For BIG mistakes

There is a story that has become legend in my family. One afternoon, almost 40 years ago, my sister was supposed to be taking a nap. She got out the crayons instead. She then proceeded to draw a mural on the wall, as high as she could reach, and as long as the bed was wide. (Ah, but she'd "stayed in bed," right?) Given that this was in a rented apartment, this was a problem. You can't just paint over crayon — it acts as a resist — it has to be removed. So my parents picked up an eraser, and for the next several weeks (perhaps even months) my sister would have to sit there, every day, working away at the crayon marks until they were all done.

I have seen this eraser. It's about four inches across, and about eight inches long, and aside from a very worn corner, what stands out most is the print on the side: FOR BIG MISTAKES.

* * *

I've been discovering crayon marks on the walls again. We've got the oldest of our young artists paper-trained, but Risanna has been taking an interest in the arts as well.

Yes, baby! PAPER! Paper is a good place to draw!

The marks on the walls and cabinets remain, though. So today, Deborah brought home an eraser...

Yep! Same thing, 35+ years later!

Isn't it great that such things can continue from generation to generation?

Row, row, row your boat...

...gently down the street!

It's been a bit wet around here. A few big rains and a lot of melted snow pushed the water level up — way up — to the highest level anyone has seen around here, a good three inches higher then the flood of '81, and much more spectacular than what we had last January.

High enough, in fact, to go paddling around the neighborhood in a canoe.

Alas, I didn't know any gondolier's songs. That didn't stop me from singing, though...

A romantic ride through Venice...

I could commute to work like this. I really could.

I just like this shot.

My neighbor, Chris, taking a lap around the block.

Of course, it wasn't all fun and games and photo ops; there were several tense days of pumping water as fast as we could as it rose ever and ever higher. I even went out and got new, larger hoses for my pump (which I've nicknamed "the candle" — as in, "Better to light one small candle than curse the darkness") and watching the green on the radar map stretch from here to California, knowing it was all coming our way.

We didn't suffer any damage other than water getting into the floor of the shed. The carpet's no great loss, but it'll take work to pull it out.

The rest of the neighborhood didn't all fare as well as us. Several houses on our street have basements, believe it or not, and many of those got flooded.

You can normally drive a speedboat under this bridge. Here, I don't think you could even manage a canoe.

This sculpture by the canal took on some new interpretations that I'm sure the artist never intended.

At the height of the flood, the street and the lake became one. You could paddle from one to the other without bottoming out on the curb.

Despite the destructiveness, it was still beautiful and, — dare I say it? — kinda fun. I'm sure we'd feel a bit differently if we'd sustained more losses, but we still would have enjoyed the "wow" factor either way.

Those crazy things you do in college...

...sometimes stick around for a long, long time.

Could be worse, really. In this instance, the recurring reference is my own creation, 2000 Uses for Peanut Butter. I found out in an email today that this page has gained sufficient cult status to be included as #409 in 505 Unbelievably Stupid Web Pages by Dan Crowley. I've been interviewed about the site before, won awards, and was even considered a credible threat by Smuckers at one point (who graciously offered to sue, just three days before Christmas, unless I change the background of the website) but this is the first time that I'm aware of that I've actually made it into print.

So: What did you do in college, that people still remember?

Quite the "Outie"

Warning: Those squeamish about bodies and their functions will probably want to skip this post.

I took Risanna in for her 2-month checkup this morning. All is well; she's tall (long?) for her age, healthy all around, and the doctor agreed with me in my assessment that she's probably going to keep those blue eyes, rather than have them turn some other color.

The only matter which took some extra prodding and poking was Risanna's bellybutton. Or, rather the lack of one — she has a mild hernia, and so the place where her bellybutton would normally be tucked away, she has a large, squishy, gurgly bump a bit over an inch high and about the same distance across. It's fairly common (one in three kids have it*) and it isn't dangerous, so long as we can always poke the intestine back in. (It's a bit like playing with bubble wrap, actually, it's... fun.) If it won't go back in, then we're in for emergency surgery. But these things normally take care of themselves without any intervention, usually well before the child is 5. In the meantime, we've got a pretty accurate way to measure whether she has gas or not: pop the bellybutton in, and see how long it takes to pop back out.

Weird, eh?

---

* ...and we have three kids. I'm also told one in four kids is Chinese, so we're probably in for a shock should we have another baby.

Indefinite Shelf Life?

Three years ago, Marti, the customer service manager at Eisenbrauns, bought five Twinkies that had just reached their expiration date, and set them aside in a desk drawer with notes on each of them as to when they should be opened and tested. Does the urban legend of an indefinite shelf life had any truth to it? You can see the results yourself...

I felt surreal and light-headed for about half an hour afterwards. Then I had an apple, and that made me feel better. Thanks to James for recording and posting the video (his first ever!) I think it came out pretty well, especially since I wasn't working from a script!

Calling the Shots

One side effect of not owning a car during my first year of college was that I played a lot of pool. On Friday nights, while the rest of my classmates were out making good on the "ring by spring" guarantee, I headed over to the rec center and chalked up a cue. I got good enough that eventually, the games progressed from playing "slop" — accepting any erratic motion of the balls as acceptable plays — to "calling the shots" — you verbalized the outcome of your shot before you took it, and if you didn't make what you called, you were penalized by having one of your previous balls put back on the table. (We played mean.)

Now, I tell you that story, in order to tell you this one:

Back before we had kids, Deborah used to sit down with me, and tell me her plan for having children. I used to just stare at her as she rattled off the plan, which went something like this:

OK, I'm going to get pregnant at the beginning of the school year, and so I won't have to take any time off, and spend the summer with the baby. I think I'd like a girl the first time. Then, maybe two years later, we'll have another kid. And also, I want twins. Wouldn't that be great? Two for the price of one!

I tried explaining that it didn't work that way. You didn't get to specify when, or the sex of the child, and you certainly couldn't specify twins. But Deborah stubbornly refused to listen to reason, and went ahead and brought two wonderful little kids into the world, almost exactly on target with what she'd predicted. So when Deborah told me she was praying for twins next, I listened. And a few weeks ago, Deborah walked into the living room, and pointedly picked up a pregnancy book and started reading it.

"So, what were the results?" I asked, suspicious.
"November 9," she smiled, "twins."

That's not exactly the sort of prediction you can glean from a simple home pregnancy test. I had zero evidence. I knew it was true anyway.

But even with that, for the last week or so, I've been going about, joking that "Deborah says we're having twins next, but that I want to see the ultrasound before I buy the minivan."

It was funny, it made me sound sane (and Deborah a little less so), but... a little part of me died every time I said it. I knew it was true, but I was hiding it. I was trying to play slop.

I knew it partly because Deborah asked for it. And I knew it partly because God asked me if that was OK. After a few years, I started answering "yes..." and then a little while later, "yes," and then "yes!"

So does God do what I want? Did he need my permission? No. What do I make of Deborah getting exactly what she asked for, every time? Is she so in touch with God, that He gives her exactly what she asks for? Yes, and No. It's more complex than that, and it's simpler, too. God wanted to give us twins, and gave Deborah the desire to pray for that. Her 100% record of getting what she's prayed for isn't the result of her getting God to do what she wants. Her prayers were God bringing her to desire what He wanted.

God's been taking me to task for playing slop.

So: Twins, corner pocket, late October or early November. There. I've called the shot — although the balls are already in motion, and the stroke was never mine to begin with.

The Phoenix Rises, Again

Someone must be praying over my blog.

Last night, as I was taking out the trash, I saw our old '77 Phoenix sitting on the grass, where Joel, Paul and I had pushed it out of the way — it took all three of us — so that we could paint the shed. I'd been trying to get it running again for months — years? — now, and I was just about ready to call the junkyard to come and get it.

Maybe moving it to a different place will have made some difference, I thought, as I deposited my trash, and walked over to look at it wistfully. I banged the passenger door open and closed a few times. But even if it did run, how would I keep the door shut? On a whim, I punched the lock knob down — that's how old this is thing is, it has little plungers for the locks — and gave the door a half-hearted swing. It closed. And locked.

Whoa.

How many times had I tried that before? A hundred? Two hundred times? Why did it work this time? I silently vowed never to open that door again.

If that worked, maybe I should try starting it again. I slunk into the driver's seat with some apprehension.

Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy.

I paused in a sad way.

Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-boom-shibbidy-boom chibbidy.

Wait, what was that?

Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-boom-shibbidy-boom chibbidy. Chibbidy-shibbidy-boom boom-boom-boom chibbidy-boom-boom badbadabadabada-ROOOOOOOOOM.

Black soot scorched the grass. A great foul cloud enveloped the landscape. The beast roared. And I sat there, scared. Dear God, it started. It runs. The door closes. What does that mean? What's going to happen that I need to have this thing running? My eyes were wide with amazement and incomprehension. I drove it around the block a few times, scarcely daring to believe.

I started to head out to put some fresh gas in it, but it occurred to me that Deborah thought I was just taking out the trash. So I headed back inside. After supper, it started again, and I got some input from my car-parts store on a good course of action to deal with the after-effects of a long dormant period. (Turns out the guy restores old Moto Guzzis. We swapped stories.) Two of the guys came out of the shop just to have a look at it. That's a great old car, they said.

Yeah.

Attic Archaeology

No, this isn't about archaeology in Athens. This is archaeology in my own attic. (Sorry, James. I know you're disappointed.) One of the more interesting bits I uncovered while mucking about in the attic (other than that whoever built it didn't own a straightedge, plumb, or level) was an old magazine from the 1950s. The May 25, 1958 edition of the American Weekly to be precise, and apparently a Chicago edition from the subhead.

The impression one gets, on the whole, is of an reformatted Reader's Digest. You have the cute cover art, mildly interesting info-trivia, a patriotic piece, an interview with some celebrity of some sort, veiled politics, ads (of course!) and sections of jokes.

First, the cover.

A workman in the attic would surely have appreciated this image of a dog pulling out the ladder from under this guy.

You could readily surmise one of two things:

1. Cute, situational-comedy illustrations were the de facto standard of the day; or,
2. Norman Rockwell was someone to be emulated.

I tend towards the latter explanation. Which of these items is the chicken, and which the egg — that could be an interesting discussion.

On the patriotic front, right the inside front cover, we have the "Proud to be an American" series, where we're presented with — and I quote — "Another in a series of stories about how some obscure individual has given new significance to the principles that made this country great." We should have such helpful subtitles in our own day and age.

Homework was apparently a big issue of the day, given the impassioned response to a March article called "Let's Abolish Homework" by Junior-high principal Dr. Charles M. Shapp. The response, titled "Let's NOT Abolish Homework" by Jr. high teacher Stanley M. Levin, M.A., states that,

...if conscientious students had no homework, they would be depressed and anxious because of wasted time, lack of direction, unproductivity, and restlessness.
    It is a known fact among teachers that many parents and children complain about the small amount of homework that is given. It is also a known fact that conscientious children are the ones who benefit most from homework. And the Russians have reminded us that this is the time when we must allow our talented students to realize their highest potential.

Last week's TIME cover story on "failing our geniuses" and it's indictment of No Child Left Behind seems to indicate that this isn't a debate that's going to be solved anytime soon.

You can just about identify the time period from the drawing style alone. Given today's illustrations, this decade will probably be known as the time when "everyone had huge heads and tiny bodies."

In a perhaps-related article, "Truth and Myth about What you Eat" set out to debunk what were ostensibly common beliefs of the day, such as, "If you have some food left over in a can it is advisable to toake it out 'just to be on the safe side.'" or the idea that deep thinking requires as many calories as heavy labor, or, inexplicably, "carrots make your hair curly." These required debunking? Really?

The ads themselves are a fascinating bit in their own right.

"HALO glorifies as it cleans." The guy is, according to notes elsewhere on the ad, "Jimmie Rodgers, singing star of Roulette Records." There's no such credit to the girl, or even an entire face, so, presumably, "Use out shampoo, and (no matter who you are) you can get a guy like Jimmie Rodgers to look at you twice."

A number of things struck me about the ads in general:

• There were a lot of food ads. Things like Hellman's Mayonnaise and Hunt's Tomato Sauce merited full-page coverage, and things like restraint, cholesterol, and calories weren't considerations. The photo of mayo being poured by the ladleful into hollowed and fancy-cut tomatoes (as containers for a vegetable dip, I think) turned my stomach. Likewise, the can of condensed milk being poured out onto what looked like english muffins topped with tomato slices struck me as... odd.
• Properties of products were advertised that we wouldn't think twice about today. Wesson Oil takes the smoke out of frying. (Underline theirs.) This deodorant lasts ALL DAY. Wait, didn't it always? The latest thing on the runways of Paris is eye makeup — "Fashion magazines are showing mascara, eyebrow pencil, and eye shadow as basic parts of the costume, as necessary as gloves or handbag."
• Scientific or exotic sounding names and features were selling points, many of which are still around today under different, usually more humble guises.
  • "NP-27" was the sure cure for athelete's foot. (This now goes by the brand name of Tinactin.)
  • "Incabloc" made your new watch more modern, more precise, and prolonged its life. (No details were given in the ad, but a little research uncovered that this was a shock-absorption system to protect the jewels commonly used as bearings. The company still exists.)
  • The mysterious and miraculous "Tefla" made bandages not stick, as demonstrated by two photos of a child smiling sweetly or scowling as the bandage came off her face. (Tefla is still a selling point for Curad.)

And, throughout, a sampling of jokes:

"Nick Kenny claims that there are 25,000,000 overweight people in the U. S. today. That's in round figures, of course."

Not surprising, given the mayonnaise ad elsewhere. I'm guessing 25 million today would be a cause for celebration, rather than alarm.

A young savage knocked cautiously at the door of Robinson Crusoe's hut.
"Good morning," he said politely.
"Well, for Heaven's sake!" gasped Crusoe. "Isn't today Thursday?"
"Yes, sir"
"Well, buzz off, old chap. You're not due here until tomorrow."

I don't get it. Maybe I should read Robinson Crusoe sometime.

Or, perhaps, the education system has failed me, as Robinson Crusoe was never assigned to me as homework.

If any of this brings back memories, or you have an explanation for some of these things, feel free to chime in on the comments!

What kind of sucker...

Good thing I'm not known for drinking margaritas.

One of my co-workers dropped by my desk, and said he's come across these lollipops at a friend's house, and thought of me. He gave me a choice between the jalapeño and and the chili pepper, and, since I've yet to try a jalapeño candy that I've liked, I chose the chili pepper lollipop.

Not bad, really. The clear part tasted like cinnamon, and the pepper was definitely real.

Dave went on to tell me that they had other flavors, ones that included other real items in them, like green apple flavor... with a worm. Or, inexplicably, vodka flavored (vodka has a flavor?) with a scorpion in it. I'm at a bit of a loss to explain the scorpion, although I suppose that vodka is more-or-less associated with Russia, and places like China serve fried scorpions, so maybe there's some Sino-Russian overlap there.

I was curious about how the, uh, ingredients were prepared, so I sent off an email to the company. The reply was sitting in my in-box this morning:

Hello Andy,
 
Thank you for your interest in Hotlix. Hotlix raises all there insect's for food products. They are cooked and processed and safe to eat. We have to go by all State & Federal regulations that any food manufacture would. Try the Scorpion Suckers, they are the most popular. I prefer the Cheddar Cheese Larvets.
 
Best Regards,
Kathy Mitchell
Hotlix

We live in such a wonderfully weird world.

At least he's ordering from us...

Consider the following:

1. We don't have a litterbox for our cat. When he wants to go outside, he tells us.
2. We don't have a cat flap in our door.
3. Our bed is set up as a loft, with the computer, desk, and business equipment underneath.
4. The cat usually wants to go out at about 4 a.m.
5. We have a very bright cat...

Now, put that all together.

Have you figured out how the cat gets me up to let him out in the middle of the night? Yep... he jumps up on the desk underneath our bed, and starts pushing buttons on the credit card terminal. Beep! Beepittybeepbeep! Beep! Beep! Beeeeeep!

I can't sleep to it. No one could. I have to get up and let him out. And every time I do, I can't help but admire his ingenuity.

Monomoto

Leave it to the Italians to make something inherently dangerous, and make it look cool.

From everything I've found on the web, this is a real machine. Of course, and it killed it's owner the first time out, while he was waving to a pretty girl. Ghastly accidents aside, I'm rather impressed that he was able to ride it at all, let alone confident enough on it to be both a) riding it in the mountains, and b) able to take at least one hand off the bars.

Cute little bugger, though, isn't it?

Adventures in proofreading

Imagine if... you had a game called iMagiNiff [sic], and while playing with your friends (Hi Renée! Yes, you're in the picture!) you notice a particularly egregious typo?

iMagiNiff ______ were a board game. Which would he/she be?

Between this and the fact that the game arrived without half the pieces, I tend to wonder a bit about the quality control over at Buffalo Games! But, given the fact that they sent us the replacement pieces right away, and they've provided us with a great deal of amusement in the meantime, I'll overlook that. (Fun game, by the way.)

Never miss a marketing opportunity!

It's snowing. It's blowing. It's doing quite a bit of both, actually, with plenty more expected. Schools are closed. The library is closed. I just got an email inviting me to take advantage of the "Valentine's Day Blizzard Sale!"

Some folks just don't miss a beat, do they?