~
Friday, October 30, 2009
Happy Halloween. It's that great American holiday where you get to dress like an idiot and bribe people to give you candy, as opposed to Easter, that great American holiday where you have to dress nice and you get candy for doing nothing, or Christmas, where it's just candy for a month and no one really cares what you wear.
It's all princesses and carnivores here in the cul-de-sac, though I did see a Transformer earlier this morning on his way to school. The Little Ditchman is going as Jasmine from Aladdin, (or, as she pronounces it, "Jazz-man" which paints an image of a different costume entirely.) We have a joke routine. I say, "What a beautiful Mulan costume!" and she gets all worked up, "No, Dad. I'm Jazz-man!" And then I say, "From Beauty and the Beast?" And she says, "No, Dad. I'm Jazz-man from Aladdin!" And then I rattle off all the princesses while she giggles and stamps her feet, "Jazz-man!" And then I turn to the Little Digger, who is dressed as a tiger, or, according to the Little Ditchman, like Rajah, Jasmine's palace tiger from Aladdin, and I say, "What a great Lion King costume!" I'm hilarious. It drives her nuts, but she can laugh about it now, and has learned that I'm joking.
If you have a stubborn, strong-willed, control-freak little 3-year-old like I do, you need to keep turning the world upside-down so that they gain a sense of humor. Otherwise, they'll never get used to the fact that the world will never fit into their nicely lined-up, organized little boxes. Oy. It's a tough lesson. I know people my age who are still trying to cram that square peg into the round hole. But that's the thing about life: there are no round pegs. One supposes you have to make them. By dulling out the edges of the square ones.
I don't have a costume chosen, though the kid wants me to go as "a batman." It's always a batman, as if there were a society of batmen in some distant underworld, waging their war on crime as a whole nation of batmen are want to do. But I don't have a batman costume.
I have narrowed it down to two super-cool costumes, however, taken from today's news. I could be Earnest Shackleton, famed turn-of-the-century polar explorer whose ship was stranded in Antarctica and smashed by ice, but who led his entire crew to safety in an incredible tale of daring and leadership. His abandoned whiskey was recently uncovered in an Antarctic shack. Fascinating.
More on the scary side is Fritz Darges, the last surviving member of Hitler's inner circle who died the other day at age 96. He wrote a memoir that was to be published after his death, so World War II historians are eager to check it out. He tells a great story about Hitler:
They would both be great costumes, as would The Fly That Enraged Hitler, title of my new book. (Who knew that Hitler and I had such common feelings for the loathesome creatures?) Anyway, I suspect I'll just wear my old Lost Dharma coveralls, which are supremely comfortable. It should be fun. We'll carve pumpkins, eat candy, dress silly, as it all should be. What a holiday.
I hope you find yourself doing the same and loving it.
Ernest Shackleton's whiskey, still on ice.
~
It's all princesses and carnivores here in the cul-de-sac, though I did see a Transformer earlier this morning on his way to school. The Little Ditchman is going as Jasmine from Aladdin, (or, as she pronounces it, "Jazz-man" which paints an image of a different costume entirely.) We have a joke routine. I say, "What a beautiful Mulan costume!" and she gets all worked up, "No, Dad. I'm Jazz-man!" And then I say, "From Beauty and the Beast?" And she says, "No, Dad. I'm Jazz-man from Aladdin!" And then I rattle off all the princesses while she giggles and stamps her feet, "Jazz-man!" And then I turn to the Little Digger, who is dressed as a tiger, or, according to the Little Ditchman, like Rajah, Jasmine's palace tiger from Aladdin, and I say, "What a great Lion King costume!" I'm hilarious. It drives her nuts, but she can laugh about it now, and has learned that I'm joking.
If you have a stubborn, strong-willed, control-freak little 3-year-old like I do, you need to keep turning the world upside-down so that they gain a sense of humor. Otherwise, they'll never get used to the fact that the world will never fit into their nicely lined-up, organized little boxes. Oy. It's a tough lesson. I know people my age who are still trying to cram that square peg into the round hole. But that's the thing about life: there are no round pegs. One supposes you have to make them. By dulling out the edges of the square ones.
I don't have a costume chosen, though the kid wants me to go as "a batman." It's always a batman, as if there were a society of batmen in some distant underworld, waging their war on crime as a whole nation of batmen are want to do. But I don't have a batman costume.
I have narrowed it down to two super-cool costumes, however, taken from today's news. I could be Earnest Shackleton, famed turn-of-the-century polar explorer whose ship was stranded in Antarctica and smashed by ice, but who led his entire crew to safety in an incredible tale of daring and leadership. His abandoned whiskey was recently uncovered in an Antarctic shack. Fascinating.
More on the scary side is Fritz Darges, the last surviving member of Hitler's inner circle who died the other day at age 96. He wrote a memoir that was to be published after his death, so World War II historians are eager to check it out. He tells a great story about Hitler:
During a strategy conference, a fly began buzzing around the room, landing on Hitler's shoulder and on the surface of a map several times.
Irritated, Hitler ordered Darges to "dispatch the nuisance". Darges suggested whimsically that, as it was an "airborne pest" the job should go to the Luftwaffe [Air Force] adjutant, Nicolaus von Below.
Enraged, Hitler dismissed Darges on the spot. "You're for the eastern front!" he yelled. And so he was sent into combat.
They would both be great costumes, as would The Fly That Enraged Hitler, title of my new book. (Who knew that Hitler and I had such common feelings for the loathesome creatures?) Anyway, I suspect I'll just wear my old Lost Dharma coveralls, which are supremely comfortable. It should be fun. We'll carve pumpkins, eat candy, dress silly, as it all should be. What a holiday.
I hope you find yourself doing the same and loving it.
Ernest Shackleton's whiskey, still on ice.
~
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Well, this explains our marital success.
It's one of those articles on one of those websites that has columns entitled "Orgasm of the Week" and, no, I don't read it, I just ended up clicking on links until I found myself in the Internet wilderness, at the foot of a sign in the forest that said my marriage was likely to be successful because I married up. The article also claimed that healthier, happier marriages have more sex in them. (Wow! This just in! And people with more money are less likely to have financial problems and professional male figure skaters are more likely to be gay!)
So, of course, I pointed out to my wife that our marriage is more likely to be successful if we had more sex. She pointed out another study that showed that women were more likely to have sex with their husbands if their husbands did more chores around the house. I said, "Tell me which chores I need to do for sex and I will do them all right now!" To which she just laughed and changed the subject. See? No woman would ever make such a list, because she knows the man would do them. Then she said that she felt bad making me do chores since I work all day anyway and she knew I was too tired. And I agreed, yes, I was usually too tired for chores. "Uh huh," she said, "but you are never too tired for sex!" Well, no, but that's how much I love you! And then she does the big eye-roll and I go back to watching tv because she was washing the dishes at the time and I knew then what wasn't going to be happening later.
As for me, I dream of the day that I have to have sex with my wife in exchange for her mowing the lawn. (She doesn't know how good she has it!) But life is confusing and difficult that way. Which is totally why I married someone smarter than me.
~
A recent study showed that the couples who were happiest and had the lowest divorce rate were those where the woman was at least five years younger than her husband -- and when she's better educated.Mrs. Ditchman happens to be five years younger than me, and put that extra year of college under her belt to secure the diploma. Lucky me, today the statistics fall in my favor! (Some days they don't.)
It's one of those articles on one of those websites that has columns entitled "Orgasm of the Week" and, no, I don't read it, I just ended up clicking on links until I found myself in the Internet wilderness, at the foot of a sign in the forest that said my marriage was likely to be successful because I married up. The article also claimed that healthier, happier marriages have more sex in them. (Wow! This just in! And people with more money are less likely to have financial problems and professional male figure skaters are more likely to be gay!)
So, of course, I pointed out to my wife that our marriage is more likely to be successful if we had more sex. She pointed out another study that showed that women were more likely to have sex with their husbands if their husbands did more chores around the house. I said, "Tell me which chores I need to do for sex and I will do them all right now!" To which she just laughed and changed the subject. See? No woman would ever make such a list, because she knows the man would do them. Then she said that she felt bad making me do chores since I work all day anyway and she knew I was too tired. And I agreed, yes, I was usually too tired for chores. "Uh huh," she said, "but you are never too tired for sex!" Well, no, but that's how much I love you! And then she does the big eye-roll and I go back to watching tv because she was washing the dishes at the time and I knew then what wasn't going to be happening later.
As for me, I dream of the day that I have to have sex with my wife in exchange for her mowing the lawn. (She doesn't know how good she has it!) But life is confusing and difficult that way. Which is totally why I married someone smarter than me.
~
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I am feeling pretty good today, thank you for asking. The knee pain went away just as soon as I stopped running on it, and my understanding is that it comes back when you start running again, which is what makes the healing so tricky. And my fist feels great until I start pounding nails with it! (Maybe that's not a good metaphor.) Anyway, I'm going to have to talk myself into a couple days off, which is a good thing.
Of course, today's patio cover tear-down didn't help. There was a lot of ladder and sledgehammer work, and I often wonder if it all qualifies as "cross training." I count it as such, and just continue on. (If they ever have a running event that includes drill-drivers and claw-hammers, I will be the regional champion.) But it was a beautiful blue-sky and gusty fall day. And I chose the Carlsbad transfer station over the one in Escondido, just for the view.
Thanks to everyone who came to the Little Digger's party bearing presents that whirrr and clickkk and sing and siren and bellow and buzzz, especially at full volume before sunup. You will be amply rewarded in the afterlife for such thoughtful gestures, no doubt, and I will continue my evangelizing of all the virtues and pleasures of simple reading, and at as early an age as possible. Surely, I jest, but books are lovely, silent things. Currently, the Little Digger is utterly enamored of this piece, which was clearly designed by modern devils intent on torturing family-minded adults:
Woe to the giver.
(It was my loving sister.) But did we not all have one of these at some point in our childhood? And did our parents not bark and yell at us for inarticulated reasons at some point in our childhood? The classic Fisher-Price "Corn Popper" may be the earliest documented source of all broken relations between parent and child in the latter part of the 20th century.
It's an amazing toy, actually, alienating parents from their offspring since 1957. I admit that it is pretty gratifying when you push it to get that random PLOKKK-PLOKK-PLOKKKK sound, and yet, it is so impossibly annoying when someone else is at the helm. Like cigarettes and social drinking.
The Little Digger is pushing it right now. I may just leave the room, and look for my concentration elsewhere. (Hmmm... it was here before these cute kids came around...)
~
Of course, today's patio cover tear-down didn't help. There was a lot of ladder and sledgehammer work, and I often wonder if it all qualifies as "cross training." I count it as such, and just continue on. (If they ever have a running event that includes drill-drivers and claw-hammers, I will be the regional champion.) But it was a beautiful blue-sky and gusty fall day. And I chose the Carlsbad transfer station over the one in Escondido, just for the view.
Thanks to everyone who came to the Little Digger's party bearing presents that whirrr and clickkk and sing and siren and bellow and buzzz, especially at full volume before sunup. You will be amply rewarded in the afterlife for such thoughtful gestures, no doubt, and I will continue my evangelizing of all the virtues and pleasures of simple reading, and at as early an age as possible. Surely, I jest, but books are lovely, silent things. Currently, the Little Digger is utterly enamored of this piece, which was clearly designed by modern devils intent on torturing family-minded adults:
Woe to the giver.
(It was my loving sister.) But did we not all have one of these at some point in our childhood? And did our parents not bark and yell at us for inarticulated reasons at some point in our childhood? The classic Fisher-Price "Corn Popper" may be the earliest documented source of all broken relations between parent and child in the latter part of the 20th century.
It's an amazing toy, actually, alienating parents from their offspring since 1957. I admit that it is pretty gratifying when you push it to get that random PLOKKK-PLOKK-PLOKKKK sound, and yet, it is so impossibly annoying when someone else is at the helm. Like cigarettes and social drinking.
The Little Digger is pushing it right now. I may just leave the room, and look for my concentration elsewhere. (Hmmm... it was here before these cute kids came around...)
~
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Blew out my knee today.
Okay, not really. I think I'm fine. But I was at Mile 21.5, just a few paces past the Here Be Dragons! sign when something in my left knee went pop! I hesitated, limped a bit, and then started into it again and there was a pop-pop-pop-pop, like a flat tire on the freeway. So I quit right there, and walked the rest of the way home. I'm man enough to know when far is far.
Pretty sure it's the Iliotibial Band, which, if you spend ten seconds looking it up on the Internet, you will find it at the top of the list under "Most Common Running Injuries." Furthermore, if you look under "Causes" it will say "Excessive uphill running," which is exactly what I was doing at the time of the first pop. (See elevation chart, above.) I was out for a nice, long, easy run. Up early, I thought I'd jog down to the beach and out to the end of the pier, and then come back along the San Luis Rey River, which has a nice autumnal scent to it this time of year. Then I headed up the BIG HILL and felt so good I pushed myself. I pushed it good and hard, and then... pop! Like all those times I over-tightened nuts on the Chevy 454 in my boat. (They strip right off.)
So I'm hitting the Advil and ice, taking a down day or so. It's all hills around here, anyway, so what's a guy to do? And it's all office work today (well, mostly) but this knee problem probably won't bode well for tomorrow's solo patio cover teardown, but, again, what's a guy to do? Everyone's gotta work.
Here's my run! I put an aid marker where I quit out and walked on home.
~
Monday, October 26, 2009
As Mrs. Ditchman headed out the door for work this morning I said something like, "I feel that everything is a mess right now, from the house all the way to work, and I don't know how to make sense of it." She was in agreement, but that's the way it's always meted out to us after one of our great-gatsbyian party weekends. There are no servants.
Her side of the family rolled in on Friday, stayed, partied, and then rolled out on Sunday with all the slow, unstoppable force of a harvest moon tide. It was nice having the lot of them, but that tide buoys these ships and causes them to throw anchor. My family, on the other hand, blew in like a meteorological event from the season closer of Storm Chasers. That's fun, too, but have it all happen at once and you could write a book about it. I was up until 1AM on Saturday doing dishes and trying to right the craft, which was when I thoughtlessly had that last glass of wine that almost had me leaning over the stern, but still leaving me green with sea-sickness most of Sunday. Then we went to another party, which will not be mentioned.
But it was a hoot, all Saturday. The Little Digger turned 1 (actually, this Thursday) and seemed to enjoy it through and through, in spite of the burgeoning molars. The Little Ditchman had the time of her life, too, with all her cousins and buddies hopping unstoppably about the yard. I think we are incapable of having "a small, intimate party of family and only close friends" since our family alone amounts to about 35 people. I mean, say "party" and there's already 35 people on the invite list, all ages, but it's nothing to complain about, and, rather, something to be proud of. (Not the amount, mind you, but the mere fact that none of us resorted to killing each other.)
There is sand all over the house. And flies. The sand, I know where it came from. The flies, I cannot say, but they line up at the infrared sensor on the garbage can and let each other in and out of the tossed meat and cake buffet. Every sheet, towel, and pillow case needs to be laundered today, and there are piles of dirty clothes, all thankful for my recently exhibited dryer-repair prowess. This is the last week of October. Most of my monthly goals have not been met. Halloween is Saturday, and then? A long walk home from 2009. But it's a nice night, and I'm looking forward to it.
Nearly all of the surviving Kanowitz blood was present.
~
Her side of the family rolled in on Friday, stayed, partied, and then rolled out on Sunday with all the slow, unstoppable force of a harvest moon tide. It was nice having the lot of them, but that tide buoys these ships and causes them to throw anchor. My family, on the other hand, blew in like a meteorological event from the season closer of Storm Chasers. That's fun, too, but have it all happen at once and you could write a book about it. I was up until 1AM on Saturday doing dishes and trying to right the craft, which was when I thoughtlessly had that last glass of wine that almost had me leaning over the stern, but still leaving me green with sea-sickness most of Sunday. Then we went to another party, which will not be mentioned.
But it was a hoot, all Saturday. The Little Digger turned 1 (actually, this Thursday) and seemed to enjoy it through and through, in spite of the burgeoning molars. The Little Ditchman had the time of her life, too, with all her cousins and buddies hopping unstoppably about the yard. I think we are incapable of having "a small, intimate party of family and only close friends" since our family alone amounts to about 35 people. I mean, say "party" and there's already 35 people on the invite list, all ages, but it's nothing to complain about, and, rather, something to be proud of. (Not the amount, mind you, but the mere fact that none of us resorted to killing each other.)
There is sand all over the house. And flies. The sand, I know where it came from. The flies, I cannot say, but they line up at the infrared sensor on the garbage can and let each other in and out of the tossed meat and cake buffet. Every sheet, towel, and pillow case needs to be laundered today, and there are piles of dirty clothes, all thankful for my recently exhibited dryer-repair prowess. This is the last week of October. Most of my monthly goals have not been met. Halloween is Saturday, and then? A long walk home from 2009. But it's a nice night, and I'm looking forward to it.
Nearly all of the surviving Kanowitz blood was present.
~
Friday, October 23, 2009
DRYER UPDATE: It was the thermal fuse, for those of you wagering from home. The ignitor is fine. I found an ohmmeter for $15 at Home Depot and looked into it myself. Further research online showed that this was the most common culprit of Whirpool dryer failure. I put on my Construction t-shirt and went down to the appliance parts place, were I was surprised to find a collection of extraordinarily helpful appliance repair men. Friendly, even! They sold me the part for $15, (though I'd seen it for sale on the Internet for $8) and I noted their charges for doing the appliance repair: $50 for coming out + minimum $50 labor charge + parts. So I saved a hundred bucks, learned about dryer repair, and got a new ohmmeter out of it. For many people, Knowledge is Power. For me, Knowledge is Savings.
Mrs. Ditchman was pleased, which is all I aspire to, and it made yesterday a perfect one before it had barely begun. She woke up again at 4:47 this morning, because that is the routine, and we are still dreading the coming time change. But I can't let that bother me, as we have other fish to fry, other meat to grill.
"Grilling meat" is sort of the vague theme we are going with, for this weekend's birthday party for the Little Digger, who turns 1 with a full set of incisors. Folks from both sides of the family and all parts of California will be in attendance, so we tried to slim down the list on this go-round and not invite everyone on the world wide web, like we usually do. Mrs. Ditchman scrambled to clean house yesterday, and did a fine job. She is intent on making the cake. I told her to just buy a cake, but she would not have it. Evidently, the mom must make the cake, on top of everything else. I suspect that if all else fails, you have made the cake, and then people at the event go, The mommy made the cake? Super mommy! But ours is super anyway, with or without cake.
She said she was considering making it look like a soccer ball, but I questioned whether that was an appropriate match, so to speak, to the "grilling" theme. I suggested a cake in the shape of a big steak, which I thought was hilarious, but it did not fly. Then I suggested a cake in the shape of a Weber Grill. A big, round chocolate one, held aloft on three sturdy sticks. I think she considered it for a moment, before curbing her ambitions. I googled "Weber Grill cakes." It appears to have been done.
Amazing. There are some divinely inspired cakes out there, and evidently some moms have all the time. But when I see cakes like that, I only see neglected children. And no wishes to blow for.
The weather is near perfect! God must be drinking pinot and playing bocci, or doing some such happy thing. Anyway, God, I appreciate it.
Have a happy weekend.
~
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