When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

john kerry is a fool, wrapped in an ignoramus, inside a pompous jerk. And even given all that you would not be wrong in calling him an empty suit - go figure! I can only chalk it up to the mysterious nature of "science" - in this case physics - that is practiced on that side of the aisle...

Fresh off the heels of the Iraq Study Group report, which promised peace in the region once we got Iran to agree to stop supporting the terrorists in Iraq and Syria to stop stacking up the dead bodies in Lebanon, (while we're dreaming, could I have a pony?), Kerry raced to the region to show a vote of solidarity with the findings. Or to capitalize on being in a region thick with media cameras. Or maybe he's there to have a sit-down his good friend Jamil.

Whatever the reason, this plank of aged cedar, (with all apologies to cedar in all its forms) found his way in front of a camera where he proceeded - once again - to prove that most members of the so-called, "reality-based community" only communicate with one another from within the media rooms of the cloud castles of their own making...

What's needed in Iraq - kerry asserted more times than one could count - is a "political solution." When asked about more troops, the answer was a "political solution." When asked about new strategy, the answer was a "political solution." "More tea, senator?" Of course, but only if it were part of...

Well, you get the idea...

This mindset - if you can base it that high in the body - simply amazes me; it's so obvious to these types that enough talking and negotiating will eventually bring about a peaceful answer to any problem, no matter how longstanding or serious the rift in question. "The sunnis want to kill the shia? The shia want to kill the sunnis? Obviously they haven't had the opportunity to sit down and talk things out over a stiff cup of starbucks!" How retarded can you get?

Look: these two groups have been trying to kill each other since the moment muhammad's body went into rigor mortis. Maybe even before the fact. A deep and significant rift was created in the faith as concerned the assumption of power and from there, all Hell broke loose. Kind of like that old joke, "where there's a will there's a family fight," these two groups are at war with each other and they have that war as a central, defining principle of their faith! Must Kill The Infidel is the driving force behind what they do, and if there's a greater infidel in the area - say, me or you or our troops - then that infidel is an OK place to start. But sooner or later they'll return to their original targets - each other - if only because nobody else is around to behead...

Yet the "nuanced genius" that is john kerry tells us that they can talk out their differences. Well, I've got an idea: let's gather the sunni and the shia leadership all together in an arena and have ol' Orange Face explain his plan to them in a remarkably short 4-hour speech. They'll all die of boredom. And if we can manage to broadcast his speech over al-jezeera?

Game over, man...

YOU WIN SOME...

...But I'd love to know when that happens.

OK, Ok. I'm not one to point fingers... (I'll wait for the laughter to die down before proceeding), but as I said yesterday, ONE of us would be proven wrong today, so it's time to fess up and make all things clear:

You win this one...

So where was I? Oh yes - the birthday party. As one could expect, a grand time was had by most everyone aside from the hostess. Actually, she enjoyed it fine once things were up and running, but it was in getting it to that point where her stress meters went all the way to 11; the rehearsal for the Christmas Pageant went WAAAAY late and I came home just about 40 minutes before the first guest arrived. Let me tell you, in that 40 minutes I was running around, hiding things like a member of the Genovese family after being tipped about an FBI raid. I was busy, I tells ya'...

But people arrived, feasted, talked, watched some football and chased children. The Wif was still getting food put out as they rolled in, but eventually got everything together and was even able to change clothes. I got to see old long-time friends I hadn't seen since April as well as new friends brought into our circle by virtue of common values and children of similar age. Speaking of which, it's interesting to watch parents of young children - infants, to be exact; they seem to assume that because their children are in general, physical proximity and are reasonably close in age that they're "friends." I promise you this is not the case. For example, I'm certain that many of you come into contact or are forced to interact with people of your own age who you consider to be complete jerks. Why should that be any different just because the human in question is so much smaller? The "Daddy Gauge" of whether children are friends applies equally across all ages: when placed together do they scream loudly and then one of them try to force blocks up the nose of the other?

If not, they might just be friends. Fortunately for us, we do not own any snot-encrusted blocks...

OF BUGS AND THOSE THEY BUG...

We've got a stomach bug running through our family. Sorry - that should read: "trotting" through our family. First D-Man was struck down and couldn't even afford the thought of food without puking up toenails. Then, Mommy asked the pivotal question: "I wonder who's going to get it next?" right before she came down with it. All day today she was suffering with the grippe and although we'd secured reinforcements to deal with the children, this was a day I was working from home so I had to suffer through all the whining and complaining.

And you women out there needn't wish the worst upon me for saying that, because I'm already feeling the early symptoms. hooray...

If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that we're suffering from food poisoning or E coli or something along those lines, but we all eat pretty much exactly the same thing; we all have to try a little of everything at every meal. We get to load up on our favorites, but we all at least sample the entire offering.

Well, that's not completely true because we tire of the fights like any parents will. But it is true that I cannot detect a common thread between the three of us that hasn't also been ingested by the other two. So, maybe "M" and Binky Boy have iron constitutions but that seems slightly unlikely given what I've already witnessed from them. Which is in a way too bad, because I'd like to know that I could just go to the doc's tomorrow, get a shot or a pill and be completely done with this crap. But then again it seems to move out of its victims as quickly as it comes, so I might yet be alright by tomorrow.

Besides, I might not be able to get anywhere tomorrow anyway, because the weather guessers are saying that we're due for a huge, monster blizzard starting in the middle of the night and continuing clear through January. Bundle up, y'all! Then again, since they're notoriously wrong and they're calling for the King Hell snow storm, we might only get a dusting. On the other hand, since I'm notoriously wrong and I'm mocking their predictions, Hell itself may be freezing over. It's a huge Mobius strip when one stops to think about it, so I suggest that you not...

BECAUSE MY TIMING STINKS...

If I had even the most remote ability to plan ahead and see things coming I wouldn't have completely screwed things up these past couple of weeks. I would have written my Christmas column last week so that it might have appeared in print this week. I would have ordered The Wif's Christmas gift early enough to be customized and delivered before it had to be a Valentine's gift. (If you think I'm going to be specific about it here you're out of your mind!) And I would have written about my Sister's birthday on the day BEFORE, rather than on the day of - and therefore be a day late about the whole thing...

So, Happy Birthday Bonehead. Hope it was a good one and please remember: I didn't forget, my timing's just off.

AND ABOUT THAT CALL...

I didn't get nearly as many people as I expected asking about the mysterious phone call I mentioned yesterday, but I did get a few. As I am not sure which characteristic is at play here, I will just instead jump directly into the news:

At roughly 3:47 Friday afternoon, my phone rang. It was the folks calling to tell us that my Sister-in-Law had not only gone into labor, but had delivered their 8^th (I think) grandchild; a girl who might end up being named Grace. Well, this seemed to be the year for it, right? BARKEEP! BABIES ALL AROUND AND FRESH HORSES FOR THE MEN!! or something like that...

Except...

Grace was only 28 weeks old. The docs were trying to stabilize the Mother and kick-start the baby. I can't imagine it's something that's easy to do. I guess that's borne out by the fact that Mom went into labor and had the kid despite all the best efforts of the medical staff.

Perhaps the worst part of all this is the fact that this sort of thing has happened to them before. A couple of years ago Mom went into labor way too early and gave birth to another little girl. As I recall, she lived for a couple of hours but just didn't have a fair chance at anything beyond that. My Brother left the hospital with a birth certificate, a death certificate and a broken heart (one would imagine - he'd never share such details with me).

But not so this time; the steroid shots the docs gave Grace seemed to help develop her lungs to the point where she is - last I heard - breathing on her own. She - again, as of the last I've heard - is still fighting the good fight. Mom and Dad went home the other day but Grace will only be able to in the spring, if ever.

At 2 pounds 7 ounces, she seems to be the strongest in the entire family. And, please God may I not be wrong about that...

...His laptop; a few readers experience slight annoyance which was quickly remedied by a visit to Ziggy.com...

It was a rather interesting weekend that carried the promise of many, many more to come for us at this time of year. Friday was our day off - which has quickly become my new way of saying that I had to work like a Japanese beaver with a starbucks jones - so we took the kids to day care and went shopping. And I don't mean your everyday, average, chuch-picnic shopping, either: WE. SHOPPED. We went and gathered and traveled and spent and carried and packed as if The Wif were on death row and this was her final wish.

...And the Governor had left instructions not to be interrupted for ANY reason. We visited - I actually lost count of the number of stores, ALL of them, perhaps? - and spent well into four figures as well as packing cartoon-worthy amounts of goods into Ezmerelda, (The Wif's vehicle). We shopped for Christmas presents, for Birthday presents for two (2!) boys, for food for the Birthday party, for our weekly groceries, for arts and crafts supplies, for stocking stuffers, for our monthly trip to Sam's Club, the ever popular "miscellaneous," (usually found in aisle 12, BTW), and even that night's dinner. (Thin-crust pepperoni and hand-tossed sausage, pepperoni, mushrooms and extra cheese - both medium in case you're curious.)

And somewhere along the way, we got The Phone Call. But more about that later...

As near as I remember, we arrived to pick up the kids at 5:58 that night. Which was a very good thing because once the clock strikes 6 they start charging in quantities best described as "Bullion." Since I still had child-containing seats in the back seat of The Death Star, I took the kids home while The Wif fetched the Italian sauce-bread. This had the added benefit of separating the curious eyes from the Loads O' Loot and thereby defusing any potential Christmas Morning misunderstandings.

Once I'd stuffed a couple of pieces of pizza into my gob and made sure that at least the older two were tucked into bed, I started unloading The Wif's vehicle. As near as I can tell, I'm still bringing toys and food into the home, load after load, time and time again up and down the stairs and while it seems that I'm sitting at the table quietly and quickly typing away on my laptop I know that this is somehow the illusion...

SO many bags. So much stuff! So far to move them all! So much for the fantasy that half of these things should come upstairs...

Picking up on my distress, The Wif comes to me, leans up to put her arms around my neck, (it not being sufficiently burdened at the time, one imagines), and tells me, "Don't worry. We're done."

...

(Psssst! Guys - try not to read so far ahead, huh? You're ruining the story for the rest of us...)

...

When she returned home from her shopping on Saturday - and the day care not being open means that, I think, the kids were left in my care. I only hope I passed the "what did they eat/what did they poop" test - her vehicle was still sans carseats but bountiful with all measure of acquired loot. I'll have to start on that load as soon as I've finished with this one...

Sunday saw us at Church, as one would expect, where The Wif left with the boys after the service and I was expected to go shopping while "M" was in Sunday School. After that? A dress rehearsal for the Christmas Pageant! Joy of Joys!

And yet another opportunity for Daddy to allow his incompetence to boil slowly and painfully to the surface in front of a crowd of his friends; they served lunch - ham and three types of potatoes and some green thing and a form of bread or two and a selection of individual Frito choices as well as common beverages quarantined into 6, 8 and 12 ounce handleables. (We're Baptists - what would you expect?) But does she eat green? Is ham OK, (for the record, she eats bacon almost every morning so I know she's not keeping Kosher), or does she not like it? How much of each should she get, and at what point do I finally get to say, "...YOU'LL EAT THAT BECAUSE I'M THE DADDY, THAT'S WHY!"?

After lunch it was Play Rehearsal, where I was quickly transformed into Stage Manager, (I assume more for my demanding presence rather than for the appearance that I would naturally fit into the role of something having to do with drama. If you catch my meaning. Not that there's anything wrong with that...). I got the rare privilege of telling 12-15 year olds what to do and they actually DID it! It was refreshing and a completely delusional glance at the future all at the same time. Of course, when I was asked to play the role of King Herod I knew all my efforts had finally paid off.

The guy who wants to murder the Baby Jesus! It's the role of a lifetime!

After that was the Birthday Party for my boys. Their first birthday. Well, literally in one case and somewhat imaginative in the other - but not too far off all the same. Did we have food, fun and friends? Oh, let me tell you...

Later...

You may not believe this, but it's actually 5:12 on Friday morning. Yes, mere hours (or minutes) before many of you actually check this page for updates. The sad truth is that I fell asleep in my recliner with the laptop open in... well, my lap! (Thank goodness I don't have to worry about any of those health concerns they announced a couple of years ago...)

Needless to say (why do people always say "needless to say" before they go ahead and say what they said doesn't have to be said?), I'm going to go enjoy a couple of hours in bed while I still can. I leave you with a link to this (Yes, today is Friday), and all of my good wishes for a great day and a grand weekend.

If it applies, I hope to see you Sunday, and for what it's worth, D-Man will be ready to go also. He got his sea legs back...

J.O.T.W...

A family had twin boys whose only resemblance to each other was their looks. If one felt it was too hot, the other thought it was too cold. If one said the TV was too loud, the other claimed the volume needed to be turned up. Opposite in every way, one was an eternal optimist, the other a doom & gloom pessimist.

Just to see what would happen, on the twins' birthday their father loaded the pessimist's room with every imaginable toy and game. The optimist's room he loaded with horse manure.

That night the father passed by the pessimist's room and found him sitting amid his new gifts crying bitterly.

"Why are you crying?" the father asked.

"Because my friends will be jealous, I'll have to read all these instructions before I can do anything with this stuff, I'll constantly need batteries, and my toys will eventually get broken." answered the pessimist twin.

Passing the optimist twin's room, the father found him dancing for joy in the pile of manure. "What are you so happy about?" he asked.

To which his optimist twin replied, "There's got to be a pony in here somewhere!"

(FOLLOW-UP: I was both right and wrong yesterday - the friend whom I'd "saddled up" had indeed known instantly that I meant her. But the word she omitted was neither "happy" nor "glad." It was "excited." So I could claim victory by saying that 'excited' does inhabit territory within the vaunted Happy-Glad spectrum, or I could just go lightly into that good night.

Thankfully, I don't have to do that, since I nailed it. Of course, the way I screwed up her card is the thing of legend and I now open this forum for her to post ANYthing she cares to say about it. Now, let's get started, shall we?)

I think you all know my opinion on today's pop-culture celebrities: they should all be soaked in napalm and catapulted into a large bonfire. Of course that'll never happen -- thank YOU, aclu.

Well, perhaps that's a slightly harsh exaggeration of my view. I actually don't think anything about them unless they open their yap about something they know nothing about, thereby trying to pass themselves off as an expert. It's an attempt at "credential creep" - that is, trying to parlay success in one area into perceived knowledge about another. It's so blantantly obvious that I'm surprised so many people in this country still look to george clooney for foreign policy advice or ed begley jr for their environmental science.

I actually think it says more about the public than about the "star" in question. If the average person knows nothing or very little about a particular issue - and who could possibly be fully-versed on everything - then it might be natural to trust someone whose face you see on TV, at the movies and even in the checkout line at the grocery. Not for me, mind you, but perhaps for some out there.

But I heard an extreme example of a different type of transference on the radio recently. The newscast was reporting on a case under review by the U.S. Supreme Court. The icky legal details are here, but basically the case was over whether a Seattle school district could assign students to schools based at least partly on the student's race. (Moving on, lest I launch into a four-hour rant on the utter foolishness of this diversity crap...) As the news outlets are wont to do, they played twelve second sound bites from a representative of each side and as could easily be predicted, the guy from the "diversity" crowd was uttering complete nonsense.

He said something to the effect of, 'the Supreme Court has decided time and time again that children learn best in these diverse environments and have said so by the way they've ruled in these cases in the past.' I cannot provide the exact quote because shortly after hearing this pap I had to run around the room and collect the pieces of my skull after MY HEAD EXPLODED!

Just in the (extremely) off chance that this naive, mislead lunkhead should stumble onto this, let me lend some reality to this member of the "reality-based community;" the Supreme Court does NOT decide how children are best educated. That's not in their charter. (Ironically, the only place less of this happens is at the department of education, but that's a rant for another day.) It's not their job to decide on HOW to educate children; it's their job to RULE on whether or not the school districts are operating within the confines of the law!

And just because the court rules in a way you approve of doesn't mean that they're putting their stamp of approval on YOUR way of framing the argument! I know it's obvious once you hear it outloud, but I'm assuming you got your degree in one of the 'soft' sciences and will need to have this repeated time and time again before it sinks in...

THAT AP THING I MENTIONED...

I'm willing to bet that many of you heard about a recent attack in Iraq in which shia terrorists invaded a mosque, pulled six sunnis out, doused them with gasoline and set them on fire while they were still alive. Worse yet, it was reported that U.S. Troops and local Iraqi police witnessed the whole thing and did not intervene. (In later reports the mention of idle U.S. Troops was dropped.) This story was offered largely in the context of evidence of an increasingly violent civil war in the area.

The problem is, it seems to be a complete work of fiction, (or wishful thinking mayhaps?) In my opinion, the ap has made up the entire event in order to make the United States and President Bush look bad. And how do I reach that conclusion? Army officials were questioned about the story after it ran and no proof could be found. Iraqi officials were questioned about it with the same result. Nobody could find any evidence of this actually happening. They couldn't even find grieving family members of the deceased and someone ALWAYS seems to be grieving over there.

And the final, crowning glory is that the one source the ap cites, a "Jamil Hussein," - credited as a local law enforcement official - seems to have risen to this prestigious post having overcome the rather unfortunate difficulty of NOT ACTUALLY EXISTING! The Iraqis have never heard of this guy, the U.S. commanders have never heard of this guy, ONLY the ap seems to know of his existence, and they refuse to bring him forward.

Treachery, thy name is "ap."

THIS JUST IN! Our crack research staff has discovered that the letters in Jamil Hussein can be rearranged to spell: HE, MINUS JAILS. I think that pretty much says it all. Just don't ask me to produce the research staff...

KID STUFF...

Do I have stories for you! I could go on and on - and even worked hard to design my evening so that I could do just that! Lucky you!

But then I came home to learn that D-Man has been running a fever all day and puking more than a freshman pledging a frat at CU - but with much less groping, thankfully. In fact, I even stood and watched him throw two full loads directly onto Mommy's chest, and to her credit she sat there and took it.

Of course, she was well aware that he'd consumed little more than a saltine cracker and roughly 28 ounces of fluid, (which had somehow become 86 ounces on it's way out), since this morning, but she still sat there like a real trooper.

And now the house is quiet except for the dogs crunching at their food and a slight, distant sound that at first glance would be mistaken for the howling wind. But I've just discovered that it's actually D-Man's constant moan of ill-content. He's in our room but obviously not asleep, and I'm not sure I can say the same of Mommy.

I'm off to see what I can do to ease my son's suffering. Please indulge me...

As we all know, that quote comes from the dying words of John Adams when he made the statement on July 4, 1826. The grand irony is that Jefferson had actually died at his home in Monticello several hours earlier. Even given that, I feel perfectly safe in saying, "Stone lives."

As it happens, the guy selling the stove turned out to be a great guy. Crappy neighborhood, (there was an entire fleet of local cops, state patrol and fire/rescue vehicles at the end of his block; they were told there was a hostage-taking/barricade "situation" unfolding. Why don't bake sales or BBQ's ever break out where I'm going?), but a great guy. I don't know if it means anything, but his name was "Chris."

(Of course it means something...)

At any rate, I'm out $250 and a mess of work still lies ahead of me before I can use the thing, but I've now got a real kick-ass stove. Sitting at the top of the driveway. I was half-way home before I realized that, a) I honestly didn't want to unscrew my "door panels" to the garage entry tonight, b) even if I did, that end of the garage is packed floor-to-ceiling with more crap than I'd want to wrestle with tonight, c) the stove WILL. NOT. fit through the downstairs door. And even if... well, see "b)" above, because it applies here as well.

No, the best way to deal with this is to order a half-acre of pizza. Because as we all know, the mere presence of pizza is enough to bring out sturdy, well-framed men and equip them with just enough guilt that you're able to squeeze some physical labor out of them. But until then, the stove sits - undercover - at the top of our driveway. You locals who are coming up on Sunday will be able to see it where it stands. Yeah for you!!

Went to the doctor tonight. I finally gave in because my throat feels like I've been gargling thumbtacks. Thumbtacks that have been soaked in lemon juice and set on fire. And then told that push pins are the king of all wall-adherence devices...

It's always interesting to watch your health care provider cover her mouth in an attempt to hide her giggles after hearing your raspy/squeaky/pain-filled voice. Yes! I suffer for your amusement! Bask in it! Your laughter is like healing!

I'm pretty sure that I tested positive for strep, but I think in her concentrating on getting my voice back, (I'm the only one bothered by its loss, BTW), she overlooked treating it because I walked out with just a prescription for a steroid to reduce the restriction in my throat. I'll have to call tomorrow to check, except she's not in tomorrow. So I'll have to get re-checked, or talk to the nurse about talking to a doc about maybe writing me a script...

I think bears have the right idea. Better just to sleep through the whole cold and flu and strep season.

THINGS WRITTEN BY OTHER PEOPLE...

OK. I'm about to rake a longtime friend for a very human mistake, but before I get started I have to say that she has an excuse; she suffers from one of those "female conditions" that cause hormone levels to vary more than an AP story. (If you don't get that reference, I don't blame you. I'll try to explain it tomorrow.) To whit:

Got a card today. Actually, we got 4 of them but I'm only talking about this one. I won't describe the card itself but will instead relay the handwritten text to see if she recognizes herself. Which is utterly foolish because she already knows of whom I speak.

"What a year! I can't begin to explain how I am for you guys...". Now, one might read this and assume that she's joined the AWA movement, but she deploys adjectives in the latter text, (you'll have to trust me on that). But given what she's actually written here, we're left to speculate; did she mean confused? Sympathetic? crazy? Proud? Aquamarine...?

...

Actually, the word she omitted was most likely "happy" or "glad" but probably the first. I know her well enough to figure that out. And well enough to know that she'll only be slightly amused by this whole episode.

...

My brother also has a blog. I don't link to it for reasons that those of you able to find it will quickly figure out. And it's not that I'm ashamed of him or anything like that. It's more of a safety issue and a way to keep some level of distance between my online life and my real life. Sure those walls are crumbling quickly, but I've got LOADS of fresh mortar around and it has to go somewhere...

Anyway, this is what HE had to say about his experience with my 2 elder children sleeping over at Grandma's this past weekend, ("Drake" is his dog):

Real fear. Last Saturday night I had all most all of my available neices and nephews over at my moms house. My sisters 3 monsters and M and Dman. were all over here. Well at about 3am Dman (he is 2) decides that he is going to wake up and come into my room. Drake was sleeping at the end of my bed as usual,he always barks and growls at everyone or anything that come near my room, but when Dman crawled in Drake didn't make a sound. The little guy showed no fear and just crawled up into bed with me. He laid down right on my chest and went to sleep. It was very sweet, but it scared the hell out of me!! This little guy is so small I was terified to even move I was afraid I would roll over on him, I also found myself checking to see if he was still breathing,I was a wreck! Thank God my mom woke up and saw him missing and came and got him so I could relax. I don't know how parents do it.

I left a comment that, 'we do it day to day and relish the moments you just mentioned.'

I also added a note of thanks for him being there when D-Man needed it. Only seemed fair.

It's a first in the known history of mankind: The Wif has been active on a popular website before I have. Well, that's not completely accurate - I've never visited KeepHimDown.com - a woman's guide to a happy life...

Unbeknownst to me, The Wif has been trolling craigslist.org for some time now. It's actually somewhat surprising to me, because she's not normally one to track down or seek out the "flavor of the week" so far as the web is concerned. (And it should probably go without saying that if you're reading THIS particular website you're already engaged in an activity she can't be bothered with.) But I have a perfectly reasonable excuse explanation; she's looking for carpet and kid's furniture and who knows what all else while I really don't need anything.

Yeah, right...

So, instead of trying to fit in (Birthday Presents)², (Christmas Presents)^n*n AND a brand new stove, I decide I can be very happy with a used stove in good condition. And so I venture onto the ever-popular (which is another reason I've been slow to visit it) craigslist. Where I find this.

Perfect, no? Better than I expected to buy and at roughly 15% of the price I expected to pay. To sweeten the deal even further, when The Wif called to check on its availability, (for I'm struck by the seasonal bout of laryngitis and currently sound like the love child of a croaking toad and a squeaky door hinge. Tis bliss, it is), she learns that someone was supposed to drop by tonight and inspect the stove so that THEY might buy it. It is agreed that should they NOT show up and NOT call by 6:30 this evening, then we'll take it. This is fine with us because we can do to lose $250 in a bad deal should things not turn out as expected, (mind you, we wouldn't be happy about it, but we'd survive), but the seller seems rather insistent that we view the unit before we buy it.

OK, so it would seem that maybe he's been burned in the past; perhaps he's already sold an item - or several items - sight un-seen and caught a large amount of flack from the buyer(s). Somehow, that seems a rather reasonable explanation to me. But when The Wif arranges to inspect the stove, make payment and arrange pickup for later in the week, something else strikes me.

What if this guy's name is Dahmer Bundy? What if he's the most prolific serial killer the world has ever seen and what if his lure is deals on appliances that that would make Crazy Eddie tremble in shame?

Well, one would hope that when I go visiting tomorrow (for plans have changed), and that I hand over the necessary cash, I'm able to walk away with a song in my heart and a Jenn-Aire strapped into my bed.

And if that's NOT the case, then at least you guys out there have a lead...

I think I've stumbled upon the secret of time travel, because I've just been through 284 days in what to most of you was a simple weekend...

Friday was my 'short day' at the office - which means I get to cut out an hour early. Unless I show up an hour late. Guess what happened last week? Yeah, well I needed the sleep, I guess. At any rate I eventually leave the salt mines and go to pick up our Christmas cards/photos from Wally World. Did I tell you about the grand time we had when we got those photos taken? No, of course I did not, because there's little else lately that has made me want to SWEAR UP A BLUE STREAK!!! Fraggin' Idiots! We have an APPOINTMENT, show up around the dinner hour with the plan of keeping the kids clean for the pics and THEN having dinner only to hear that "um, yeah. We're running about an hour and 10 minutes late." And WHY are they this late? Because they had so many walk-ins that day.

Yes. Of course. So the responsible among us must shoulder the burden in the name of the irresponsible even in the field of acquiring photos of the youngsters. Fine. Add it to the list then and we'll be at McDonalds barking, "no caramel!" and "no catsup!" and "watch your sleeve!" at the kids for the next hour. Oh yeah - and then expecting them to come through with BIG SMILES when you're finally ready for us. Thanks for re-defining the paradigm and all...

And, speaking of the Wally World photo "studio," if you want to see an utterly un-photogenic group of people, that's the place to be! Well, that may not be completely fair; I did take note of a female who seemed to have taken the extra step of polishing much of her face-piercings, but for the most part it was just women who were wearing either their best sweatshirt or their second-best halter top. Yeah - nothing says "Merry Christmas" like a room full of muffin tops. That's the view I wanted, sweatheart - how did you know?

Thank goodness I didn't spend more than $20 on dinner...

Where was I? Oh yeah - Friday. I get the pics, note that the scenery hasn't really changed any, pay for the "sucker prints" (an extra $30 that eventually becomes $44 on the final bill), and head home. Dinner is ready, the kids are glad to see me and all is well. Except the evening routine has an added twist: we have to prepare the older two for their first sleepover. At Grandma's.

The long and the short of this is that the more mobile children will be leased out for roughly 24 hours in order to allow us time to decorate the home for Christmas. Binky Boy will be here with us, (as he would otherwise be lost in the Phew-related din at Grandma's), but he's good for about six hours of nap throughout the day, so we'll be able to get most everything done, right?

RIGHT?

I put the tree at 40%. Generously. All of our other bins have been removed from the attic, sorted through, and replaced in the attic. I know this because I'm the only one carrying bins up and down the ladder, (D-Man will happily climb the ladder but so far lacks the strength and agility to combine that act with the moving of bins. Just wait 'til next year). It was midnight on Saturday before my head hit the pillow and I was exhausted besides; my legs hurt, my back was sore and my throat was dry and raw.

And I sit here watching channel 9's Broncos Apology Show, (REMEMBER: You can't spell "Overrated, Overpaid Stench Beasts" without B-R-O-N-C-O-S!), convinced that I'm one gagging interlude with a Q-tip away from officially learning that I have strep, (it's OK, - the boys are on anti-biotics and the girls are carriers. Leaving me in the role I was meant to play), knowing that the living room is one gigantic health hazard to tiny male creatures. Meaning that I have to go clean it up. NOW! so that I can go to bed. So there I head.

(DADDY! I MADE A RHYME!!)

But quickly, this is the funniest thing that most of you will see today. I know I sent it out to some of you via email, but this just cracks me up every time I look at it. (Bonus points if take the time to peruse his site and guess which bit of his I'm about to steal. Trust me, you'll know it when you see it.)

Well, it's the return of a tradition. And it's a tradition if I define it as such, so here it is...

(You're released. Have a great weekend.)

J.O.T.W...

Whereas, on or about the night prior to Christmas, there did occur at a certain improved piece of real property (hereinafter "the House") a general lack of stirring by all creatures therein, including, but not limited to a mouse.

A variety of foot apparel, e.g. stocking, socks, etc., had been affixed by and around the chimney in said House in the hope and/or belief that St. Nick a/k/a/ St. Nicholas a/k/a/ Santa Claus (hereinafter "Claus") would arrive at sometime thereafter.

The minor residents, i.e. the children, of the aforementioned House were located in their individual beds and were engaged in nocturnal hallucinations, i.e. dreams, wherein vision of confectionery treats, including, but not limited to, candies, nuts and/or sugar plums, did dance, cavort and otherwise appear in said dreams.

Whereupon the party of the first part (sometimes hereinafter referred to as "I"), being the joint-owner in fee simple of the House with the parts of the second part (hereinafter "Mamma"), and said Mamma had retired for a sustained period of sleep. (At such time, the parties were clad in various forms of headgear, e.g. kerchief and cap.)

Suddenly, and without prior notice or warning, there did occur upon the unimproved real property adjacent and appurtent to said House, i.e. the lawn, a certain disruption of unknown nature, cause and/or circumstance. The party of the first part did immediately rush to a window in the House to investigate the cause of such disturbance.

At that time, the party of the first part did observe, with some degree of wonder and/or disbelief, a miniature sleigh (hereinafter "the Vehicle") being pulled and/or drawn very rapidly through the air by approximately eight (8) reindeer. The driver of the Vehicle appeared to be and in fact was, the previously referenced Claus.

Said Claus was providing specific direction, instruction and guidance to the approximately eight (8) reindeer and specifically indentified the animal co-conspirators by name: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen (hereinafter "the Deer"). (Upon information and belief, it is further asserted an additional co-conspirator named "Rudolph" may have been involved.)

The party of the first part witnessed Claus, the Vehicle and the Deer intentionally and willfully trespass upon the roofs of several residences located adjacent to and in the vicinity of the House, and noted that the Vehicle was heavily laden with packages, toys and other items of unknown origin or nature. Suddenly, without prior invitation or permission, either express or implied, the Vehicle arrived at the House, and Claus entered said House via the chimney.

Said Claus was clad in a red fur suit, which was partially covered with residue from the chimney, and he carried a large sack containing a portion of the aforementioned packages, toys, and other unknown items. He was smoking what appeared to be tobacco in a small pipe in blatant violation of local ordinances and health regulations.

Claus did not speak, but immediately began to fill the stocking of the minor children, which hung adjacent to the chimney, with toys and other small gifts. (Said items did not, however, constitute "gifts" to said minor pursuant to the applicable provisions of the U.S. Tax Code.)

Upon completion of such task, Claus touched the side of his nose and flew, rose and/or ascended up the chimney of the House to the roof where the Vehicle and Deer waited and/or served as "lookouts." Claus immediately departed for an unknown destination.

However, prior to the departure of the Vehicle, Deer and Claus from said House, the party of the first part did hear Claus state and/or exclaim:

"Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!" Or words to that effect.

Just because there's a couple of things that I've been meaning to comment on but haven't managed it yet...

Actually, there's a reason I haven't yet said anything about the michael richards meltdown: who the Hell cares? An un-funny guy, when pressed, goes WAY out of his way to prove that he's also un-smart. And since I've long believed that intelligence and the ability to generate humor are intimately related, (not that I've been able to prove it here), I was not surprised by his behavior. As for his language, well, you don't see me using the word "kike" here, right? So I'm not likely to resort to it when pressed.

The problem now becomes one of jesse jackson and gloria 'allrong' sticking their loud, smelly noses into the fray where they don't belong. I mean, let's be serious here; they smell blood and money and each of these whores are always eager to display their wares under those circumstances. And then request payment for services neither requested nor delivered, (if you know what I mean).

So I have (as usual) an answer for everyone. mikey can be held responsible for monetary damages to be determined by a jury of his peers (and even though I hate to think that another 12 freaks like him exist in this county I know that the actual number is in the hundreds), provided that jesse and gloria can PROVE that these "victims" have never addressed each other, been addressed by others, addressed others or been around anyone who EVER uttered the word, "nigga."

Because if the word is the problem, they've been immunized. If the actor is the problem, even I - who never sought out the show - have been immunized by its omnipresence. And that leaves only one need that must be met: the need to play the victim in order to gain a legal right to a large portion of his personal savings. But it's OK -- I'm pretty sure that the whole thing is in the Constitution. Somewhere...

UPDATE:Wa -- aaaa -- aiitt a minute! This just got more, um... boring. Sorry, but I mistakenly thought this was something. Turns out it's just a lesser-known, lesser-funny person proving that they're lesser-smart. But we already KNEW that.

Casting certainly got THAT ONE right!

And somewhere along the way lindsay lohan managed to expose herself as the idiot that she is. Again, NO SURPRISE there -- our stars seem to nearly always live up to our expectations of them if only we allow them enough time to do so. And she proved it...

The problem, as best I can diagnose, is that the celebrity in question decided to rely on the ever-questionable prospect of having BOTH her brain cells fire simultaneously, instead of asking the single neuron between them to carry the message.

The result, I fear, was completely predictable.

If only she'd stuck to what she's best at...

Let me ask you this: do you really want universal health care? Really?

Are you sure? Because I gotta get an honest answer from you before we go any further. Yes? Really? Well then, I can only conclude one thing. And that is that you don't have the slightest idea of what the Hell you're talking about...

I'll explain in a minute, but first - a brief story.

I was but a lad - a mere should-be impressionable youngster wandering the halls of college and occasionally finding my way into the proper classroom. (The very fact that I've written this THIS way will warp my dreams tonight in ways I'd rather not delve into.) In that time I devloped a rather casual relationship with a younger, far more idealistic blonde chick -- the definition of Sarah Plain And Tall even if her name was Laura. (or Laurie or Linda or Sheila or something with an "L" in it.)

Somewhere amid the final days of my academic career we were supposed to make some kind of presentation to the class -- the exact memory of what and why fail me because I dropped out prior to having to work on MY presentation -- and she shared hers with me: it was meant to be a wholesale indictment of our medical profession based upon the advertising trinkets produced by drug manufacturers.

And she had the complete set at her disposal; change purses, keyrings, pens, markers, stress balls, highlighters, tote bags and much more, all carrying the name of one or another medication and its manufacturer. "This" she contended, was proof that "THEY had money to waste," and so therefore were making too much money in the first place and should not be allowed to advertise their goods in the effort to waste said money and therefore everyone would be better off if nobody knew what what the drug producers were producing.

It's a paraphrase of what she told me, and isn't necessarily true to the original intent, but is true to the content of the conversation. Just ask her...

But I've seen the reality. My Orphan kids are on Medicaid - which is the closest thing to the "single-payer" system imagined by hillary. Which can only mean that she has NO experience with the system whatsoever.

But I have. And it means that the provider assigns and recommends every possible test that one can imagine. On the surface this means that they're providing great care and everyone under this system would receive the very best care available.

Until you realize that the tests are only being provided because they're already paid for. If ALL care is promised to be paid for, how many tests do YOU think will be "necessary?" The answer is, of course, ALL of them...

But there's another edge to the equation that we were recently screwed by we have experienced; our medicaid "doc" is eager to recommend treatments and screenings and tests and the like, but when we left the office last Friday, she also promised that we'd have the day-care forms ready and filled out and in our hands by, well... by yesterday. But a call today reveals that they won't even be ready by this time next week!

So, just to recap: Universal care gets all the tests that a doctor gets paid for, but they're not the least bit obligated to fill out the paperwork their patients bring to them.

It's someone else's responsibility, I suppose. Which is the exactly, perfect description of hillarycare. Who's ready to sign up?

I guess I'll have to explain. Not that I mind, because I think that not understanding what I said is actually a compliment in some sick, twisted way...

When I talked about us paying off our debt, that wasn't a typo or a lie or a miscommunication or even a hallucination: We really, honestly and truly paid off $99,619.21 in 28 months. You can do the math on that and see the level of determination we displayed in the process, but you can no longer be confused as to the numbers involved.

Any questions about the specifics of the process can be addressed through email. And I don't mind the inquiries. Honestly...

An "M-ism" - for the purposes of this website - is exactly the opposite of what you'd expect it to be; that is, instead of a report of some cute but quirky thing she's said, it is the retelling of a comment inspired by certain of her repeating behaviors. For example...

We were traveling down the road out of town when she started playing her favorite game -- Daddy I Made A Rhyme! "Throat and Sote" she reports, is a rhyme. "No, Babe. 'Sote' isn't a word. You can only make rhymes with real words." (I should note that this is a small quandary for us. After all, Doctor Seuss only earned about eleventy-thirty BAZILLion dollars along the way so why would we stifle similar talent? On the other hand, making rhymes when you're not bound to the language is so terribly easy that it's not likely to capture people's attention - much less the interest of their wallets - again. Besides, I once had a teacher tell me that in order to break the rules of the language you first have to learn them, and it sounds solid to me; let's give her a full vocabulary and then if she still wants to make up words to complete rhymes she'll have a much larger arsenal from which to work. We can encourage creative behavior in other areas. But for now, back to our story...)

From the backseat: "Daddy! I made a Rhyme -- throat and sote!" "No, Babe. 'Sote' isn't a word. You can only make rhymes with real words." "Oh," she says, sounding as disappointed as if that were the first time she'd heard it. I counter with, "how 'bout throat and goat?" And with a mere 20 seconds or so between the transactions, we're in a new world where none of the old exists...

"You saw a goat? WHERE?!?" "No sweetheart," Mommy adds, "Daddy was giving you a rhyme. Throat rhymes with goat." "M" excitedly responds, "you saw," (and I SWEAR this to be true), "A THROAT?!?"

...

I say as I turn to Mommy, "Man. When she clocks out she takes her WHOLE lunchbox with her, doesn't she?"

Today was the kids' first experience with day care. They went for just three hours this afternoon and Mommy was there to "float" between the different rooms. It was a "getting-to-know-you" meet in preparation for them spending slightly more time there. They won't go all day, every day, because Mommy's taking her responsibility to them seriously and will spend the vast majority of her time presiding over them.

And - as it's been said - It Was Good...

I have to say - and here I promise to tick off people who don't read carefully - that I was torn by the experience. While I realize that there are times when these sorts of arrangements are perhaps necessary, I've still concluded that any Father who advocates for his child/ren to spend all day in the care of a non-relative is simply not truly attentive to the needs of said child/ren.

Let the angry letters flood in. I will only ask that you first identify the verb I used...

I'll leave you with another "M-ism"; this evening was "M's" bath night. We have now had months to instill a routine into her surrounding this every-other-nightly event and it's always the same list. (Which is an incredibly stupid thing for me to say. Would a 'routine' be anything else?) She's supposed to prepare her overnight costume, get her towel, put all necessary bath toys into the bathtub, go potty, take out AND PUT AWAY all deployed hair accessories and put her dirty clothes into the laundry basket. That might sound like a long list for a 5-year-old, but when you consider it, they're all simply part of the larger mission. And one she's got to learn sooner or later.

Right, ladies?

So as Mommy was running through the list - AGAIN - it was decided that "M" should know what bloody well has to be done by now, already. Mommy says, "you should know to..." and goes through the list. "M" is heard (by an impartial witness who happens to be sitting at my place at the table at dinnertime and within earshot) to repeatedly say, "Oh yeah" to each item as they're presented to her. Almost as if she's got it.

Until it's pointed out that she's not pursuing the list at all, but instead sitting in Mommy's chair and rocking aimlessly. Mommy calls her on it, re-runs the list and activates her onto it. "M" heads down the hall - seemingly with a renewed purpose...

"That girl checks out with all the speed of a man who's been seen at a motel with his best friend's wife!"

(That's the kind of thing I mean by the title...)

Typical...

I also have to write three different things tonight, of which this is the second - and should really rather be the third. But that would mean bumping this down the list and re-prioritizing everything from the bottom up.

Hold on a minute...

OK. That was a complete bust. And now it's 1:00. S'pose I should tell you something lest I've wasted my entire effort here tonight. But then, how would you tell the difference from any other day?

The Wif is catering an event at our church this week. It promises to be some degree of work for her - as all her promises always are - but the rules have changed; she was going to make baked ham, alienOrientated potatoes, Strange veggies and two kinds of dessert for about 40 and one-half people. The problem? Sam's closes at 6 on Sunday.

The further problem is - of course - that Baptists are notoriously bad at RSVPing, (I suspect it has something to do with always holding out for a better pot-luck), and that the number of attendees for her dinner has gone from roughly the mid-40's to, well, double that.

So instead of preparing a ham and the like for a quad-dozen, she's now faced with cooking/baking for one hundred. Can you imagine how much fun this is going to be for me?

And it's on a Wednesday, which is just more torture than you can imagine for me - and more than I'm willing to describe at the moment. (And no, the paint-huffers anon meetings are on Friday, lest you think it's that.)

But one sorta funny thing happened this past weekend. As they boys have both ear infections and a generous running of snot to deal with, plus the fact that D-Man has been fighting an ongoing under-collective nature within his bowels, we had a whole new mission come to us lately: medicate the snot, inject Liquid Pink for the ear infection, and collect the suspect poop...

So, on Friday afternoon, as I'm here with the kids and trying to convince D-Man that he needs to be isolated in the attempt to take an afternoon nap, I'm also changing his diaper to make it more comfortable for him to do so. After that's done, I put him in his crib and set about the awful, messy, smeary business that's set before me:

I start scooping parts of the mess from his diaper into the five (5!) different containers that are set before me. I'm using a plastic knife, but you're free to use whatever you see fit in this circumstance. As this is going on, D-Man raises his head to see what's going on at his feet.

"Lie down, dude. You're sick..."

...

Yeah, right. He's in his PJ's fighting an afternoon nap and I'm scraping His poop from His diaper into various plastic containers and HE'S the one who's sick?!?

...AND it's the first of December, too! Where do I turn to when I get so many riches? Oh well. So much to tell and only time left to hit the high points...

The boys - or rather, as it was related to me - "YOUR Sons have discovered a new game..." Since this is one one of those, "YOUR axe murderer/MY valedictorian" even while talking about the same person situations, I suspect that I'll enjoy this.

And I was right. Apparently the boys discovered - and I'd have loved to have been there so as to witness the events leading to this discovery - that Cheerios® fit very nicely through the grate that covers the humidifier's motor/fan unit. And not only that, but once they've gone through said grate they get chopped up by the moving fan and then the debris gets thrown back into their faces. And great fun is had by all. Well, all except Mommy...

But then, "fun" has always seemed to be a foreign concept to her, so why allow its enjoyment by others?

Want buns of steel? Well, I think I have an answer. Not THE answer - because there are no doubt several of them - but certainly AN answer: try learning to walk...

And I'm absolutely dead serious here; apparently learning to walk builds arse muscles like nothing else. And I have visual confirmation of this because I happened to notice as I was chasing a naked Binky Boy on his Bath Night that his tiny hiney was very nearly as dimpled as his face. And if you've seen the pictures, (new ones up, BTW), then you know how impressive that standard is.

Sometimes I wonder if "M" doesn't listen at all. Then there are times when I KNOW she hasn't bothered to tune in and is instead trying to fake her response to the sound of my voice by acting upon some known pattern of our lives while playing the part of victim for encountering the exact force I tried to help her avoid by changing the routine she's grown so used to...

No, you don't have to try to understand that, so long as I explain it: we came home from the store. It was cold. It was a snow-filled driveway. I could count on the five-year-old - who had presumably mastered the, 'one foot in front of the other' thing yet still held enough fear of falling so that she'd take her time along the way - to follow instructions.

Right?

Ummm, not so much. She proceeded to march UP the stairs - old patterns, old rules - until the accumulated snow and my CONSTANT SHOUTING stopped her. But none of those was able to bring her back on board; she kept trying to fit a new mission into the boundaries of an old pattern. (Just between you and me, I suspect that the "new mission" didn't even BEGIN to enter into her mind. She was just fixated upon her old routine and the latest, single, simple introduction of change thereinto: "You are not allowed to free the dogs from the house." It's a MommyRule, which will only further serve to complicate things along the way, but one things's for sure: I have another Personnellist living under my roof. Further proof exists, but as I said from the beginning, it's late and I require sleep...)

J.O.T.W...

Continuing the current trend of large-scale mergers and acquisitions, it was announced today at a press conference that Christmas and Hanukkah will merge. An industry source said that the deal had been in the works for about 1300 years.

While details were not available at press time, it is believed that the overhead cost of having twelve days of Christmas and eight days of Hanukkah was becoming prohibitive for both sides. By combining forces, we're told, the world will be able to enjoy consistently high-quality service during the Fifteen Days of Chrismukah, as the new holiday is being called.

Massive layoffs are expected, with lords a-leaping and maids a-milking being the hardest hit. As part of the conditions of the agreement, the letters on the dreydl, currently in Hebrew, will be replaced by Latin, thus becoming unintelligible to a wider audience.

Also, instead of translating to "A great miracle happened there," the message on the dreydl will be the more generic "Miraculous stuff happens." In exchange, it is believed that Jews will be allowed to use Santa Claus and his vast merchandising resources for buying and delivering their gifts.

One of the sticking points holding up the agreement for at least three hundred years was the question of whether Jewish children could leave milk and cookies for Santa even after having eaten meat for dinner. A breakthrough came last year, when Oreos were finally declared to be Kosher. All sides appeared happy about this.

A spokesman for Christmas, Inc., declined to say whether a takeover of Kwanzaa might not be in the works as well. He merely pointed out that, were it not for the independent existence of Kwanzaa, the merger between Christmas and Chanukah might indeed be seen as an unfair cornering of the holiday market. Fortunately for all concerned, he said, Kwanzaa will help to maintain the competitive balance. He then closed the press conference by leading all present in a rousing rendition of "Oy Vey, All Ye Faithful."