Thursday, November 29, 2007

Classic Sesame Street: I'm Gonna Miss You, Mr. Hooper!

I stumbled on this when I was searching for Sesame Street videos to share with Dipity. It may be that fatherhood has turned me into a blubbering wimp, but I cried when I first saw it. I was able to stop myself at choked up the next six times I watched it. When Dipity is older, I think I'll show this to her. It does a great job of dealing with death. The only problem I have with it is that the kid (aka Big Bird) accepts Gordon's "just because." Do kids really let something go after you whip out a "just because?" I can't help thinking that it is never that easy.

When my father left for the airport to pick up my sister, he brought two Hershey’s Kisses with him. He ate the first one without incident. The second one, however, shot out of his hand as soon as he successfully removed the wrapper. Upon losing the chocolate, he resumed paying attention to driving. He probably cursed under his breath for a while, but he left that out of the story. As his anger faded, he began to notice that the taste of that first piece of chocolate was still there in his mouth. The more he tasted it, the more he wanted that second piece. Eventually he stole a quick look, but it was almost eleven at night and he was looking for chocolate on the floor of a car with black carpet and upholstery. If he hadn't driven through a well lit area right after he took that first look, he may have given up. He didn't give up. It took a good twenty miles to find it, but find it he did. And enjoy it he did.

Family holidays are a lot like a search for chocolate on the floor of a car you’re driving seventy miles an hour. Or, at least holidays with my family are. Sometimes the search is successful, and sometimes you drive off the road and into a gully.

That we didn't end up in the gully this year was a miracle. My mother and I are the family chefs. This year one of us wasn't arriving until 1:00 p.m. and the other has breast cancer and received her second round of chemotherapy exactly a week earlier. My sister arrived Wednesday night. My sister, while now wonderfully adept at cleaning (this is a newly acquired skill), still can’t make a decent grilled cheese. I’m not sure I’d even eat a bowl of cereal if she prepared it for me. Now, I can’t make a grilled cheese either, but I can make a meringue, a cheesecake, and a multiple course Senegalese dinner. My dad might be able to make a grilled cheese sandwich. He is definitely a very capable, and at select times even eager, dishwasher. My father is also, however, obsessed with his father-in-law’s house. He is finally on the verge of selling the place. It’s been more than three years since my grandpa’s death; three years, four break-ins, and two copper thefts. After the last break-in, dad didn't replace the pipes. He had to replace them the week before Thanksgiving, though. There can be no inspection without them. There can be no sale without an inspection. Without a sale, my father will be denied what he is already referring to as his happiest day in three years. He wasn't too worried initially, because the buyers were in a hurry and it seemed possible that they could close on the house before Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, the inspector was sick. There can’t be an inspection without him either. So, the inspection was off until after Thanksgiving, leaving the house fully piped, completely empty, completely my father’s property, and completely dependent on him for protection. Did I mention that even without the threat of repeating a several thousand dollar repair for the third time, nothing drives my father out of the kitchen, if not the house, faster than extensive meal preparation?

It seemed to make the most sense to have me prepare the dinner on Friday with some help and supervision from my mom. It made the most sense to me. Dinner on Thursday meant that my mother would be responsible, at the very least, for the turkey and much of the early prep work. Not only had an emergency buzz cut transformed mom into Sigourney Weaver from Aliens, she was weaker than usual and feverish. She had a few other problems as well, but those qualify as too much information even for me. The decision was beyond obvious. So … dinner was on Thursday. My mother wanted Thanksgiving to be on Thursday. She also wanted to be very involved in making dinner. She generally gets what she wants. I tried to talk her out of it, but I’m not usually very successful at that regardless of the merits of my arguments. Mom, I love you anyway.

I wasn't in love with having dinner on Thursday. It seemed to me that we were risking a wreck at seventy miles an hour. I was wrong, though, because some strange things happened on the way to dinner. First, my mother forgot to bring her Turkey Bucks to the grocery store, so she had to buy chickens rather than turkey. Chickens don’t need to cook as long as turkey, which means that an on-time arrival would have me in the kitchen in time to be involved with dinner from the very start and put it on the table in time for my daughter to eat with the rest of us before she had to leave for bath and bed. Second, our plane arrived on time. We even had an extra seat, which meant fewer struggles for my wife and I and a better chance that we wouldn't be completely exhausted as we entered the kitchen. Third, my wife came with me. She was always coming, so her appearance doesn't qualify as strange. I think it is important, however. She is only a hair better than my sister when it comes to cooking, but she is a superb sous-chef. Besides, I know for sure that she’ll read this, so I need to say nice things about her. I love you honey! Fourth, the full fledged toddler I live with took her regular nap at Grandma and Granddad’s house. This meant that both my wife and I could be useful in the kitchen at the same time. Fifth, my mother’s fever never went over 100, and was gone by dinner time. Sixth, no one decided to try their hands at another porcini rubbed turkey. A few years ago, I decided that we should have a gourmet Christmas dinner. So, my mother, my wife, and I prepared a meal straight out of the pages of Bon Appetit. I woke up with an alarm on Christmas morning, and we had dinner on the table by 9:00 p.m. In between we cooked, argued, and cried. Never again will I participate in that kind of food effort. This year’s Thanksgiving meal consisted of chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, baked sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, squash, dressing, salad, and store bought rolls and pies. Seventh, only two meal related casualties occurred. I didn't make the pies from scratch. This was a miscarriage. I knew that even an on-time arrival left no time for pies. My mother’s baked sweet potatoes were a more unforeseen casualty. The just didn't get in the oven fast enough. Eighth, my dad was back in time for dinner and no one stole his pipes on Thanksgiving.

Dinner was on the table at 6:30, as planned. It looked good, and everyone was seemingly prepared to be pleased with it and each other. I couldn't believe it. It occurred to me that I might be in the wrong place, or the wrong dimension. I sat down for dinner waiting for an argument, a phone call, or an attack of murderous Martians. Instead, a pleasant conversation arrived. The food was good. The cats were relatively well behaved. We laughed at my bald mother, avoided mentioning any of the marital problems facing my sister and absent brother-in-law, and laughed at my daughter’s antics. My dad and sister washed the dishes, my wife put our daughter to bed, my mother laid down, and I sat on the couch and shook my head in wonder.

I was so pleased with the Thanksgiving dinner we saved from potential oblivion that the next day I happily dialed up a good friend. I hadn't talked to this friend in many months, and would have been a little nervous calling him. After the miracle of an enjoyable Thanksgiving, however, I felt no fear. I wished my friend a happy day after thanksgiving with great vim and vigor. It didn't bother me that he sounded like he just woke up. Turns out, he was talking that way because he didn't want to disturb the police. He was also struggling to hold back his tears. That morning he checked in on a friend that hadn't been around for a couple of days. Turns out that my friend's friend was lying dead on the floor. I apologized and asked him how he was. I continued apologizing and inquiring until he said the Police had to talk with him. I said OK. Neither one of us said goodbye. I called two hours later to check in. I tried to invite him to my parents’ house or me to his. He declined my invitation. He may call back before I leave for home, or I may never talk to him again. My call wasn't very successful, but so what? This year’s Thanksgiving lesson is still all about the benefits of occasionally taking silly risks. Silly risks won’t always pay off, but there isn't always chocolate on the floor of your car either.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Smashing Stereotypes is Heady Work

Before there was a Dipity, her uncle had already anointed her the brains of the family. Shortly after my wife and I were married, he began joking that our kids would be the smart ones and his the not so smart ones. In most families, the children are given generic labels: brainy, jock, artist, animal empath, etc. My wife was the hard working student and her brother was the popular jock. My brother-in-law was just bequeathing his and his sister's roles to the next generation when he declared that our children would be smart. He painted a picture of family events where our children would be asking his children to run into walls, and his children would be obliging.

Visions are a funny thing. Now, I think Dipity is amazingly smart. There's a shocker. But, I'm right. Of course, smart won't be all she is. This morning she was going through one of her favorite routines. She steps on a book and she, along with at least one parent, yell ta-da. She was performing this ritual just a tad too close to the wall, so I moved the book away from the wall and warned her of the danger of hitting her head on the wall. She looked at me, and then rammed her head into the wall. My wife and I, as loving and concerned parents, broke into fits of laughter. Seeing this reaction, she proceeded to slam her head into the wall about half a dozen more times. A brain she might become. A brain she might already be. But my Dipity will earn herself a couple of other labels along the way. And, just as was true of her mom and her uncle, none of those labels will ever tell the whole story.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Piecing Together the Past

A parent has many roles. Secret agent is but one. A parent is also an archaeologist of sorts, or at least can be if he or she has the stomach for it.

Dipity gives my wife and I the opportunity to learn about the past about twice a day. Now I'm not talking about discovering the leisure habits of the ancient Greeks, the last thoughts of the people of Pompeii, or the truth behind the myth of Atlantis. I'm thinking more about what we had for dinner yesterday, or even the day before. Until I had a child, I never paid much attention to poop. I certainly didn't call it poop. When you change some one's diaper twice a day, it's hard not to steal a glance. When you have a kid, it's hard to say shit, although far from impossible.

Actually, it's not just that it's hard not to look. You're supposed to look. If your child is sick, one of the first questions the Doctor will ask is whether there was anything unusual about his or her shit ... shit, I mean poop. This means that you, as the parent, are expected to know what it normally looks like and know what it looks like when you're child isn't feeling well. The only way that information is gathered is through participant observation. When you look at your child's feces, it's impossible not to notice more about it than you'd like to. Oh, the things you see in your kid's poop. Today, for example, a rather regular feature of Dipity's doo was everywhere in evidence: corn. Peas don't appear as often now as they did before the great vegetable boycott, but they are like corn in that they tend to exit relatively unaltered from the state they were in when they entered. You never can be totally sure whether the corn and peas in the diaper entered the diaper in the way you would think. Whole corn kernels have appeared in otherwise clean diapers, as have barrettes. She doesn't eat barrettes, so ... Yesterday her poop, which managed to squeeze out of the diaper and onto her shirt and pants, was sprinkled with Rosemary. My favorite will probably always be the Kiwi seeds. That was an unexpected discovery.

Being a parent is definitely a journey of discovery. It is never just the same old ... crap.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Shhhhhhhh it's a P ... E ... A

When I was a kid, my second choice dream job was in espionage or covert operations. If juggling the NFL and the NBA proved impossible, I would have been happy to end up with the CIA or the FBI. Actually, it was the French Secret Service that I dreamed about the most. Somewhere between undergrad and my first law job I gave up my dreams of covert operations and Bond Beauties.

Fatherhood has given me a second chance at fulfilling my dreams. Starting a few weeks ago, I have embarked on a dangerous and messy mission. I have been charged with the duty of secreting vegetables into my daughter's diet.

Recently Dipity has steadfastly refused any vegetable that isn't yellow and found on a cob. Even peas, formerly the darling of dinner, has become an incredibly tough sell. Every other vegetable is simply tossed on to the floor. I'm a stubborn mo-fo, and a vegetable-free diet for Dipity didn't seem like a great idea, so I had to fall back on less than ideal methods.

First I tried being mister tough guy. This, of course, was silly. I am but putty in her hands, and even when I try to be mean and demanding and it works I feel guilty and she screams and sobs. Besides, should I really be telling my toddler that if she doesn't eat her peas she'll have to watch her daddy eat the chicken and cottage cheese?

So, that left either surrender or subterfuge. In the words of the Boss, there can be "no retreat, no surrender." Thus, I find myself running the vegetable equivalent of the Underground Railroad, guiding perfectly good vegetables to a better and more useful existence in Dipity's stomach. I have purchased vegetable pasta. Peas, and everything else under the sun, has been shipped to their final destination under the cover of cottage cheese. Corn, chicken, and avocado have all been used as vegetable escorts. Now that Dipity has begun to see through these ruses, and demand that all food be placed on her tray for inspection, I must break out more devious plans. Tomorrow night Dipity will have macaroni and cheese and spinach. Next week, a special pea/tomato sauce will adorn her pasta. I have even considered placing vegetables into the pancake batter.

You might say that I'm living a dream. I won't argue.
Mu ... n ... ich

The movie Munich is a great movie ... so far. It is suspenseful, gripping, well acted, and long. To be precise, it is 164 minutes long. For those of you who think in hours, as I do, that is sixteen minutes shy of three hours. Three hours!

Two years ago we'd have very purposefully started a movie of that length earlier than was our norm. We do the same thing now, but we move it up days rather than hours. If the movie is under an hour, and there are a few of those out there, we watch it in a single sitting. If the movie is between an hour and an hour and a half long, it may be seen in one night but there is no guarantee. A movie in the area of two hours, which is where most of them seem to fall, is a two night affair. Movies in the three hour neighborhood, which will almost be movies we didn't realize were that long when we ordered them off of Netflix, are almost inevitable three day affairs.

Watching a movie over three days is a different sort of experience. The flow of a movie is broken. Often it seems as if we are watching completely different movies. Sometimes a movie makes for two good movies. Sometimes not. At the halfway point many movies still seem promising, and sometimes downright good. More than once my wife and I have called it a night and reluctantly stopped a movie short of it's end, only to be disappointed with the ending when we watch it the next day. Some movies never seem good. These pose a dilemma. I don't like to watch half of any movie, no matter how bad. I want to be able to check that movie off of my list without having to add an asterisk. My wife doesn't like to watch bad movies, no matter how short or how much I want to watch them. This difference of opinion means that when we order a bad movie, we end up keeping it forever. Before we rented Munich, we had Myra Breckenridge for at least a month.

Munich will go back tomorrow, as long as Dipity goes to bed on schedule tonight. It is a good movie, and well worth whatever effort it takes to watch it.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

The Naked Truth

In the blog entry before last I exposed the female streakers that live in my house. I portrayed myself as the last bastion of decorum and propriety; alone among all the mammals living under our roof in my decency and respectability. I was the defender of all that is prudish and puritan in America; and a sincere reporter of our sartorial situation. My wife actually thought me a tad too high and mighty, and a bit hypocritical. She threatened to bring me down a notch by revealing some heretofore secret observations of her own in her blog. So, I decided to expose myself about self exposure.

Prior to taking on the role of stay at home dad, I was pretty disorganized. Some of that disorganization has survived Dipity. One relic of the days before multitasking is my inability to remember to bring my clothes down to the bathroom where I shower. I should point out that in what has become a trend, I am living with less than ideal shower conditions and only complaining moderately about that particular hardship. In Wisconsin there was one shower, with a ceiling that was a whopping five feet or so away from the floor. Now we have one bathroom I can stand up in, which is the guest bedroom on the first floor. The bathroom closest to our bedroom has a ceiling that is plenty high enough and a shower nozzle that is perfect for cleaning the lint out of my belly button. So, I keep all my bathroom stuff upstairs near the bedroom, and shower downstairs. This means that I have to remember to bring my clothes down with me. Everything else, excepting the towel, I leave upstairs and deal with up there. What this means in practical terms is that every morning after my shower I find myself in the bathroom without clean clothing. That means I can put the old stuff back on and take it off again when I get upstairs, which means either I have to remember to bring it down in the first place even though no one is out in the public areas when I head down to the bathroom so I don't need to be clothed when I head down to the shower or I have to wear my towel upstairs which guarantees that the next morning I will step out of the shower to a bathroom that does not contain my towel. What I normally do is hold my clothing over my special area and sprint through the living room and dining room on my way to the stairs. By the time I finish pretending that I can be productive before breakfast and take a shower, breakfast is well underway in the dining room. As I run past my wife spooning oatmeal into my daughter's mouth I wave. Sometimes I run rather close and give her a kiss. Occasionally I give my butt a shake as I hit the stairs. It's easier to do that then to switch my bundle of clothing to my ass and then back to my front when I round the corner. I'm not sure how long I should continue to do this, or whether I should be doing it at all. I probably should stop before the point at which long term memory kicks in. My earliest memory is from a trip my parents took me on when I was nearly four. Who knows if my dad ran around the house naked, but if he did he stopped before 1977. I have until 2010 to become more normal. I might need a lot of good luck. My streaking isn't part of some master plan, so I'm not sure how easy it will be to alter. And for the record, I refuse to wear a bathrobe unless I get to smoke a pipe and relax mid morning by the pool with a few bunnies. Maybe I'll start wearing my bed clothes upstairs. Maybe I'll start remembering to bring down the day's outfit. Whatever happens, I have cleared my conscience and can go back to reporting on the hi jinks of the house's other mammals.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Nothing to Fear But ...

I'm afraid that I've caved into fear. I now refer to my daughter as Dipity in this blog rather than using her name. I have no objectively defensible reason for doing this. My wife mentioned to me last week that most of the blogs she read contained no real names. Nicknames and pet names are apparently the norm. At first this reminded me of my mother-in-laws fear of the computer. Grammy was wary of the website my parents setup when Dipity was born because somehow pictures of her infant granddaughter posted on the web exposed the premature baby to sexual predators. I thought at the time that she had watched too much of that network dude who confronts those dudes who think they have a date with an underage girl they met on the Internet. I still think that, but I have been infected with the same underlying fear that motivated Grammy's suspicions. The web is a big place. I don't know who all might be reading my blog. OK, so I do know, but I've never really trusted my mom. But seriously, shit does happen via the Internet. It doesn't seem right, and it does seem way too trusting for my hard edged cynical reputation, to depend only on serendipity to avoid the travails of the Internet. So, Dipity it is. This actually isn't an imposition. In fact, it holds a lot of promise. I had long intended to refer to my daughter as daddy's little Dipity. Maybe writing it will cause me to say it more. It has a much better ring than "you" or "little shit." I'll have to come up with a better name for my wife than "wife." That will be a lot of fun. That might even merit it's own blog entry. Maybe it's own blog. In the meantime I will refrain from giving away any clues as to our names, whereabouts, or favorite television shows. Wonderful world we live in, eh?
Little Rewards: Dipity Gives Me A Hand

As the ever uncertain prospect of work becomes more certain, or at least more necessary, I am trying to be a more conscious stay-at-home dad. As a part of this campaign, I am introducing a new feature to my blog. So, welcome to the first edition of Little Rewards. Parenthood is all about little rewards. I'm not so sure they are really so little. These little rewards certainly don't have the risque appeal of surprise sex with a super model, the intellectual satisfaction of having Stephen Hawking roll through the door, or the panache of a new Ferrari in the driveway with a bow on top. They may not even be in the same league as opening your door and finding an old man holding a huge check and four or five balloons. These rewards do, however, more than justify any and all of the real and supposed travails of parenthood. Today's featured reward is one of my favorite things in the whole wide world. Dipity can walk, but through a combination of rough and sometimes frightening terrain and mutual preference, I carry her quite a bit. When I hold her with my right arm, she always places her left hand just behind my shoulder. Sometimes it just sits there. Sometimes she pats or scratches my back. Regardless of what that little hand is up to, except when it's mother hasn't kept up with trimming it's nails, if it's back there I'm a happy daddy. It's a little thing, but it's awfully hard to beat.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

The Naked Truth

Being a father is hard work, but you never want for entertainment. Having children is like performing in a small private vaudeville show. Last night's main act must have been European, because it featured a lot of nudity.

Normally I watch Dipity and her mom go upstairs, and then I head into my office. After a little while they show up at the office door for good night kisses. I know that what goes on in-between involves the bath tub, but that's about it. Last night I had to venture upstairs into bath world in order to retrieve a sweatshirt from our bedroom. Just as I reached the safety gate at the top of the stairs I was met by a naked Dipity. Her mother has told me about Dipity's nightly streaking, but her description did no justice to the actual event, which included naked hugs and kisses between each of the bars of the safety gate. It was very sweet, but an un-diapered baby is like a drunk oil tanker captain. After the fourth pass I was wondering who would be stuck with the job of cleaning up a spill and rehabilitating any unfortunate stuffed animals. Since I was nervously watching Dipity, I wasn't paying much attention to my wife. I suppose I heard her say that the two of them would be showering together, and I may have even seen her taking off her shirt, but it was still a shock when two naked females were running up and down the hallway in front of me. It was a shock only for a second, because it was frickin' hilarious. Top hats and canes might have made it funnier, but barring that or the involvement of the cats, it couldn't have been much funnier. I was the only person in the house with any clothes on. Hell, throw the cats in and I was the only clothed mammal. It actually might have funnier if the cat was the only one with pants on, but nothing is as funny as it could be.

My wife is a pretty funny person. Until offered conclusive proof to the contrary, I will continue to believe that she is half woman and half Muppet. I have no doubt she could have made me laugh by running up and down the hallway naked without an eighteen month old. But everything is funnier when you throw in a toddler (as long as they're in a good mood). They are cute unsteady midgets who can't talk clearly and are much more amused by you, themselves, and everything else in the world than anyone who has ever been to preschool and beyond will ever be. And with her genes, well let's just say life is entertaining.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

This week I've been writing poems to submit as greeting cards. Here's one that I won't didn't make the cut.

Our friendship is like a game of whac-a-mole
When one of us isn't feeling up to absorbing the hard knocks of life
The other one is willing and able to stick their head up
And brave the mallet
I want to thank you for being smacked repeatedly in the head
While I've been hiding in my hole
It has meant everything to me to not have to be hit in the head
I hope that you know
When you go down
I'll be up

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Sugar and Spice

Patty's Total Body Spa offers something they call "the Little Girl Salon."

"Do you need a new idea for your little girl's birthday? Are you tired of spending too much money and doing too much work? Let us pamper your princess! Included in the party are up do's for each girl, glitter make-up and nails painted. After everyone is dolled up and the mommies have taken pictures, the girls are escorted to our banquet room for tea sandwiches and soda. The room is decorated and the food is served on china with wine glasses for the soda. ... The girls keep everything we put in their hair and the birthday girl keeps her tiara."

I don't even know where to start. First of all, I was OK with the old birthday ideas. I am tired of working and spending money, but I'm not sure how this helps me. I don't want anyone to pamper my princess. I don't want a princess. I don't want her to have an up, down, or sideways do. I certainly don't want my peasant girl to be dolled up. While the mommies are taking pictures, where are the daddies? Are they watching football? Are they eating wings at Hooters? Are they in a separate daddies only room away from the women and children? (We actually were just at a birthday party where the dad's were upstairs while the mom's watched the kids play. I'm not sure what the dads did, because I was downstairs with my wife and our daughter). Now, what do they put in the girl's hair? What would a prince's party be like? Would that ad have as many grammatical errors?

One goal of mine, as the father of a daughter, is to find a sugar substitute. I'm even open to mixing in a snip or a snail here or there. My dippity has a whole collection of trucks and cars, and her very own jet plane. She has a doll, but she also has a ball and hoop. She wears too much pink for my liking, but she wears more jeans than most girls. My wife and I are trying to raise a well rounded individual as opposed to a 'little girl.'

'Little girls' are created. They grow up to spend two hours every morning preparing themselves for the day. They grow up thinking they are fundamentally different from boys, and that those differences involve make-up, spas, dresses, taking tea, beauty pageants, and bulimia. Oh, and tiaras too. We just can't let go of happily ever after, even if it involves the subjugation of one whole gender. Is it any wonder that there is a glass ceiling, or that the stay at home dad remains an enigma.

Breaking away from the 'little girl' model isn't easy. Try shopping for girls clothes that isn't pink or purple. Watch a few television ads for children's toys, or for that matter anything involved in cooking or cleaning. Raising a girl who isn't a pink clad princess is as hard as maintaining a vegetarian diet in the rural South. I'm not sure a few trucks can effectively counter the power of a tiara, any more than a doll can distract a boy from baseball and toy tools, but it's worth a try. I want my my daughter to have painted nails and puppy dog tails.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Front Yard Performances

I should start collecting money from the neighbors who can see my front yard from their living rooms. Since I moved in, they haven't had to leave home or rent a movie for quality entertainment. I bet someone has slid a chair over to their picture window, so they are ready just in case I happen to be out attempting yard work. Last winter they had the rare privilege of watching a six foot tall man shovel his entire driveway and sidewalk with a broken extendable emergency shovel. Me an My Electric Mower was the surprise hit of the spring. The first time I tried mowing the lawn with that miserable machine I had to storm inside to cool off before I could finish. I must have unplugged the damn thing two dozen times, nearly mowed over the cord ten times, and mowed over each section of the lawn thirty two times. It took me over two hours to mow my tiny little suburban lawn. My summer project was to remove ivy from a stand of cedar trees. That project took me six months, and gave the neighbors several George of the Jungle moments and a rare one man Three Stooges impression. My attempt to grow grass has been a whole other kind of funny. Almost a year has gone by since I brought my vaudeville show t the neighborhood, and I haven't let the laughs stop. Today, I watered the flowers and then dropped the house to the ground between my legs. I dropped the nozzle on it's handle, where it stayed spraying me directly in the crotch and soaking every single item of clothes I was wearing. I really think that when I left to change my clothing before embarking on my planned neighborhood stroll with Dipity, I should have left a little cup on the porch. I bet there would have been a few quarters when I came out.

Friday, November 02, 2007

Nappy Headed Hos

A few weeks ago, it came to light that an attorney for a player on Rutger's women's basketball team had e-mailed the school complaining about the pressure placed on his client by Coach C. Vivian Stringer and others to dissuade her from proceeding with her slander and defamation suit against Don Imus. I'm not worried about C. Vivian Stringer. Other than lingering a little too long on a stupid comment, which can be mostly excused by the outrageous amount of outrage and attention that the comment stirred up, she has responded with class and composure. I think her uneducated swipe at Isaiah Thomas was classless and completely uncalled for, but that's another story on which I have a bit of bias. I only recently gave up on the possibility of giving birth to Zeke's kids. Anyway, I should return to my current concern, which is that this lawsuit was even contemplated. It might just be the most recent sign of the coming Apocalypse. It was ridiculous enough for Imus to be fired over the "nappy ho" comment. That someone thought about suing doesn't surprise me, but what the hell? I'm not sure how being referred to as a "nappy headed ho" by someone most of us long ago had concluded was an ass rises to the level of an actionable offense. It was offensive, but come on ... had any of these people ever listened to Don Imus before? Besides, the comment brought them all kinds of press, much of it positive. Hell, they won the Wilma Rudolph Courage Award because of Don Imus. They should be thanking him for calling them "nappy headed hos." He should be suing them for losing his job. It just goes to show that nothing in this world of ours is as simple as it should be. If the world was a simpler and more fathomable place, I would never have found myself arguing that Don Imus should keep his job or feeling happy that he was returning to the airwaves. Damn those "nappy headed hos."