirts bearing the names of their child's fencing team, and from their incessant clapping and cheering. I have to confess, I had always viewed Fencing Tournaments in the same light as chess matches. Not exactly the place I would cheer and shout for my child. But that probably just means I'm a poor fencing parent.
The second type of parents are the Fanatical Parents. You can tell them from the gear they bring to the tournament. They have a special water bottle enscribed with their child's name, which they rush to the child after each dehydrating two-minute bout; their child has their own fencing jacket - usually with something like "Born to Fence" or "Fence Free or Die" embroidered on the back; and they had a special foil/saber/rapier made of the finest tungsten money can buy - so fine in fact that they had to name it "Mookie" as in "Keep Mookie straight!" and "Now! Unleash Mookie! Now!!"
The third type of parents are the Committed Parents. These folks were at the meet two hours early, making their child do push-ups before the match. (I'm actually not making up the push-up thing. My son asked me why kids were doing push-ups before a Fencing Tournament, and I answered "So they'll be good and tired" because I really didn't have a good answer.) These parents also have their faces painted in team colors, and their child's water bottle is filled with Gatorade.
Why type of parents are we? We're basically your Tired, "What time is it?" parents. During one of our "What time is it?" discussions my son overheard that we were going to be there from 1 p.m. until 5 p.m. or so. He got this panicked look. "They're selling snacks, right?" he asked. Then he looked better. (Well, he was still as white as a sheet but he stopped shaking and sweating.)
In any event, even though we are Tired, "What time is it?" parents we were happy to support Cassie in her big tourney (That's Fancy Talk for "tournament.") This was only her second year of fencing, and she was placed in the individual tournament instead of team competition. Individual tournaments are difficult, to say the least, because they have a variety of tasks that the kids have to compete in. It begins with a timed test to see how fast you could take off your fencing glove and slap a fencing dummy across the face. You're awarded a bonus five seconds if you can insult the dummy in French, or at least with a french-sounding accent. Next, you have to jump out of a closet and yell "A-HA!" You're judged by a panel of three Fencing Greats on style, authenticity and poise. After that, you have to cut a rope holding a heavy chandelier, grab the rope, and as the chandelier falls get pulled up to a balcony that you have to jump on to. This is the most time-consuming part of the tournament, because they have to keep re-positioning the chandelier, and there's occasionally a judge not paying attention/too slow but I'm told they heal up real quick.
Okay I made all of that up too. Cassie fenced with a number of kids and ended up with a losing record. To say that she was crushed was an understatement. I bought snacks for the kids to keep the entire event from being a downer, which Connor was all too happy about because that meant Food and Eating. Cassie's part of the tournament was probably over by 2:30 p.m. We spent the time until 5:00 watching the other tournaments, intending to stay and see the medals ceremony. We may be Tired, "What time is it?" parents but we like to support the team. Well okay my wife does. I like to imagine descending upon tripped foes, striking blow after blow about their head and chest.
In addition to watching the remaining bouts I spent some time people-watching. One thing I saw that was amusing was a young lad, maybe 11, with an extremely short haircut except for a pencil-thin 2' long braid. I had to suppress the natural urge to pull out a pocket knife. I wondered what that was all about until I saw his father - with the EXACT SAME HAIRCUT. That pretty much explained it for me. (Disclaimer: I'm just stating a personal preference here; if you, or a member of your family, or Uncle Bill, the mailman or your supervisor have this haircut well then I suggest you get our your pocket knife.) (Sorry just kidding it's late.) I also observed a few matches where opponent A was about a foot and a half taller than opponent B. I'm not sure how this works out, but it seems like the taller person with the longer reach usually wins. It happened every time except for that one fencer whose foil/saber/rapier shot out oil, blinding his opponent. He was disqualified for that though. (Well, I thought it was clever, anyway.)
We almost DID leave before the medals were awarded, because we were tired and our son was in a fetal position, rocking back and forth singing "We Will Rock You" by Queen, which they had been playing over and over again at the tournament. (Yes that seemed a little odd.) But we stayed. And wouldn't you know it - Cassie won the silver medal for her category, and a bronze medal which was awarded for the entire team's performance. Tammy and I just looked at each other. Of course the camera was packed away because we're not very good Fencing Parents, nor are we terribly prepared (but we ARE usually tired.) Cassie later said she was thrilled that she had won anything. She had been praying the entire time they were announcing the awards that she could win a medal, but had reconciled herself to not winning based on her bouts. We're not sure WHAT happened, but I had noted during her matches that the kids she had defeated (nay, crushed) were the best kids, so I can only assume it was some sort of weighted scoring thing. Just amazing.
So all in all it was a big day for the Schaads, particularly Cassie who now will need a new nickname - something like "En Guard" or "Touché."
No, I'm not talking about Mayor Nagin, stop that. I heard this saying for the first time this evening, and thought it was hilarious. Not the part about the hamster being dead. I suppose that's a bit sad. Why did that little fella die anyway? I guess the amusing part was that this saying was used to describe someone and, well, I've met more than a few people that this describes perfectly.
There are a number of humorous, pithy sayings that fall into this category. A few of my favorite, which you've no doubt heard:
He's a little too tall for his blood supply.
He's a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
He's a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
The lights are on, but nobody's home.
The cheese slid off his cracker.
He's a few clowns short of a circus.
He fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
In the pinball game of life, his flippers are a little further apart than most.
And, of course:
He's a few eggplants short of a parmesan. (Long story.)
Updates: I like this one sent in by Alert Reader Brandi: "He's one float short of a parade" Alert Reader Lisa sends in the classic: "His elevator doesn't go to the top floor." (Who IS this guy?)
I got an email today with the subject, "Gnome Silver." Boy was I excited. I mean, c'mon - Gnome Silver! I thought for sure that this would be some sort of offer for a map to a deep, dark, underground labrynth where the gnomes kept their silver. There would probably be bars and bars of the stuff, just sitting in an open room with nothing more than an old, drunk, sleeping gnome guarding it. I could probably help myself - everyone knows that gnomes have tons and tons of silver and would probably never miss a few dozen bars. And Gnome Silver is among some of the purest on earth - approaching 99.99999-102.00 percent pure. I pictured paying off all of my debts and still having enough left over for a quick trip down to Disney.
But then I double-clicked on the email and it turned out it was spam. How cruel is that?
First, a few house keeping items. I'm still tinkering with the branding of the site. Hopefully that won't mean I change the logo every three days. This is where the perfectionist comes into play. He usually jumps out of my linen closet - where I try to keep him - and starts in on me about a specific aspect of the brand, or typography, or color choice. I try to stuff him back into the closet which usually involves hitting him repeatedly with the Swiffer Mop™ and spraying him in the face with 409.
Another item is the map link thing at left. I found this fascinating Google Maps locator application that plots on a map where everyone is visiting from. Before anyone freaks out (like my aforementioned Digestive Track/Gut of Doom) it doesn't actually know exactly where you live - it's making a good guess based on IP information. This will help me immensely because I'll be able to make wry comments about this city and that. For example, someone stopped by from Denver or thereabouts - please FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S GOOD GET SOME SNOW PICTURES! Sorry. Anyway, you can expect that sort of thing occasionally.
Mmmmm, Spring.
Spring is coming. Well, technically it's almost here. It will be spring tomorrow, Monday, eastern. There's an interesting infographic of this on AccuWeather.com. Granted, there's no UFO on the graphic, but you can't have everything. (Note that this graphic will get overwritten at some point, so if you click on this and it's actually a graphic about Salsa, or something, IT'S NOT MY FAULT.) While you're visiting AccuWeather.com let me know what you think about the new Spring Header™, good or bad. You can find more than you'd ever want to know about the Vernal Equinox here.
Finally, two other house keeping items. This page is getting kind of long; I'm going to start breaking it up into random-length time periods. This is the easiest way for me to manage it until I get some sort of blog software installed. The other item is that a lot of the photos I'm using here are coming from stock.xchng and are completely free to use (if you visit, make sure you check each photo's license as some do ask that the contributed be contacted first.) I love the site; as a photo geek it's like being allowed to run amok in a toy store.
I didn't get very much accomplished today. My digestive tract, alternately referred to as my digestive system, gastrointestinal tract and Gut of Doom, decided that it would completely freak out today. I'll spare you some of the details. But the pain started somewhere around 3 a.m. and continued most of the day, with other more exciting symptoms piling on beginning around 10 a.m. or so. I'm still queasy but I'm going off to bed soon. I'm chalking this up to the much-maligned "stomach bug." I say much maligned because whenever someone's digestive tract freaks out there's usually only one of two reasons: a stomach bug or poisioning by the Japanese Mafia. And, well, we know how often the latter occurs. So although I have no proof that the stomach bug caused my distress, I'm going to risk a defamation suit and blame it anyway.
There has been some movement on the pet front. We tentatively made a Pet Decision and started looking for a pet of that type. Of course, I was in a weakened state all day and my other family members no doubt saw this as an ideal opportunity to pounce. At this point our search has come up empty. But as we make progress I'll let you know. What? What did we decide? Well, c'mon - that would ruin all of the fun!
I had lunch at the Olive Garden with a friend today, who may or may not be Alert Reader Jim. Since I was off-site (that is, not on-site,) I was able to explain a few things about the blog to Jim. (See, now if all of you take me to lunch I could do the same with each of you.) During the conversation, which was had over an extremely hot and wonderfully prepared Tour of Italy, I made mention of Alert Reader Tammy as well as a few other things.
At the end of the meal, our Waiter ("John," who did an exceptional job, particularly with my glass of water as I tend to drink a lot) delivered the bill and asked if he could pose a question. He then noted that I was wearing a Disney shirt, I had not ordered a Pepsi, I had mentioned "Tammy," and so asked if I blogged. He then went on to say that he missed 38below.
Now, that's pretty sharp. Of course, I had my picture on 38below, so I suppose I'm fairly recognizable in that regard but I still give John huge kudos. He's also the first to recognize me in public, which would probably get him a t-shirt or a Nerf® bat or something if I wasn't in exile (I mean that in a good way, of course.) Alert Lunch Purchaser Jim offered that I had a personal blog now, and I told John he could email me for the URL, but when I got back to the office I realized that all 38below requests are being redirected so unless he was a good Google Sleuth™ it would be hard to find my email. So tonight right before I ended up getting cheese on my plain hamburger from McDonalds (I kid you not) I stopped by Olive Garden and dropped off a business card with the URL scrawled on it. Never let it be said that I didn't go out of my way for my audience! (Both of you.)
(Incidentally, I would normally have checked my hamburger for cheese, but I was checking the kid's food for buns and cheese, and it turned out that both of those were messed up, so I figured that I was victorious having caught those problems. However, they were merely a ruse to distract me from my own food. Very clever...)
We have a few vending machines at AccuWeather. The kind that I usually "shop" from stresses me out. You see, the food items are in these little "corkscrew-like" rows. Once you make your selection, the corkscrew thing (CT) starts turning. The idea here is that the CT turns but stays in place, thus forcing the food forward, until it's completely free, screams "BONZAI!" and drops like a rock to the bottom where you can open a long drawer and retreive it.
Now, you're probably thinking that my stress occurs during the drop. After all, if you have something crushable like potato chips, and it has to take that twenty-foot plunge, well that's pretty nerve-wracking. I mean, chips aren't known for taking drops like that and staying intact.
But no, that's not the source of my stress. And it's not the high-pitched "BONZAI!" scream either. (Although that IS unnerving.)
No, my stress comes when the CT starts turning. Because during the ensuing eight second wait, you're not entirely sure if your food is going to make it. It's like watching some slow-motion horror movie. Will the chips make it? Or will the CT stop too early, leaving them dangling there, on edge, never to leap off into the vending abyss? I have been burned many times. The CT turns, and turns, and the seconds tick by slower than when you're at the symphony, and then FREEZE FRAME. It all stops and your food is still in the machine which is making this low gurgling noise as it digests the coins you fed it nine seconds ago.
RSS:
Tonight it was my turn to take Cassie to her Tae Kwon Do testing. It was my turn for three reasons:
As some of you might remember the Schaads have a tradition of getting rid of their Christmas Tree before January 1. In fact, here is a flashback:
Several people asked via comment and email for the Schaad Christmas Letter, which is really nothing spectacular. I would feel better about charging $29.95 a copy if something even mildly interesting would have happened in 2006. As it is, aside from that ugly episode at the grocery store involving the pickles nothing noteworthy occurred. (Note to self: make sure I can allude to the ugly pickle episode before posting this.)
You've probably heard about the "
Alert Reader and Concert Goer Tammy, who may or may not be my wife, found herself at 
Sunday morning we packed up, bid farewell to the Grand Parents and headed north. We had decided to be spontaneous and stop at 
Sign Here
Father's Day occurred this past Sunday. 
Our mad shopping spree continues unbated as we've just added a bed to the list. I decided several days ago, when I got out of bed and every bone in my body hurt, and then simultaneously broke, that it was time for a new bed. I asked Alert Reader Tammy when we bought our current bed, and apparently it was back in 1992 and was a "Five-Year Bed." I don't know what that means; maybe after five years it was supposed to explode or turn into dust or something. But we figured we had the bed long enough so I began the Great Schaad Bed Hunt of 2006. This started with me calling Bed Stores:
You all know what that means. Three Day Weekend + Nice Weather + No Where To Go = House Painting.
Tonight (Tuesday night) I had an opportunity to get together with some friends and I learned that clowns have secret clown names. Did you know this? I didn't know this.
(I felt a little agonizing, blinding, shoot-me-now pinch.)
I hate going to the dentist. 
While we're on the topic of comments, I've decided to try and comment on people's comments. At first I thought this would be weird. I mean, why comment on your own blog? But I've looked around and other people do just that. I found about four. So I thought I would give it a go. This is probably doomed for failure for some reason that should be readily apparent but for whatever reason escapes me.
I had a small epiphany today about time. (Go easy on me, it was a long, boring, head-cold-endured day.) I mean epiphany as in "a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something," not as in "an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being" (thanks M-W.com!) although I really would have preferred the latter. In fact, that would have made for a great blog entry, book and probably major motion picture. 
Thanks to everyone for the well-wishes, prayers, support, and especially your financial gifts. Okay I made that last part up - so far my mailbox is empty. But that's OKAY! I'm not, you know, holding that against you or anything.
First I'm really not into the April Fool's Day thing at all. I really don't understand it. The really "good" jokes would be the ones that people would remember forever, and probably cut you out of their will for. So there's an inverse relationship between the quality of the joke and the quality of the relationship you have with the victim afterwards. (The better the joke...the worse the ensuing relationship.) At least, that's how I see it. And being a perfectionist I could see myself going overboard in the practical joke department. (Carl specifically avoids examples as he probably wouldn't even live down just sharing hypotheticals.) I was also diagnosed as diabetic on April 1, so I have that going for me, which is nice. (Gratuitous Caddyshack quote.)
Once upon a time I saw Caddyshack. I was much younger, and not nearly as mature as I am now (pause for laughter) and I loved it. I saw it again, and again, and maybe a fourth time. I memorized many of Carl Spacker's lines. It's hard to pick a favorite, but I loved this one:
I got an email today with the subject, "Gnome Silver." Boy was I excited. I mean, c'mon - Gnome Silver! I thought for sure that this would be some sort of offer for a map to a deep, dark, underground labrynth where the gnomes kept their silver. There would probably be bars and bars of the stuff, just sitting in an open room with nothing more than an old, drunk, sleeping gnome guarding it. I could probably help myself - everyone knows that gnomes have tons and tons of silver and would probably never miss a few dozen bars. And Gnome Silver is among some of the purest on earth - approaching 99.99999-102.00 percent pure. I pictured paying off all of my debts and still having enough left over for a quick trip down to Disney.