Category: TMBG

We can’t be silenced ‘cuz THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS and what are we gonna do unless they are?

See the medical chart with the random zig zag

Now I’ll help it decide,
I palindrome I

 

The other day, I mentioned about the well check doctor’s appointment for my son. Recently, I had one for myself, too.

The tests came back today. It turns out that I have good blood pressure, good cholestrol levels, good everything… except that I’m too well fed.

For someone who is convinced that tragedy and death are waiting around every corner, the news that I am healthy, and need to stop crying and get off my butt is a rude awakening.

I guess I’m awake now.

 

They’ll need a crane

NPR’s Morning edition ran this article about the recently announced separation of Al and Tipper Gore. It rankles me that the article draws the conclusion that the dissolution of this 40 year marriage is somehow a “celebration for life.”

Holy Crap! What the hell is wrong with you, NPR? I can’t imagine how terrible a heartbreak it must be to discover after 40 years of a shared life that includes military service, a successful career in the legislature, the vice presidency, being robbed of the presidency, a Nobel prize, and many successful children; and a lifetime of triumph and tragedy; that Al and Tipper Gore have come to discover that the only feelings left are some combination of:

  1. infidelity
  2. resentment
  3. estrangement

Believe me. These are bad feelings.

You stupid are, NPR. Totally fucking stupid.

Ok… lyrics:

Don’t call me at work again (oh no)
The boss still hates me
And I’m just tired
And I don’t love you anymore
And there’s restaurant we should check out
Where the other nightmare people like to go
I meant nice people
Baby wait
I didn’t mean to say
Nightmare

I see you from my spy plane, baby… I see you walking on the ground

Today was my birthday. All of my facebook friends had something nice to say, and I made a point of responding to each of them. I also had a good day at work. Hooray.

My ex-wife got me “rock’em sock’em robots” and said they were from the kids. I must say: this kicks ass. She managed to get not just the perfect present for me, but the perfect present for me to play with the kids, which is my favorite thing to do. Although I’ll often get mad or sad when I think about how our marriage fell apart, or how she has a girlfriend (but I don’t), it is hard to dwell on those things when she does something nice that shows that she really is capable of understanding me.

The big happy, of course, is that my kids were so fabulous to me. They sang Happy Birthday and stuff, but we also had a great Memorial day weekend. It was the first weekend for the pool and even though I hate swimming, it was a good time because it is a joy to see my daughter teach my son to swim, and to see their enjoyment. There were some new lifeguards, and they all had an excellent attitude. I like them. So we went swimming on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. That’s a crazy swimming time. Good for my health too. All good, all good.

What does this have to do with spies? Nothing. It’s all preface. Really this post should have started on the next paragraph. Maybe it should have been two posts. Moving on…

My daughter (Agent D) and my son (Hat) have a secret agent codes, and a code name for me. I’m “the Rutabaga.”

The deal that we worked out in the divorce settlement works like this:

  • My ex-wife picks up the kids from the after-school program.
  • On some days, she drops them off with the babysitter.
  • On some days, she takes them to her house, which is far on the other side of town.
  • But on certain days, she is allowed to “exercise her parental rights” at my house during the interstitial period between when the after-school program ends and when I come home from work.

When my ex-wife is hanging out in my house, the kids are often anxious for me to get home. They seem to sense the liminality of that time period. Maybe to feel more in control, they’ve made a game out of spying on the comings and goings within and without of the house. They stake out the road leading up to the driveway; which they call “The Garden,” and the garage, which they call “the Salad.” When I walk into my house, I’ve got a ritual where I put my keys on a hook that is mounted near the garage entryway. If I don’t do that, then I tend to forget where I put them. Lately, I have been getting a bit panicky when I can’t find my keys. My keys, are known as “the Herring,” and the hook is known as “the Hook.”

On a typical day, my daughter will pretend like she is holding a walkie-talkie (actually it’s a hairbrush, held upside-down) and communicate with my son (who just uses his fingers):

“The Rutabaga has left the Garden and is in the Salad.”

“The Rutabaga is leaving the Salad, and is fishing for the Herring.”

“The Rutabaga has let the Herring go away from the school! The Herring is not on the hook!! Repeat: the Herring is not on the hook, but is swimming free!!! Agent D to Hat, Agent D to Hat: I am obtaining the Herring and intercepting the Rutabaga, stat. Cover me on radar, Hat: Standby for my co-ordinates. Transmitting co-ordinates!”

At which point my daughter will pick up my keys and say, “Daddy, I’m so glad you’re home. Don’t forget to hang up your keys.”

I will pretend like I didn’t hear any of that and give her a hug and a kiss. She’s a clever girl…