September 30, 2008

Your Media Is Lying To You.

Sitting in our living room last night, quietly caring for our newborn daughter, we were watching news reports about the bailout rejection and the corresponding stock market drop. Both cable news organizations screamed bloody murder and blamed Democrats for screwing everything up; predictably, the talking heads all pointed fingers at the House leadership for failing to secure the necessary votes to pass the legislation. Nowhere do I remember anyone actually tallying the votes for us to hear.

Later, I made a trip to the grocery store during which I listened to the BBC World Service on NPR. The commentator quickly summed up the actual facts: a majority of Republican legislators in the house voted against the bill, and a majority of Democrats voted for it. So how is that a Democratic failure? Especially when most news services are now saying that a flood of angry pressure from constituents opposed to the bill played a crucial role in its defeat?

While I don't want to see our flawed, jury-rigged economic system collapse under its own bloated weight, I do wish there was some way to resolve the situation without having to pay to prop up the institutions that have brought it so close to collapse. I do hope that the final bill presented to and passed by the House has provisions for binding oversight and regulation; it's been made pretty plain in the last six months that the free-market system isn't so free.

Posted on September 30, 2008 10:35 AM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 27, 2008

Finley, Day 6

Hi, little one. I haven't written anything in a few days because, well, we're still getting used to your schedule. Or, actually, to your stomach's schedule. Your first night at home was a bit of a struggle, because we don't know how you like to do things and neither do you. So there was a lot of crying, pacing, holding, feeding, and napping, and we were left exhausted the next morning while you slept in like a drunk after a bender.

Thursday evening was better, because the dairy delivery arrived, much to your mother's relief. So you fed for shorter periods of time and passed out for longer periods, meaning we were all able to get a little more sleep. I did have to get up and rock you for about an hour and a half Friday morning while we both watched the early version of Headline News, just to give Mama a rest. You like the rocking. Actually, you like the walking. Last night I paced the upstairs rooms for about fifteen minutes until I got you to close your big blue eyes, and then I watched a preview of Clone Wars while you were passed out on my lap like a warm loaf of dough. You have this hilarious tic during sleep where you've been still for a long while, and suddenly throw your hands up in the air like your team just scored a touchdown. You also like to start with your head up in the crook of my elbow, and after an hour or so you've wiggled your way down to the other side of my lap, all fast asleep.

We still haven't graduated to mechanically-assisted devices yet, even though we have a garage full of them. You simply don't like to not be held. I know Mama smells good, and when I wear my fleece, I'm at least above room temperature, but this may not work out for us three down the road, girl. At some point you're going to have to be cool with the crib or the co-sleeper, because Mama and I need our rest. I'm going to keep trying, and I guess we'll have to settle you into things.

Grandpa also stopped by to visit yesterday, something he's been chomping at the bit to do since, well, a month before you were born. You obliged him by passing out cold, and he held you in his lap like a piece of the finest, most delicate china he'd ever seen. I think he likes you, even if he's afraid you will suddenly shatter into a million pieces.

Finn, I have to apologize in advance for the whole diaper thing. You and I have at least three years ahead of us, which means my icy hands will be wiping your bare bottom approximately 4,350 times before you're potty trained. Daddy has low, low blood pressure, which means his hands are always cold. The thing is, though, you lose your freaking mind when anybody changes you. When the drawers come off, the world comes to an end, and as soon as we button you back up, it's all sunshine and roses. Laying in bed with you napping between us after a particularly stressful changing, Mama reflected, "She doesn't like having her clothes taken off." Which, in retrospect, might be a good thing. It means I may get to spend less time chasing boys off with a shotgun after you hit puberty.

Posted on September 27, 2008 5:34 PM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 24, 2008

Baby, Day Three.

Hi, little one. Daddy is typing one-handed with you laying asleep across my forearm, a hold I've been practicing for years on the cats. It's nice to know they've been handy for something, because other than the simple-minded one, they want nothing to do with you. You've been crashed out in my arms like a starlet after a five-day coke binge, and it's a beautiful, wondrous thing, because Daddy needs to get a little work done, and Mama is sleeping alone for the first time since labor started.

Today was your first visit to the pediatrician, at the tender hour of 9:15, and you seemed to tolerate the exam pretty well until we had to take you out of the sleep sack. Instead of doing the bundle thing with blankets like they showed us at the hospital, you have a green fleece sack with velcro wings which are supposed to contain your arms, which you like to flap around your head like a wounded bat. You're actually getting skilled at getting out of the sack on your own, which is why I've started calling you Finley Houdini; every time I turn around you're wiggling around like the DJ told you to wave your hands in the air like you just don't care. Ordinarily that would be fine, but your nails are long and you keep scratching your own pretty face. I'm terrified to do it, but tomorrow I have to bust out the file and remove your talons before you slice open Mama's boob. So cool it with the jazz hands until I screw up my courage, OK?

Last night was pretty rough on us three because the milk fairy hasn't arrived yet, and you're getting frustrated. Bless your mama, though; she keeps at it, even though your suction is powerful enough to swallow tables, chairs, and large household appliances. She's tired and sore but continues to offer up the tap, chewing her lip when you latch on like a feral wolf. Finn, when you're fifteen and she won't let you wear makeup and she just doesn't understand and she's the worst mother ever, I'm going to remind you of all this before I make you go apologize to her.

We have found, though, that there's a reason "pinky" rhymes with "binky". In the hospital, when we needed to give Mama a break, I plugged in and that seemed to comfort you; you'd happily suck the little finger on my right hand down to a nubbin. That worked great until last night, when you suddenly realized, THIS IS NOT BOOB. No amount of talking, singing, rocking, or pacing would make it better, and child, we can't have that. I now fully understand the visceral, primal reaction parents have to a crying infant, and you didn't even come out of my stomach.

Knowing we would spend another sleepless night unless other arrangements were made, a newborn binky was procured, boiled, and offered, and lo, the gods did weep with joy: the offer was accepted with a sigh, a yawn, and a couple hours of blessed silence.

Hang tight, kid, milk is coming.

Posted on September 24, 2008 5:12 PM | link to this entry | Comments (2)

September 23, 2008

The Eagle Has Landed.

Mama and baby are napping upstairs, while the cats prowl the halls, wondering what the hell is going on and what is that noise?

Posted on September 23, 2008 3:54 PM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 22, 2008

Dear Finley Rose.

Hello, little one. It's so good to finally see your face! You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful little girl I've ever laid eyes on.

Up until your arrival yesterday, your mother has been a whirlwind of energy, and in the last month I'd estimate she's made an entire grocery aisle worth of prepared meals, labeled, sealed, and fitted neatly into our kitchen freezer. She decided, during her bout with morning sickness, that she couldn't count on me to feed her anything with flavor, so she took matters into her own hands. Between all of that work, she's shopped for the final few items we need, organized the baby accessories, cleaned the room, and hung the animals on the wall.

We also finally moved everything downstairs and into the office, and the door to the old exam room is in, courtesy of Mr. Scout and his trusty pneumatic nailgun. Daddy loves you, he loves your Mama, and he loves chocolate cake. But Daddy LOVES the pneumatic nailgun. When I told Mr. Scout I'd installed all the trim and woodwork on the porch by drill and hammer, his eyes got big as dinnerplates. "That's old-school," he said, as he shook his head sadly.

It was a good thing we got that done on Saturday afternoon, too, kid, because mama woke me up at about 2:45 on Sunday morning with bad, bad cramps and contractions in her upper back. "I've never felt anything like this before," she said. It was at this point I knew your arrival was near. Contractions were short, anywhere from 15 to 30 seconds, but as soon as we started timing them, they got longer and averaged about five minutes apart. Mama paced the bedroom while I notified the doula, and she muscled her way through some earth-shattering pain laying on the bed. The breathing exercises we'd practiced seemed to help her get through a little easier, but I have to tell you girl, your mama is a strong woman.

The books tell you there's a point when things are kicking into higher gear: it's when the mother-to-be hits the first sign of doubt. When mama said, "I don't think I can do this," I knew I needed to get her into the car and on the road as soon as I could. but first, we needed to get down the stairs and outside. We timed the next contraction's valley and she hustled downsairs to lay on the couch, while I ran outside and debated the wisdom of backing the Jeep up to the front door. I settled for parking it on the lawn directly outside the hedge, figuring you would not appreciate bouncing over two four-inch speedbumps as we came off the curb to the driveway. Immediately after another contraction, we hustled out to the car and sped off to the hospital as the sun peeked over the horizon.

When you're old enough to understand, I'll thank you for throwing the switch at 6AM on a Sunday, because there was nobody on the road other than the three people I almost hit while trying to dial the wrong numbers for both the doctor and the hospital. Opting for safety, I hung up the phone and we bombed into the hospital unannounced, leaving the Jeep in the valet spot, and raced up to the sixteenth floor to the delivery ward.

After wheeling your mama into the tiny Registration office, we had to fill out the paperwork they promised us we wouldn't have to fill out while your mother did her best not to scream her head off or strangle the harried woman typing at the computer. Once we made it into our room, they got mama into a bed and had a midwife check your progress while friendly nurses offered epidurals. There was a brief glimmer of hope in mama's eyes at the thought of drugs, but I asked them to give us some time and made her concentrate on breathing. When the midwife quietly announced "eight centimeters", I could hear the gears click into overdrive, any chance of drugs evaporate, and we were suddenly surrounded by trays of instruments, monitoring equipment, and busy nurses.

The doula was driving in from Pennsylvania, so she got in about a half an hour after we did. She was great in helping me help your mama through the last hour of labor, especially when the doubt hit her again. This was at the point when she was having problems resisting the urge to push. Right about that time, the doctor came in, your water finally broke, and HOLY SHIT, WE'RE HAVING A BABY: you were fully dilated and at 0 station.

I will say this many times in my life, and you can always return here to read it in print: There's no way in hell I could have done what your mama did, even if I was drugged to the gills. She did everything herself with no pharmaceutical aid, and after she squoze your head through her vajayjay, she was cracking jokes with the doctor while I was sitting on a nearby chair, trying to get blood back into my head. Someday you may have children of your own, and robots might deliver them painlessly with the aid of magic Star Trek drugs, but you can always tell people your mama is HARD-CORE. I imagine the only way I could come close to understanding that kind of pain would be to drag a car with no wheels from one side of the city to the other using only my penis. Oh, and NO THANK YOU.

When you finally popped out, little one, it was like the whole world just came to a stop while you took a good deep breath and started crying: I've never heard a sweeter sound in my life. And, a girl!

Holding your warm little body in my hands for the first time, I felt that cliched feeling where my heart felt so big and full of love for you and your mama that it about burst. You squirmed a little, you cooed a little, and your big blue eyes blinked all around the room as if you were checking out a hip new club. And then you looked in my eyes, and squinched up your face, and sneezed, and looked at me again, as if to say, What is that fuzzy shit on your face? you better not try and kiss me with that beard, Mister. It was that moment when I realized I'd have not one but two women in my life giving me a hard time, and I was in love.

Posted on September 22, 2008 8:07 PM | link to this entry | Comments (7)

September 18, 2008

Give Thanks for Coffee and Carrot Cake.

I stopped into Zeke's Coffee in Lauraville this afternoon to say hi to the Toddfather and pick up some beans. While I was there, he gave me an impromptu primer in small-batch coffee roasting and let me shoot a few pictures.

Zeke's takes pride in buying beans from single plantation growers, insuring the beans are of the highest quality, and roasts them in small batches using hot fluid air, much like a popcorn popper, for a consistent and even roast.

They've been in business since 2005, and their coffee is featured in restaurants and cafes across Baltimore. The selection has grown by leaps and bounds since I'd been there last, and they have a huge selection of organic and fair trade varieties. I can't wait for tomorrow morning's cup!

On the subject of food and friends, I should also mention the excellent meal we shared with Mr. and Mrs. Scout the other evening at the Salsa Grille, a Spanish/Latin American restaurant hidden in an otherwise unassuming strip mall just inside the Beltway. While the bench seating was a little uncomfortable, the atmosphere was friendly, the wait staff was attentive, and the food was delicious. I had the Caribbean Paella (I know, I know, but I wanted chicken and seafood) which was large enough for two people but good enough to make me try to eat the whole thing. I left impressed enough to move this to the top of our local restaurant choices.

After dinner, I tempted our company with the promise of cake, and we stopped into the Catonsville Gourmet to see what they had left. Even though the wait staff was closing up for the night, they carved us four slices of cake, offered us milk and coffee, plied us with water, and made us feel at home, something I doubt we'd find at most other restaurants where the chairs were already up on the tables. (Their service has always been nothing but impeccable). We were finally able to get Mrs. Scout the carrot cake she wanted for her birthday, while Jen and I were able to satisfy the craving for chocolate cake we've had for a week. And, because we were commenting on it but did not order it, they gave us a slice of Smith Island cake on the house. Their desserts are all from Sugarbakers, and they did not disappoint. It felt great to get out and enjoy good company on a random Tuesday given the rapidly approaching Life Event. Especially with cake.

Jen has gotten the baby's room as close to done as possible; this weekend I will be moving the office downstairs and clearing out space for a third bedroom so that we might finally be able to clean something. Mr. Scout will be by on Saturday to install the final door while I try to tie up a bunch of unfinished projects before the weekend evaporates. (The lawn? I mowed it this evening, for the first time in a month.)

Posted on September 18, 2008 10:43 PM | link to this entry | Comments (2)

Badvertising.

So they've announced that the Seinfeld/Gates ads for Microsoft are officially ending. While I understand the underlying concept of the two ads I've seen (are there more?) I'm still puzzled by the execution.

They are using Bill Gates to personalize Microsoft, making it less of a monolith and more into a friendly, cheerful entity. Seinfeld is there to be the comic foil and provide the yuks, showing how Gates can be an everyman like the rest of us. Seems simple, right? It would be, if the jokes and execution weren't so oblique. It's like the writers tried so hard to be hip and self-aware that they forgot the concept completely, so the situations and dialogue become a 30-second riff on shopping and "Real America", subjugating the message behind "We're stinking rich and look how funny it is to live with the little people" jokes. Yeah, so we all have a bitchy grandmother who lives with us, and we eat leftovers, and we have lousy taste. I'm sure you have an ugly lamp somewhere on your estate too, Mr. Gates.

So what does this say about the brand? To me it emphasizes the divide between the huge, wealthy corporation (Gates) and the customers it services (the family), and the tone of the jokes highlight how it looks down on the rest of us. Seinfeld is there for some unknown reason; his presence is pretty much superfluous in the context of the setup. The same effect could have been achieved without paying him millions to show up, and could have humanized the Gates character even more.

Let's examine the Gates character for a minute, too. I'm calling him a character because he is there to portray the human side of the company, and the in-joke is that he's "just like the rest of us", even though he could buy and sell any country on earth. He does get humanized, and they even show his sense of humor, something the Microsoft PR machine was never really able to achieve. But no amount of kidding around will change the fact that he is one of the five wealthiest men on the planet, and that he will never be "one of us." When his Vista install crashes, he has five of the smartest men at Microsoft immediately parachute into his billion-dollar estate to fix it, while we all have to sit on hold with the Geek Squad for three hours. They also never made a visceral connection between Microsoft and Gates. It's implied, but it doesn't go any further than that, and his reason for being in the commercials is never really explored or explained. Finally, and this is the most obvious and perplexing point of fact: He doesn't work there anymore. He works for a foundation he started which tries to find creative ways to give away billions of his dollars in aid. Yes, he will always be the figurehead for the company, but that just underlines their most serious problem: They have no real brand identity.

So what does this million-dollar marketing effort achieve? Absolutely nothing. It leaves us all scratching our heads attempting to divine the message. Is it about Seinfeld? Is it about shoes? What is it supposed to mean? The end result is an ambiguous celebrity endorsement that showcases the failure of Microsoft to be able to connect, on an individual level, with the billions of people it touches every day. My guess is that a lot of people are in big trouble as a result of this campaign, and that there is a scramble to reshoot new ads which will be as bland and cold as the previous attempts to promote the company.

Posted on September 18, 2008 9:27 AM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 14, 2008

Creeping Toward The Finish Line

After two days of all-out work, I've got the porch very close to completion. The baseboards, toe molding, and finish molding are all in and painted. Network drops are wired and ready. Jen picked out a beautiful Pratt-Lambert light gray for the walls, which keeps the room light, neutral, and accents the bright white woodwork. The only things that remain are the drywall above the door to the bathroom, which needs to be primed and painted, and areas around the switchplates which need to be sanded, primed and painted.

There is a little touch-up to be done with the color here and there, but I'll wait until the other stuff is ready to go.

Posted on September 14, 2008 9:15 PM | link to this entry | Comments (5)

September 12, 2008

XenophobAmerica.

Yesterday afternoon, I heard a story on NPR where they were exploring the presidential campaign in terms of race; specifically they wanted to know if the racial experience of the voter had anything to do with their ultimate choice of candidate. So, they got a bunch of people from York, Pennsylvania together and asked them questions about the candidates and their own histories. One woman's comment stuck out in particular, and it's been bothering me ever since:

"I look at Obama, and I have a question in my mind," she says. "Years ago, was he taken into the Muslim faith? And my concern is the only way you are no longer a Muslim is if you are dead, killed. So in my mind, he's still alive."

Let's just sit and let that sink in for a minute.

Really, think about that. Can this woman be for real? Can she be so ignorant of other religions that she views Islam like it's the Borg? That she views Muslims as mindless zombies? I shook my head at the radio, and another thought came into my head. There are millions of other people in America that believe the same thing. At this point, I got scared. Because, I think, we are that stupid. We're a bunch of rich, ignorant xenophobes with too much power and no education. If any of us stopped to look around at the country we live in (cue your Toby Keith song here) we'd realize there are Muslims all around us. Muslims shop in the same stores, drive the same cars, pay their taxes, and quietly raise their families, just like the rest of us. To say that a Muslim cannot be considered for the Presidency of the United States on account of faith is to say that the First Amendment to our constitution is worthless. (You know, the one about free speech, freedom of religion, assembly, etc.)

Jen heard the same broadcast and we talked about it a little over dinner. She brought up the controversy surrounding John F. Kennedy's election as the only Roman Catholic president, and this evening I did a little digging to find out more. This is taken from a speech he gave on the 12th of September, 1960, to the Greater Houston Ministerial Association:

I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute; where no Catholic prelate would tell the President—should he be Catholic—how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote; where no church or church school is granted any public funds or political preference, and where no man is denied public office merely because his religion differs from the President who might appoint him, or the people who might elect him.

...I believe in a President whose views on religion are his own private affair, neither imposed upon him by the nation, nor imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office.

It's pretty amazing to think there was a national debate about the dangers of electing a Catholic to the presidency as little as fifty years ago. History shows he didn't hand the country over to the Pope, and most people would agree he was a pretty effective, successful president following his own moral and ethical compass.

For the record, I believe Islam is a religion of peace, its rich history and meaning sullied by a handful of radical fundamentalists pushing their own agendas. It's frightening to see the same narrow-minded fundamentalism gaining traction here in America, especially when the national debate increasingly gets framed in terms of religion. My America is a land where anyone can practice any religion they choose without fear of persecution, and any citizen has the ability to be elected to public office, like Kennedy said. After all, this crazy, beautiful, maddening country was founded by people fleeing religious persecution. It's quite sad how often we as a country forget that. It's sadder still to hear how polarized and ignorant people can be.

Posted on September 12, 2008 11:30 AM | link to this entry | Comments (3)

September 10, 2008

New Doors Are Here.

Two new doors were delivered yesterday while I was painting trim, and my excitement got the better of me. So I put one of them in last night and covered up the hole above it. This evening I'm going to try and get the last of the woodworking done (baseboards and door molding) so that we can get some paint on the walls.

Posted on September 10, 2008 12:12 PM | link to this entry | Comments (3)

The Genius and The Idiot.

So iTunes 8 came out yesterday, and the big news was that they added the Genius, which is essentially a recommendation plugin based on the music already in your library. I installed it on the music server in our basement (101.22GB and going strong) and let it churn through all 20,000 songs overnight. This morning it cheerily announced it was done, and I've now got a pile of recommendations to sort through—which is good, because I'm bored with most of the music I have.

Posted on September 10, 2008 9:30 AM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 8, 2008

Dear Swiss Chard.

Yeah, I thought that sounded pretty stupid too. It's supposed to be indicative of your overall length, which they claim should be 19 inches. You're also supposed to be six and a third pounds in weight, which gave your mother a laugh this afternoon. I'd guess you hit that particular benchmark a few weeks ago by the sound of things.

You seem to be doing just fine, according to all the doctors and checkups; the hiccups you have constantly are normal, from what they say, and that'll go away as you get older. Unless, of course, you share the same unfortunate and embarrassing reaction to very spicy foods like your father, which means they will fire up just as your nose starts running, and you'll have to escape to the restrooms to be polite and keep your malfunctioning sinus and gastrointestinal systems from hiccuping snot all over your date. Welcome to the family, kid.

Mama is doing well, although you're making it increasingly harder for her to sleep. All the books have line drawings of sleepy pregnant women perched on great architectural stacks of pillows like they have successfully completed a Tetris level. This, apparently, is propaganda underwritten by the pillow industry, because we bought a shitload of pillows for your mother to try and wedge between critical pressure points in order to find peace, but she has not had success. She spends much of the night shifting from one side to the other in a futile attempt to keep her hips and back from aching, and the pillows usually find their way to the floor by morning. The books suggest propping the belly (your space capsule) on a firm pillow; when she tried this, she found it impossible to breathe. She's actually getting a lot of that now, come to think of it. Can you please get your feet out of her diaphragm?

One of our favorite games, when I have time to lay on the bed or the couch next to her, is to watch you moving around in there. You're definitely head-down, and we can feel your little butt right up front, as well as your feet. It's definitely a trip to watch you run a hand down the side of her stomach, or kick a knee out and watch her skin ripple and wave.

So now we play the waiting game. I'm starting, this week, to keep the Jeep gassed up and pointed toward the road for a clean getaway. Your mother is packing the hospital bag. The doula is on standby. Today I'm writing my maternity email to current clients so that they're in the loop on your arrival and my disappearance. There's no rush, kid—one helpful thing to know about your mother and father is that even though we have the best of intentions, we're almost always late.

You asked how's the porch coming? It's looking better each day. The baseboards are almost in, the woodwork around the door is up, and everything has at least one coat of primer. I had to do some clever woodworking to make the baseboard along the front of the house completely level, because they kept the original porch floor when they enclosed the room, which was sloped slightly downhill. You shouldn't notice that once I put in some toe molding, though. Aside from a new door and finish paint, we're almost home free!

Posted on September 8, 2008 1:23 PM | link to this entry | Comments (1)

September 6, 2008

Get That Off My Lawn

The other day, I was hanging the light fixture in the nursery, a room which affords a beautiful view of the street in front of our house. Up on a ladder, I was attempting to untangle a bunch of ancient fabric-covered wires without stripping too much of the insulation and torching our house, when a strange sound caught my attention, and I happened to glance down at the hedge that fronts our lawn. A water bottle had just landed at the base of the hedge, and the remainder of the water was illuminated by the afternoon sunlight as it sprayed from the top and fell back to earth. The fellow who had thrown the bottle continued walking up the street past the house, oblivious.

A few things flashed through my mind at that moment, the first few of which involved violence. I imagined picking up the bottle and throwing it directly at the back of his head. I had a clear image of the bottle in my fist as it connected with his solar plexus. I could see how snugly one of our garbage cans fit his body as I brought it down over his shoulders, our household refuse mingling with his hair and staining his work shirt.

Instead, my feet landed on the floor of the room and in the low bark I learned from my father, I yelled at him to pick the bottle back up at a volume that stopped him in his tracks. He motioned the inability to hear me, and I repeated myself clearly: PICK THAT BOTTLE UP OFF MY LAWN. He peered up at the house, waved weakly at it, then said, "I'm sorry, Mister," and retrieved his bottle from the grass. I don't suppose he could see me clearly, but the voice yelling at him from the house clearly spooked the shit out of him. If he'd seen his conscience in the flesh, he may not have been so conciliatory—I'd guess he outweighed me by a hundred or so pounds—but he was the soul of contrition to the Voice Of God.

In retrospect, I don't know what made me angrier, the fact that he was littering, or the fact that it was my lawn. I personally can't stand litter, and the idea of simply throwing something out the window or on the ground as I'm walking does not compute. I suppose it's fitting, then, that I own a house on a minor thoroughfare where litter tends to be swept up by the wind and into our bushes so that I can clean it up. I'm not the tidiest of homeowners. I don't have thousands to spend on weekly landscaping, and my bushes aren't perfectly manicured. But that doesn't mean it's OK to finish half a bottle of water and toss it into my yard. What is it with people?

Posted on September 6, 2008 4:26 PM | link to this entry | Comments (4)

September 4, 2008

South & Lombard, Tuesday Afternoon.

I could use a little luck this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Posted on September 4, 2008 10:25 AM | link to this entry | Comments (0)

September 2, 2008

F*** Verizon.

So here I am at Panera again using their wi-fi because Verizon DSL is down in my area. For the fifth time in a month. The guy on the phone decided my trouble was worth $10 and credited our next bill, but I think what they're doing is deliberately plugging and unplugging the router every couple of weeks to get DSL customers like us to upgrade to fiber. (Strangely enough, fiber was the first thing Mr. $10 wanted to talk to me about). So I'm about a millimeter away from calling the *gulp* cable company.

Labor Day Weekend was filled with lots of labor. There are four coats of water-based polyurethane down on the porch floor, and I started installing baseboard yesterday. I don't know how well the water-base will hold up, but working with it is about a million times easier than oil-base.

The nursery is one step closer to being finished: the futon is out and a new dresser/changing table is in. IKEA, in their infinite Swedish wisdom, decided it would be a great idea to make an entire family of furniture and then offer each model in a different color scheme. So the big honking chest of drawers is offered in a pleasing dark brown stain, and the normal, changing-table sized dresser we like is offered in white melamine and red or yellow stain. We opted for the low price tag and red stain, figuring it wouldn't clash with the wall color. I like it better than I thought I would.

Back in 2003 we were browsing through an antique store and stumbled upon an old glass shade which looked perfect for a nursery. This weekend I bought a new light so that I could ditch the glass and use the fixture to finally hang it. it turned out the glass in the box was busted into about thirty pieces, so everyone made out alright.

I also cleaned up the Jeep and put the seat base in. I'd like to extend a hearty middle finger to the Graco corporation, who see fit to add a WARNING label and a DANGER sticker to every flat surface of the seat, base, and stroller, but can't be bothered to spend five minutes to design an installation guide properly. No wonder so many people get this shit wrong. I have to assume that the lap belt goes through the two big loops in the plastic base, but that whole thing seems sketchy and loose to me. So I'm going to get it checked out by the fire department and then bungee the shit out of it so that it won't move an inch.

That cabinet I've been working on since last freaking year is slowly nearing completion; the main section is finished but I had to resand and stain one of the doors because it went way too dark on the final coat. The shelves and back are finished, and hopefully with a couple of coats of poly on the doors it'll be ready for assembly.