Fixing Stuff

We didn't make it to the school Friday night for homecoming. We decided not to expose the sidekick to the cold night air and instead stayed in to eat pizza.

I got up early the next morning to donate blood. I had set up a 9 am appointment weeks ago, but Your Sister trumped that when she decided to join the motorcycle charity run that morning. I called late Friday to make a new appointment as soon as the donation center opened. I got there at 7:30 and was out by 8:45. No matter how many gurneys are set up, there are only so many interview stations, and donors back up in the waiting area. Appointment times are nothing more than a hope. My scheduled time was vetoed as apheresis donors were bumped ahead to get them started. I understand; it's a longer procedure. I know to expect a wait and always take a book to read (this time, it was a West Wing script book). The nurse commented on how low my blood pressure was (102/66), and My Mom registered concern when I mentioned it over the phone Sunday. I see a GP in two weeks, and I'll ask her if I'm in a safe range. Maybe, to raise it, she'll tell me to eat more junk food.

Your Sister's ride was short, but she was thrilled with it. She noted the established areas for early drop-outs but made her own when she noticed early signs of soreness. Because I had just fed and diapered the mancub, we were able to head out for lunch, and I started a new project.

On Friday, I called the local phone company to ask about relocating the wireless hub. I had hoped that we could simply plug the machines to phone jacks in the house proper, but that was not so. I wanted to set up a service call with the company to set us up properly and was surprised when the service person instead told me how to fix it myself. The surprise melded with worry when she tossed out technical jargon, but she assured me I could do this. If not, she warned, her repair would cost $50 and might be as long as two weeks out. I told her I'd try it and would call her back if I feared the house would burn down.

So on Saturday, I was outside the house with some tools, opening the phone box next to the power meter. In theory, this is simple: a tiny box that looks exactly like a printer cartridge is inserted into a house's phone box and the chosen phone wire is connected to it. That small box allows the line to receive DSL data. Allegedly, all I had to do was find the phone wire connected to the jack I wanted to move the wireless machines to.

Luckily, this was easier than it could have been. The house's original phone lines are all bundled together and they run through the walls. Without any markers, there's no way to know which line goes to which jack. The wire I wanted to use, however, is a new addition; it was run by the satellite TV service and hooked to a jack behind our TV. That line is stapled under our siding and runs into the crawlspace. I only needed to trace the chosen line from the jack back to the phone box. I traded connections, and we now have our router in out living room, providing us with a stronger signal for our PS3 and allowing us to stream Netflix. Done and done. We plan to send a gift certificate to the service lady.

I used the rest of the day to ink the card art. I used pens and felt pretty good about it until I got to eMMA's hair. I am weak at hair. I overworked it. I'll play with it in Photoshop as I color it.

Since scanning this, I tweaked her abs and added a shadow to Focus's face. It was there in pencils, but I held off on inking it. After a day of looking at the image, I added that shadow in ink. I had a much easier time drawing this in a larger size, and I look forward to working on this scale again.

Sunday morning, Your Sister awoke to more clogged ducts and lost all happiness. Because she caught it early, she knew how to tackle the problem before she grew very sore. Massage and heat were applied, and the deputy was put to work. There wasn't much milk available to him, and he cried the whole way through. About two hours into it, I heard a yelp from the guest bedroom and ran in to find Your Sister laughing and, well, streaming. The deputy had swallowed the plug, and milk was shooting out of her like water out of a balloon. It had shocked the baby, as unsolicited, nasal milk shots would to anyone, and Your Sister asked me to make sure it hadn't gotten on the wall behind her. Within 15 minutes, all the pressure was gone. A bib, onesie, and burp cloth were completely soaked. And Your Sister was greatly relieved. No cabbage was harmed. She's still a bit sore, and I bought her red velvet cake as a salve. Also, it might raise my blood pressure. Win-win.

We made the mistake of getting greedy with bedtime for the deputy. He resisted being put down too early, and his new fleece sleep outfit warms him too much. He howled and howled. I've also cemented my notion that he doesn't care for my reading to him. He prefers Your Sister's voice for this, and I'll drop my attempts at it and sing him to sleep. We're also talking about solid food and walkers. We thought he might be teething, but the baby books say this shouldn't happen for another three months. My Mom helpfully informed us that I teethed around three months, so we may be in the thick of it.

New Art Project

It can't all be baby stuff, you know.

When I registered for next year's Fanaticon, I was asked about a collector-card marketing idea. The organizers would gather specially made art from the con artists and distribute them throughout the area to promote the show. I liked the idea a lot. It would also be an ad for my material and put my name in people's heads. I decided to make a card promoting the comics I'll make and sell next year; they'll feature this year's heroine (Focus) and next year's (eMMA). The two heroine comics will be connected.

The card will be 2.5 x 3.5 inches, and I made a cardboard frame to sketch out my ideas. The initial idea was solid enough; it allows text space on the top left, which I plan to run diagonally.


eMMA's pose was right from the start, but Focus was crammed in that corner. I sketched out more poses for her.

Also, I needed to flesh out eMMA's championship belt, which holds a significant place in her origin as a professional fighting robot. Her organization is called SCRAP, a play on junk metal and fighting, and I wanted the belt to be over-the-top and aggressive. The WWE has a Diva's championship, and while I like the design, the feminine aesthetic isn't where I'd lean for eMMA and her adversaries.


I wanted to get away from traditional belt shapes too. Really play it up for a "comic book" flair.


My design ideas temporarily lead me to resketch the card as a champion pose, but it felt very similar to what I did for MetroBEAT some years back.


Soon, I had the belt design, and that led to ideas for more stories. I also played with text for the card.


I doubled the card dimensions for a tighter sketch and soon thought the poses were a bit stiff. I made arrows to suggest how to turn the figures for better effect before reconsidering; I decided I'd obscure the costumes too much. Not that eMMA's is a complicated design. It's a basic work-out outfit, like what real women fighters wear. I removed the sponsor logos though. eMMA will ditch those soon after she leaves SCRAP.


I got some reference pics from Your Game Sister before measuring out large dimensions on a cardstock page for the pencils. This scan was color corrected; the pencils are black, not blue. I'm overthinking eMMA's torso muscles and overworking her hair. Focus was a breeze to draw.


Unfortunately, instead of happily posing for battle, I see them dancing. This scan points out other tweaks I need to make. I may start inking this weekend. Your Sister is still hoping to join the motorcycle run, and I'll stay home with Keebler.

I made reservations for next year's DragonCon in Atlanta, and the hotel offered us a free playpen/crib for the sidekick. Double score! He again refused to listen to me read to him, and I was reduced to singing The Police before putting him down.

Still haven't heard anything about the roller derby logo.

Problem Solving

After three months, I'm still trying to encapsulate what it feels like to be a parent. The closest analogy I can get is a video game, a more tactile version of Tamagotchi.

When the deputy is content, you can take him anywhere and do anything. When he's a little antic -- when he becomes Mister Everywhere -- you set him down and let him flail. When he's crying, the mental checklist pops up. You inspect him and change the fluids and see if that quiets him. He's a constant experiment in problem solving. When he's not currently wailing, you check your supplies. It's exactly like a role-playing game. Replace bullets and arrows with diapers and milk.

Such games were crucial to my development. The lessons of constant evaluation and trial-and-error, those sprang from the Nintendos and Segas. Competing with my previous scores burned away my weaker tendencies to stomp around and decry the game as crap and broken. I noodled through. I learned how to focus and adopt a zen mindset to get the job done. That's simply what we do with the kid. Our baby books are cheat manuals. None of this of course considers emotion, excepting frustration. He still throws curveballs, usually right when you think you've got the pattern scouted.

Last night, for instance, he had a bad dream. He bean crying in his sleep about an hour after we put him down. That can suggest a bad diaper, but he was changed just before he nodded off. So that's an eliminated option. He couldn't be hungry after downing six or so ounces before nodding off. He was dressed warmly, so he wasn't cold. His outfit wasn't new, so he shouldn't be any hotter than he was the previous night. This was a different experience for us. But I noticed his eyes were still closed, and that's unique. Even in his most violent tantrums, his eyes are open. I figured he was having a bad dream. I put my hand over his torso to comfort him, and he grew still and quiet. His snoring resumed, and his crying was done. He stayed out for another ten hours. Bad dream? I guess so. Now we know that's possible for him and how to handle it.

I haven't been able to finish the book I chose to read to him. He gets cranky within a few pages. I close up the book, scoop him to my shoulder, and walk around the nursery. I sing to him. I don't know what Your Sister serenades him with, but I'm going with Radiohead and Alan Parsons Project. Progressive rock not only contains gentle harmonies, it also can put you to sleep quickly. It works, I'm here to tell you.

She's debating when and how to make him curious about solid food. His new bedtime removes him before we sit and eat, depriving him of the spectacle that's supposed to entice him to want our food.

I chose a new recipe last night and discovered in almost every step of the way required more work than the length of the recipe suggested. For instance, the rice had to be cooked beforehand. That's another half-hour needed. Boiling the peppers seemed easy enough until the cookbook demanded it be done in a kettle. A kettle? I scoured the kitchen to find one, and what we have will only accommodate three peppers at a time. Now I had to schedule the boiling and subsequent cold shock in ice water alongside the rice and combining the raw ingredients. This was more than I expected, but the dish came out without tasting too horrible. It's essentially lasagna with rice instead of noodles. It's simple, really, but it ain't quick.

Your Sister is annoyed that a local private school didn't inform any other area schools about their planned motorcycle run this weekend. She wanted to join in. But with such short notice, she doesn't think it's feasible. Also, she confesses, she's not sure she can handle a 150-mile ride after being away from the bike so long. She just got it inspected anew this week, her first time on it since she learned she was pregnant.

I'll soon post my art in progress for the convention collector card. I'm seriously thinking about getting a second drawing table for the main part of the house.

Picture of the Day
The new behind-the-scenes book on Empire contains a heap of new photos, like this one. I couldn't get my hair to do that. Is that lock feathering?

Medical Mysteries

Constant Reader writes:

sounds like you guys are handling the colic, which was described to me in a family medicine on-line learning module as "sometimes some babies just have a hard time adjusting to digesting and absorbing their own nutrition through their newly colonized GI tract...it was so easy to get it from the placenta. Some kids just take longer to adjust." or something like that.

The various baby manuals we collected are vague to the point of enraging us. With so much detail on development stages, the colic comments fall back on probabilities and differing opinions and random remedies. Our sources consider colic to be as mysterious as spontaneous combustion. And the suggestion that white noise will "cure" colic is horsefeathers; it's employed to drown out the child's crying. There is more ink devoted to how to suffer through it than possible causes.

What you wrote makes sense. I suspect our boy gets it when he switches from milk straight from the tap to the bottled stuff. We shake up the bottles to eliminate separation, but I wonder about lingering settlement. We would switch most often in the evenings, and his colic would flare about ten minutes after he finished a bottle. Also, he might have been too full for comfort. Either way, whatever the cause, he's been almost completely free of it for a week now.

He did wake up last night at 3:30, the first time he hasn't made it through the night since Friday. I blame that on him eating without going straight to bed. He awoke hungry.

We both had Monday off, and I made inroads in my convention card art. I ran my old route downtown so as to force myself to run for at least 30 minutes. Your Sister took a quick look in the local consignment store but found nothing new for the deputy. Your Parents have him today, and, hopefully, Your Sister can catch her breath. She spoke with a teacher recently, and she's already feeling the pressure to be prepared for her return to school next fall. Also, she wonders if she can leave the boy at daycare. I'm pretty sure we can and will. She's surprised at how attached she is to him. I had no doubt she's be an affectionate mom. Not one.

Picture of the Day
Russia apparently like to read books on House.

Schemes and Designs

The sidekick now has a bedtime.

Your Sister suggested it a few nights ago, and the weekend felt like the best time to try it. I always thought it was for the benefit of the child: He gets his minimum amount of sleep which builds his mental and physical well-being. Now, I'm positive this is solely for the parents. Once the deputy is down for the count, we're off the clock as parents. We have our evenings back again, able to wind down and breath deep once more. We have begun whittling away at our DVR list of movies and shows. More important, we can retire to our own beds in a tranquil manner instead of racing to sleep before the baby erupts again.

Our design is to get him down by 8:30. We take him to the nursery, put him in a sleep outfit, and read to him. We'll each adjust our specific formula, but the setting and basics of the cycle will be the same. Last night was my turn. I tried to read to him, but he was already cranky, and I held him close as he nodded off, tucked him in, turned on the heart-sound bear, and made the notations in our baby journal. He was out by 8:40.

This deadline isn't random. His colic attacks were virtually all after 8:30. By feeding him and soothing him to sleep before that average time, we've avoided further attacks. This is win-win. He slept this morning until 6;30. That's ten hours. That's all night. We can only hope this continues.

In his waking hours, he's developing his curling muscles. He can grab his feet now (that yoga pose you cited), and he can arc his stomach off the floor. I'm not sure that he intentionally props himself on his elbows, but he has repeatedly lifted and turned his head from the floor. The curling will help him eventually roll over. As of now, he can only roll to his sides if we do it for him.

We officially announced this year's pumpkin-carving party, and we scheduled it around my 5k. we're trying to relocate the wireless internet hub in the house. Now that I have a laptop and can move around, there's no reason to keep the hub in the workshop. I'm home today and plan to crank out some art stuff in the workshop.

Picture of the Day
Halloween creeps ever closer.

Relief

The clogs are gone. A visit with the doctor led to an all-clear diagnosis for infection and more home remedy notions. The local lactation expert was consulted, and one odd piece of advice arose from both sources: apply cabbage leaves.

Allegedly, the leaves will hold warmth and conform to the chest better than washcloths, making for a more efficient clog melter. By the time I got home, Your Sister was much better. I can vouch for the results: The mass is no more. Keebler is feeding normally again, and he drank from her all evening to keep the flow, um, flowing. So. Cabbage. Yes. She was also warned to not sleep on only one side at night.

Also, the nurses reminded us of the mandatory new-parent video session: A colicky baby can be left along in a room to cry it out. Before we left the hospital with our new roommate, we were given a TV and video with instructions that we weren't leaving until we watched it. It concerned PURPLE crying and how we should handle it. To break a cycle of frustration, the video commanded us to just walk away. Put the baby safely on his own and skedaddle and breathe.

If we can do it, that is. We did that very thing the first time he had a colic attack, and he went to sleep quicker than any time after when we ministered and cooed. But it tore up Your Sister. She literally had to clutch the couch to stay in the TV room. So maybe this is something we need to let him work out alone -- the first of assuredly thousands of such laissez-faire parenting decisions.

He was fine last night. He got plenty of feeding time with her instead of from a bottle, and colic stay away even when he did swig from a fridge batch. She ran low, as one might expect. He fought sleep again, and I plopped him in his bassinet and carried both to the nursery. After about ten minutes, he was out for the night. This is his new default night mode: seven hours of sleep. Huzzah.

Picture of the Day
The southern lights seen from the International Space Station.

Backed Up

Your Sister is suffering clogged milk ducts, and it's no fun. She noticed yesterday that one side isn't emptying, and there's a significant mass there. I felt it. It's hard and delineates the gland structure. You can easily feel the threads branching out. She's sore and called for help to the local sources didn't provide much help. They said to soak and try to warm up that side enough for the milk to move. It's not working. As I type, she's headed to the doctor for relief. Tylenol and baths aren't doing it, and the breast pump and nursing are removing very little. I don't know how the docs will remove the excess, but I almost expect to find a bag of cheese curds when I get home. Your Mom is watching the deputy while she goes to the doctor.

Speaking of him, he had another colic burst last night. My Friend Esther suggest breaking up the gas with a rectal thermometer (like sticking your finger in a beer to kill the head), and it did seem to work a little. But it was still an extended attack, and we had to use sugar-water drops to settle him down. We ate that pot roast very, very late.

Before all this started, I ran my route. I clocked in between my last two times, and that's an improvement over my most recent post-work time.

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Not everything has a magic button.

And I Quote: Baaah-Maaaa-Ruuu.

We are still learning the language of the deputy, and now he has become quasi-verbal. He's much more -- much more -- vocal, as if he's getting the hang of vocal cords and enjoys this new toy. It's a new plateau for him; he was a quiet child before, and now he's happy to keen like a tiny whale, whether or not anyone else is within earshot.

It's possible he's humming to quell the beginnings of teething. Last night's colic seemed different (and longer and louder), and I wonder if he finally collapsed into sleep heavy enough to cloud gum discomfort. He's not chewing on anything except his fingers and bib. Teething toys hold no interest. It's a little early to teethe, but ...

We cook turns carrying him, alternating cooing and backrubs to fight his gas build-up. The other would clean the dishes or start tonight';s pot roast. I hadn't made one before, but how can it fail? it has things I like to eat. The pot can't change the ingredients into yucky food, can it? Is crockery magic? Is that why the pot looks like a cauldron?

We ate very late after he finally achieved oblivion, and this happened only after I banished him to his crib. He would nod off as we held him but crank up again once we set him down. By putting him on the opposite side of the house, I removed us from the equation, and he quieted quickly. He slept from 10 pm to 6 am. Victory.

Your Sister posed for reference pictures for a convention promotional piece, and I hope to dust off the drawing table this weekend.

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I'm considering a banana costume for the race.

It's Brisk

I hate running at the end of a workday. I'm stiff from the desk chair and the commute. It rarely goes well. Thursday's run was painful immediately despite an extended stretching session. When I run in the morning, however, as I did Saturday, the run is much easier and faster. I beat Thursday's time by 40 seconds. Discounting any winds and pain reaction, that's a shocking advancement. I'd run before work if it weren't for the school traffic. My run routes are smack in the bus, bike, pedestrian, and car traffic, and I run either in front or onto the school property. No es bueno.

Immediately after Saturday's run, Your Energetic Sister was determined to walk in the forest, and I changed into less sweaty clothes and girded the deputy. The jogging stroller works great on the path -- the same you and she walked a few weeks back -- and he slept through virtually all of it. We parked at Lowe's and crossed the road into the forest, and after the walk, we went into the store and looked at firepits. Our current one is kaput from this winter's snowfall.

We gobbled lunch and discovered in the restaurant parking lot that his diaper had leaked again. This was not the first in the last few days, suggesting he's outgrown that size. I had just bought a monstrous box of now too-small diapers, and I hope Target will trade me for the current size. He does seem a bit heftier lately, but his proportions are good. He's almost slender.

My Elton John ticket is bought, and I'll be just fine seeing him on my own. He was my first concert 22 years ago. He was scheduled to play Charlotte the night after Hurricane Hugo hit, but the city was dinged up enough that the show was pushed back a few months. I cannot remember a time when he was not on the radio, AM or FM. I always dug his music, particularly for the background harmonies I consider the best in pop music. They're not far from the Beach Boys', but I do think they are superior. I've had various songs in my head since I first heard he was coming to town. I will only convince Your Sister that his songs are worthy if I sing them, and she's of course liking them only because she hears me warble.

As she took pics of the new deck, I trod upon it for the first time. It's solid. It should be finished well in advance of our annual pumpkin carving party.

We had a teacher buddy over Saturday night to watch the Blue-Ray of Star Trek, and we geeked out all night long.

It's officially fall, and the furnace was switched on. The deputy is now styling in long sleeves and a hoodie. It's green, and I've taken to calling him Keebler. He really is merely a scaffolding for nicknames.

Picture of the Day
Ready for their close-up.

New Duds for All

When I went home Monday, I was sure I would not be able to run. It had poured and poured for two days. It was the kind of constant rainfall you start to take personally after a while. It was a rain with a disposition, and I again was reminded I live in the Land Where Water Falls.

Tangent: When I came to this fair hamlet for my first college years, the city limits featured a billboard hailing the locale as Land of Water Falls. In my capacity as illustrator for the school paper, I made a cartoon of my recurring character holding an umbrella next to that sign. He had just vandalized it with a paint brush and changed "of" to "where." It was a simple joke, but I was genuinely amazed at the climate change here, just an hour from my hometown that doesn't get anything like this constant precipitation. I knew the joke had hit home when one of my professors quoted in in class to complain about the weather. That billboard has been gone for years, by the way.

There was no rain when I arrived home, and I took the relatively clear skies and the deputy's tranquility as a sign. I put on the new running shoes, and assured Your Sister I would not run the full course. I hadn't yet broken in the shoes, as per the Great Running Commandments, and I'll be back shortly, I said. But then I started running. Compared to stomping in my old pair of shoes, this felt like bounding. I was able to maintain a gear I hadn't seen since springtime, and I indeed ran the whole course. I still felt some shin pain, but I blame the incline of the new sidewalk. They thinned the road to install this biking and walking path, but they didn't grade the hills.

Now I have a new course time to match and beat, and I just registered for the Halloween race. Still no clue what costume to get. The registration fine print is interrupted by a very not-fine, red, italicized, and caps-locked sentenced that no baby strollers or joggers are allowed in the race. We are told that every year, and every year I see strollers. I assume the people who make the forms are not the same as those manning the race.

Tuesday, Your Parents minded the deputy for the whole day, giving Your Sister a breather. All parties seemed OK with the experiment, and Your Mom likes the idea of having him once a week. We'll see. He had a bad night when he got home, chugging milk like some milk-chugging thing, and he may have given himself colic. I suspect, however, that he was fighting sleep. A colic remedy or drops of sugar water calmed him down, probably by filling him up to the point of oblivion. I discovered by accident that blowing in his face when he's screaming distracts him from the fit. He closes his eyes and resets his breathing, and enough of this put him to sleep. The combination of this and the candy water knocked him out.

Your Sis took the time-out to go to the gym, and she's weighing options for getting active and back to fighting shape. Apparently chasing her around the couch doesn't qualify.

Speaking of Your Mom, I learned that Elton John will be playing Asheville in November, and I invited her to see him with me. Your Sister won't go; she hates Elton John. And yet I married her. Your Mom declines out of concern for the ticket expense, but I offered to buy her ticket as a way to thank her for watching the deputy. I'm going, even if I fly solo. I saw the man perform more than 20 years ago, and this concert is touted as a "greatest hits" tour. I'm all over it. I literally don't remember a time when he wasn't on the radio. He's as ensconced in the musical wallpaper as the Beatles, Eagles, and Stones.

Picture of the Day
As part of a new series on science that "emphasizes a STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) curriculum by modeling the processes of scientific inquiry," SuperGrover will sport a new costume on Sesame Street. I'm OK with this.

Reunification

Before I recap the weekend, let me offer a hearty welcome to our readers from far-off lands. Last week's visits represent Ukraine, Netherlands, Russia, Luxembourg, United Kingdom, South Korea, Latvia, Denmark, and Germany. Good day, all.

I watched a rerun of Top Gear from 2006. The hosts traveled to America, bought cars for $1,000, and drove from Miami to New Orleans. America did not come off well. But it's a comedy show; perhaps they edited out all the nice, fit folks. Nice isn't funny. Neither is skinny.

Obviously the big event this weekend was my high-school reunion. I admit to developing nerves the day before, but I decided they were the eager kind of nerves and realized I was happy to catch up with certain people. We thumbed through my senior annual again Friday night, and I identified who belonged to what clique.

I bought new running shoes Saturday morning and got the exact same model despite my misgivings. My previous pair of Saucony's developed a leak in the heel supports. I could feel the difference as soon as I put on the new pair, and they felt so good, I bought them before I could change my mind.

We managed to pack up the baby and leave early that afternoon. This never happens. We got to My Mom's house on time, unloading a heap of baby supplies and walking through each piece of equipment. I didn't doubt her ability to improvise or fall back on her habits with me, but the supplies are newfangled. They are high-tech compared to what I used as a baby. His colic cranked up after a feeding, and we all tried different soothing techniques. We rolled him through the neighborhood before I picked up dinner, and we inhaled it before leaving for the hotel. Your Sister is hollowed her inability to comfort him, and he was still roaring when we drove away. I try to assure her and remind her we were told not to despair when he has a crying fit. The hospital made us watch a video about handling crying and colic before we took him home, and the message was clear: steel yourself and breathe.

We checked into the brand-new hotel in my hometown and changed into what we guessed was "business casual." I wore a sweater over a button-up, and I could only do this because of massive air-conditioning machines. The town was an oven even before all the development.

It was a smaller party than her reunion, and that was expected. It was quickly pointed out to me that the majority of the attendees were women. There were not many male alumni. My reunion did improve on hers in one respect: the ID tags were distinct in shape and design for alums and their spouses. Smart. The first person I saw was a lady I've known since second grade. She pointed out others we knew just as long (including one current state senator), and the conversations were happy and eager. Virtually everyone cheered that they finally got to meet The Countess. She was more popular than I, and that's fine.

I huddled mostly with two alums, one I was very close to after high school. She was also in the senior drama class, and she brought a scrapbook of photos from that class. We traded stories and asked about people we lost contact with. I met her husband, and they both seem ridiculously happy. Another gal flew in from Alaska for the reunion. She looked fabulous.

A reunion photo was arranged, and I was shocked when our class's homecoming queen approached me to catch up. We were in vastly different social circles, and I assumed my profile was too low to register with most folks. There were some people who wooshed by as I tried to make eye contact, and that's not surprising. The remnants of the cliques were apparent. Our small group watched the small dance floor contingent before saying goodbye. It was good. It's nice to be remembered.

We retired to our room around 11, and I fetched the sidekick from Mom. He had fallen asleep not long after we left. I snacked in the hotel room before we called it a night. The baby slept between us in a portable framed bed of his own, and he stayed out the whole night. I can never sleep in hotel rooms, regardless of the roommates and the hotel surroundings. It's an annoying quirk.

We check out at noon and ran into some alums I hadn't spoken with the night before. We had our kids in tow and cooed over the children. We gassed up, bought a bag of snacks, and drove home. Sunday was all about laundry and unpacking, and very little else got done.

Picture of the Day
There's a lot of stuff up there.

Screaming and Screaming

Colic may have emerged at Chez Debacle.

Over the last few days, the deputy has pulled away from milk and begun crying. Last night, he wouldn't stop, and he screamed for a half hour before withering into sleep. It was murder. We set him in his crib and let him peter out. We didn't know what else to do. He was clean, warm but not feverish, freshly fed, and caught up on sleep. Nothing was obviously wrong.

We repaired to our gabillion baby books and read that colic is a sign of gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD), a diagnosis he received before getting Prevacid. The books suggested we give him smaller amounts of milk to avoid the accumulation of painful gas, and it's possible Prevacid has become too strong a drug for him. If this is colic (and it sure looks like it), it should pass soon. The books says colic stops around 10 weeks. (But he's already 12 weeks now. Hush, you.)

We have options, at least. We're comforted that we can try different things before we break down and take him to the doctor and admit failure. We can experiment and tackle this as a problem to be solved, instead of a malady to be weathered.

I worry now about temporarily handing him off to My Mom before trying to sleep with him in a hotel room Saturday night. He woke up this morning as if all was normal, even smiling at us. I hoped he would. I feared he'd begrudge our incompetence. I'm thinking this at the same time I'm telling Your Anxious Sister that he wouldn't be able to do such a thing at this young age.

+ + +

Lots of folks are chiming in on Facebook about the reunion tomorrow. A good number say they can't make it to due finances or pregnancy. The latter eases Your Sister's worries that we're the last holdouts to parenthood. Apparently, very much not. But we may be the oldest to have their first child.

Picture of the Day
I'm putting on my best outfit for the reunion.

Choking Up at the Chicken Shack

I ran Tuesday as soon as I got home. I'm now using the new route exclusively as it's the trickiest stretch of the race. It tricks me at every turn. The other segments are upfront about their inclines. I still need to get new running shoes (my current ones sprung a leak in the fancy air supports), but the local sports store is, of course, not open when I'm in town. The run has gotten easier as I play with pace and breathing techniques, and I'll try it again Thursday night.

I did floor exercises (which sounds like an Olympic event) when I got home yesterday, and I feel like I'm getting traction in my efforts to tone up. Your Sis did not make it to the gym this time, but I encourage her to giddy up, time permitting.

The sidekick slept through the whole night for the first time, and that would normally be wonderful. However, when he awoke, hungrier than he had ever been before in his weeks-old life, he screamed like an air raid siren. Our bedroom was dead silent, then suddenly hosted a Nine Inch Nails concert. There may be me-shaped holes in the ceiling when I launched out of bed and crashed back to earth.

Your Dad came to the office yesterday, and I showed him how to install the carseat boot. Modern cars have little icons on the back seats telling us where the boot hooks are. Look at your seats. There may be as many as six circular icons back there. The boots click into place on the u-shaped hooks behind the seats there.

+ + +

Rarely, I decide to eat an actual lunch during my break. I usually window shopping and order from Starbucks. Yesterday, I decided to have lunch because I got a new book, the second West Wing script book. I ordered it from Amazon along with a few hundred nursing pads and the collected Little House books. To the Chick-fil-A!

The other West Wing script book I have begins with a forward, and it covers the creation of the show and the assembly of the actors. (Tidbit: CJ Craig was almost black, because the actress leading the hopeful pack was black. But then Alison Janey read for the role.) I really like Sorkin's prose work, and I wish there were more of it to be found.

This new book's forward begins with an award ceremony where the show racked up yet another in its astonishing and valid stack of trophies. Not all the actors are present because they're protesting their payroll, and Sorkin discusses how the contracts were first designed and why West Wing was so expensive and how that only became a problem when the show lasted longer than anyone expected. Sorkin talks about how the pay was eventually solved, and the show could continue. And just about then he got arrested for felony drug possession.

He is clear in his timeline about what happened and the degree of support he received from the crew and his management. And back to work goes Sorkin. The next episode to be written and cobbled together is for Halloween (weeks and weeks away), and Sorkin talks about having nothing in his tank for this episode. The producers want to include the holiday, but Sorkin thinks it's too cute. He can't find a way to make it work. And he's losing momentum from pounding out scripts immediately after his arrest and legal troubles (also, back surgery; also, a separation). But the Halloween script finally emerges, and the cast has a good readthrough, and things seem to be back to normal. And off to bed goes Sorkin. On Sept. 10.

In the wake of the next morning, everything is asunder. The studios shut down, fall premieres are pushed back a week, and no one wants to jump back to work. Sorkin has a bigger problem: He can't abide the idea of the planned premiere episode so soon after 9/11. It's the second half of a story where the president and Josh are shot, and both flash back to the start of the presidential campaign. The origin of the West Wing staff, in short. It's flashy and shouty, and it feels bad now. Sorkin doesn't see it as the needed diversion the studio argues it should be for the audience. It feels wrong to make people wonder if Josh is going to die, to make people again watch their TVs and wait to see if a shoe drops. It's too soon. The world this story takes place in, he argues, no longer exists. Everything has changed, and the show needs to acknowledge that.

So Sorkin timidly makes the rounds to his team about building a new season premiere. Something quieter. No guns or sirens. People talking and specifically talking about what happened without using the events for ratings. And the idea he had for the Halloween episode is reworked; instead of a group of trick-or-treaters talking to the president in the White House, they're now high schoolers during a lockdown. They will talk to the staff, ask Big Questions and process Small Answers. Everyone will. Sorkin gets green light from all involved. It normally takes six weeks to write and film and edit an episode. They did it in 12 days.

The script for that episode -- Issac and Ishmael -- begins with the cast talking to the camera. Instead of the opening credits and music, numbers for various agencies are shown. The cast explains that this will be a play of sorts removed from the show's timeline, and the stories will continue next week. Until then, here's our show, do what you can, and God bless America.

Here, I need to mention my recent readings on the World Trade Center. You might remember a fantastic New York Times package on the construction progress from Labor Day weekend. I pored over it as I threw back gallons of coffee. Among the principle-twisting arguments about the "Ground Zero mosque" were exclamations that the mosque shouldn't be built so long as WTC remains a sacred pit, a ragged scar that remains barren nine years later. And that's horseshit. After years of impotence and preening grandstanding, the WTC site is roaring with activity as the buildings reach skyward.

Just this week, I read the latest Esquire account of the progress, part of a series on the efforts to reclaim, redefine, and reopen Ground Zero. This account began before the building efforts, and I've read about the architectural nightmares involved in designing a memorial site that doubles as a business center on top of an operating train hub just yards from the river in the middle of the financial center of the country's largest city. Just as a design was finally submitted, the security agencies balked at what they deemed insufficient defensive standards. Not helping the cause were stupid gubernatorial appointments for the overseer (a man who had previously only run a bowling alley and a laundry), counter lawsuits over ownership, and budgets that threatened to make any advancement impractical.

Not today. That all was cleared up by a new administrator and the looming tenth anniversary of the attacks. The squabbling was squashed, and the trucks were loaded with the thickest cement yet designed for the construction of a bold and solemn complex that would welcome the mourning and curious and allow business to continue.

That kind of progress catches my breath. That's what affects me most when I hear people talking about WTC. It works to the benefit of many a talking head to refer to it as an eternal smoldering crater because we're supposed to be blinded by our pain and direct our rage against people who had no hand in causing death. But I've exhausted that well of emotion. It's dry. I remember everything of that day, and it's now filtered through the hope and resolve that the air above that site will contain people and utilities and materials employed to the end of normalcy and production. And we're getting there. We're finally getting there. That's what hits me now. And here's Sorkin writing about the same impetus: something must be constructed, and work must move forward. That's more inspiring than hand wringing and the tearing of raiment. We mourned. We paused. Now is the time to work, driven by spite for the bastards and hope for what comes next. We can stop saying "Ground Zero" and go back to "World Trade Center."

I'm reading this forward at the restaurant's outdoor tables and about to fall apart, and that won't do. I'm too old and too nerdy to be seen collapsing into a puddle. I close the book and throw away my trash and get back to my car and think about the comic script I need to write. If I ever write a memoir, it shall be called Don't Lose Your Shit at the Chick-Fil-A.

Sorkin is a really good writer.

Picture of the Day
Mazel Tov Cocktail from last weekend's derby bout. This is from the team's FaceBook page.

Potpourri

For the first time, the sidekick fell asleep on my shoulder. This is a small victory. After many times where this did not happen and he collapsed into wails and flails, he conked out after a big feeding. My experience as a dad is a string of increased skill levels not unlike a video game. I try to find a pattern in his new behaviors and successfully placate him by reading his signs. This may be the encapsulation of parenthood. We're now draping his bassinet with a blanket as a canopy to reduce his distractions. It help. He sleeps quicker now.

Your Sister and I agreed to try a schedule that lets her go to the country club a few times a week while I'm home. On alternating days, I'll run, and she'll try body combat. The gym offers childcare so she doesn't have to wait for me to get home.

As we watched the first new episode of House this fall, I downed a pumpkin ale. It has 12.5% alcohol, and soon my neck was as useless as the deputy's.

I've begin jotting down ideas for the newest minicomics, both sequels to this year's batch. I plan to stick to the system of production, but I want to give myself more time to hammer them out.

Your Sister continues to be fascinated by my high-school yearbooks and the many tales lingering therein. The reunion FB page says less than 40 people have registered so far. This could be a quick party. I hope to invite folks to a brunch the following morning before we drive back up the mountain. Also, I very much want to host a 20-year reunion for my graduating class at the junior college. The deputy will just be hitting his terrible twos then. What could go wrong?

Picture of the Day
TV Man patrols the subways.

Bad Baby

Can any day be bad when it starts with a 2+ mile run and ends with a nicely mixed screwdriver? Let's say no, but barely.

Your Sister's 20th high-school reunion was Saturday, and the hours did not unspool as we hoped. It took much longer than we hoped to get out the door and on to the reunion picnic. The meal was listed in promotional emails as lasting from 12:30 to 2:30, and we had no intention of being there first. We wanted to avoid the crush as we are juggling this baby and all. We arrived at the school at 1:30 and smeared him up good with suntan lotion. By dead happenstance, we ran into people we knew just as they were leaving.

We tried to find the picnic (and that's a phrase that only implies dread) and asked for help at a table under an reunion banner. The woman manning this table was asked where to find the picnic and said she had no idea as she didn't attend the school. After schlepping the stroller down flights of stairs, we found the grand picnic location, and it was over. There was a small table of leftover aluminum pans with scraps. No plasticware, no cups to drink out of. They closed up shop 45 minutes early. Now we were angry and starving. We rambled back to the car, loaded everything back up, and found a bar in downtown Asheville.

Normally we can schedule a meal out around the deputy's eating and sleeping cycle, but this day, he chucked the schedule. As soon as we sat at the table, he started crying. Inconsolable. We fed and changed him in the parking garage, and that only left sleepiness. He no longer drifts easily into sleep. He fights it and cries and kicks, and this is what he did in the bar. We took turns walking him in our corner of the bar and then took turns wolfing down the meals before shoving him back to the car. He cried all the way. Cried when we buckled him in. Cried as we waited in line at the parking booth. And fell asleep as soon as we pulled into the road. He's not a charmer 24/7.

We went straight to Your Parents' house. Your Mom sponged the lotion off him as Your Sis and I cleaned up and changed. I had not seen them since they left for their vacation, but there was no catching up. We instead showed them the cache of baby gear and watched them coo over him. He woke up and stayed cranky again before finally falling into a deep sleep. We left their place about an hour before the reunion was to open in a desperate need to deflate our stress. To unclench, let's say. We parked downtown, walked into Mast General Store, and bought bottled pop. As we were dressed just this side of Wedding Quality, we caught a lot of looks. As we should have; we looked fantastic. We sat on a park bench and caught our breaths from the day and established a martial truce again. And inside the booked tavern we went.

The reunion went very well. She latched onto people she missed (including a biology teacher wearing a kilt) and was able to be something other than a nursing mother for an evening. We located her in an enlarged photo of the graduating class despite her uncertainty that the face I found was really hers. I know that nose. I know that smile. And others confirmed it. So there. She floated through the room and traded catch-up stories for hours.

It was a well-organized small party. There was a cash bar, a savory buffet table, and a dance floor. A slideshow offered pictures of attendees then and now and a memorial segment for those lost in the years between. The hostesses worked the room well, and I -- a plus-one -- felt welcomed by all. If there was anything I would suggest, it's that guest badges be a different color so alumnae wouldn't wonder why they don't remember you. I'm confident my reunion this weekend will not meet the standard set by this party, and I've warned Your Sister. We did agree to wear the same outfits to my reunion regardless of the party's dress code. It's "business casual," and I fear all the men will look like Best Buy employees. Not I, said the bespoke fly. I intend to look good. I have awkward 20-year-old memories to eclipse.

We reclaimed the boy from Your Eager Parents at a very late hour and drove home. He was no better Sunday, and I'm feeling the stress of the day as I type. Again, he doesn't want to sleep, and he was a beast in the Mexican restaurant. He was finally quieted with a hot bottle, and I wore him through the grocery store. Maybe this phase is a growth spurt that passes soon. Your Sister even considered that it was early teething.

I discovered one of my running shoes has a leak, and I need to break in a new pair before the race. Luckily I have a gift card to the local shoe store.

Picture of the Day
A helpful trick to underscore the Chilean miner situation.

Out. About.

I ran along the new sidewalk/bike path for the first time. It was recommended to me by the state trooper next door, and he noted it was a longer route than my usual uphill slog. It's also flatter. Off I went, huffing and puffing and cursing my out-of-shape shape. This new path runs along the back stretch of the downtown race route, so I know it pretty well. It's deceptively rolling and requires strict pacing lest I burn out before I reach the halfway point. It's rough enough to run at the end of a workday. My stretching and warm-up can only offset so much of hours and hours of sitting. Also, I had a heavy lunch. My excuses are all lined up.

The temporary Halloween stores have returned to town, and I need to find a costume for this year's race. I really have no preference what I dress as this year. I'd prefer not to wear pants, if possible. I see people run in long pants legs every year, and every year I think they are deranged. Dusk in late October isn't that cold, especially when you run for three miles. I've run at midnight on Halloween in shorts -- in the rain, even -- and I was fine. The pants philosophy is a dangerous threat to our running culture, and I won't stop until we have legislated against it and protected our children. I'm Snob Runner, and I approve this message.

Your Outgoing Sister took the deputy for a walk with a fellow teacher in a woodsy area. The mosquito netting was put to the test and passed. She said the bugs swarmed the netting, desperate to get to the fresh blood of the infant. The teacher and her husband affirmed the deputy is beautiful, and I again credit his mother. Your Dad, however, agrees with me that he has My Dad's nose.

I have a new strip online. I've been asked to do a guest strip for the website's main comic, and that will run in November.

Moving Picture of the Day
Lucasfilm if producing a series of these books, and the second comes out soon. The first book, on Star Wars, is a monster of minutiae, both technical and financial. I want to skim these books, but I'm not sure if I could read them.

Cooking With Villainy: Coq Au Vin

Doom beholds the approaching end of summer in these majestic Latverian mountains. Dotted as they are with five-story statues honoring Doom's unquestioned superiority, the mountains also regard Doom, and together we are bonded in gaze and stature. Here, finally, Doom begins to comprehend his own glory, and it is truly a wonder of this measly earth. Doom wants more than this speck of dirt, Doom admits. Doom deserves a greater world upon which to bestow his largess, a wider path upon which he shall march toward his unbounded destiny.

Even now, Doom weaves his designs into reality, drawing the immaterial into the raw clay through which Doom shall build his Olympus. And the world waits his next miracle, the heretofore unseen melding of element and genius. Through this, Doom will triumph. Doom will prevail. As ever. As is right.

Until then, Doom is peckish. Doom shall feast. Join him. Sit at Doom's table and glean what you may comprehend. Today, Doom requires more than the simple sustenance. Doom demands a meal worthy to nestle in his innards.

Coq Au Vin
3 pounds of chicken
15 pearl onions, peeled
1.5 cups Burgundy wine
quarter-cup chicken broth
1 cup whole mushrooms
1 cup sliced carrots
1 tablespoon parsley
2 cloves garlic, minced
half-teaspoon dried marjoram, crushed
half-teaspoon dried thyme, crushed
1 bay leaf
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons butter
2 slices bacon, crispy and drained
2 tablespoons cooking oil
salt and pepper
hot noodles

Doom commands you to brown the chicken in the cooking oil over medium heat in a skillet. You are then directed to drain the fat away and season chicken with salt and pepper.

Doom commands you to add onion, wine, broth, carrots, mushrooms, parsley, garlic, marjoram, thyme, and bay leaf to the chicken. You must bring to a boil and simmer. SIMMER, DAMN YOU! Cover and simmer for 35 minutes.

Domm commands you to remove chicken and vegetables and set aside. Remove the bay leaf. It is no doubt an unnatural machine constructed to poison your mind, cobbled together by Richards and intended to hobble your brains and make him appear all the smarter. Richards is low, and Richards is desperate. Believe not his lies.

Doom commands you to combine flour and butter in a bowl before stirring into the wine mixture. Cook this until it is thickened. Doom then requires you to cook for one minute more. Do not question Doom. Season with salt and pepper.

Now heed Doom as you have never before: You are not making a soup. This is not Coq au Swim Wings. You are to make a rich, savory sauce. The wine concoction will reduce and must reduce, and Doom shall not abide a watery slop besmirching his vittles! The evaporation will concentrate the bold taste. Doom does not lead you astray, not to false victories as Richards may. No, Doom beckons you to a brave realm of victory. Reduce the mixture as you reduce yourself rightfully in Doom's presence.

Doom commands you to pour this conquering creation upon the meat and serve with noodles.

Doom commands you to relish this hint of his constant satisfaction. Doom is assured you will be forever grateful.

Suspicious Packages

There was slight running around Saturday as she searched for scrapbook albums. We do have such a store in town, and she went there twice within hours for the perfect covers. A trip to the consignment shop was cut short when she couldn't stomach the racist babblings of an older customer. She said the poor clerk behind the counter was agreeing quietly in hopes the jerk would eventually leave. I spent the afternoon straightening the workshop in preparation for some small art projects coming up. I don't know when I'll put up the ceiling fan in there. I ran that morning and was caught in a shower.

The boy was back in the bowling ally Sunday. We were invited to a kids birthday party, and there he was again on a table near the chicken wraps while his parents be-bopped around in rented shoes. Your Mindful Sister mentioned that he's now only waking in the night for diaper changing, not for feedings.

Earlier in the day, she attended a local Anglican service with a newish congregation while I minded the sidekick. He and I spent much more time together than is usual, and his patterns were obvious by nightfall. He's easily overstimulated when he needs to sleep, and he must be wrestled into dozing. Most babies, I assume, use a pacifier to keep mum. We use his to distract him into sleeping.

Your Industrious Sister was up baking snacks for Monday's visit with Your Parents and Aunt. She's nervous about being in mom mode around them. I assure her that she's doing fine, and anyone3suggesting otherwise can find the door.

+ + +

As I mailed off some comics to Wisconsin, as one must from time to time, I experienced an aggressive assistance program in the Asheville post office. I intended to use one of the flat-rate boxes for my books and box up the books there. As I prepared to fold up such a box fresh from the shelf, a manager approached and asked if I needed help. She saw how much I was attempting to mail and suggested a smaller, variable rate package. I was baffled. The USPS has pushed these flat rate deals for a year now, and her desire to redirect me to another plan was suspect. It had to be a scam. She suggested I not pack the books before the clerk called me up to the counter, and that person would weigh my books and put them in the cheaper package. I argued that this would pack up the line behind me. She insisted. I consented, and indeed I saved $2. The manager was helping other folks in line in simialr ways, and I thanked her as I left.

This was a good thing, a genuinely helpful retail experience, and yet I still feel hornswaggled. It won't subside until the package arrives and appeases the Midwest comic phantasms who demand tribute.

Picture of the Day
Still considering Halloween race costumes.


One Last Thought
I've avoided news rants lately to avoid riling myself up over comments made by poopy heads, but I don't want to ignore good material. The president held a QnA with the media Friday and ended the conference by talking about the Islamic center in New York City. He was asked about it directly, and he replied in what I assume to be extemporaneous remarks, but I'm positive he at least outlined his thoughts beforehand. Look at this:

REPORTER: I wonder if I can get you to weigh in on the wisdom of building a mosque a couple of blocks from Ground Zero. We know that the organizers have the constitutional right. What would it say about this country if they were somehow talked out of doing that? And hasn’t the Florida minister’s threat to burn a couple hundred copies of the Koran, hasn’t the threat itself put American lives in danger, sir?

THE PRESIDENT: Well, on the second -- on your second question, there’s no doubt that when someone goes out of their way to be provocative in ways that we know can inflame the passions of over a billion Muslims around the world, at a time when we’ve got our troops in a lot of Muslim countries, that's a problem. And it has made life a lot more difficult for our men and women in uniform who already have a very difficult job.

With respect to the mosque in New York, I think I’ve been pretty clear on my position here, and that is, is that this country stands for the proposition that all men and women are created equal; that they have certain inalienable rights -- one of those inalienable rights is to practice their religion freely. And what that means is that if you could build a church on a site, you could build a synagogue on a site, if you could build a Hindu temple on a site, then you should be able to build a mosque on the site.

Now, I recognize the extraordinary sensitivities around 9/11. I’ve met with families of 9/11 victims in the past. I can only imagine the continuing pain and anguish and sense of loss that they may go through. And tomorrow we as Americans are going to be joining them in prayer and remembrance. But I go back to what I said earlier: We are not at war against Islam. We are at war against terrorist organizations that have distorted Islam or falsely used the banner of Islam to engage in their destructive acts.

And we’ve got to be clear about that. We’ve got to be clear about that because if we’re going to deal with the problems that Ed Henry was talking about, if we’re going to successfully reduce the terrorist threat, then we need all the allies we can get. The folks who are most interested in a war between the United States or the West and Islam are al Qaeda. That’s what they’ve been banking on.

And fortunately, the overwhelming majority of Muslims around the world are peace-loving, are interested in the same things that you and I are interested in: How do I make sure I can get a good job? How can I make sure that my kids get a decent education? How can I make sure I’m safe? How can I improve my lot in life? And so they have rejected this violent ideology for the most part -- overwhelmingly.

And so from a national security interest, we want to be clear about who the enemy is here. It’s a handful, a tiny minority of people who are engaging in horrific acts, and have killed Muslims more than anybody else.

The other reason it’s important for us to remember that is because we’ve got millions of Muslim Americans, our fellow citizens, in this country. They’re going to school with our kids. They’re our neighbors. They’re our friends. They’re our coworkers. And when we start acting as if their religion is somehow offensive, what are we saying to them?

I’ve got Muslims who are fighting in Afghanistan in the uniform of the United States armed services. They’re out there putting their lives on the line for us. And we’ve got to make sure that we are crystal-clear for our sakes and their sakes they are Americans and we honor their service. And part of honoring their service is making sure that they understand that we don’t differentiate between them and us. It’s just us.

And that is a principle that I think is going to be very important for us to sustain. And I think tomorrow is an excellent time for us to reflect on that.

If that's all spontaneous, he's a smarter cookie than I thought. It's as perfect a comment on the matter as I'm likely to encounter.

And of course, our local backwoods apocalypse radio preacher denounced the president for "praising the wisdom" of building a "ground zero" mosque. Because he is a carny huckster desperate to terrify his hillbilly congregation.

Settling Down

I now have a Starbucks card because of your shining (gold) example. I should have done this a couple of hundred dollars ago. Speaking of coffee, my tum-tum is mucho better now. I was worried my childhood ulcer had flared up, but I'm back to fried food with no distress.

The deck progress is slower now as the boys hopefully measure twice before cutting once. Our yard is under sawhorses and scrap, and that's a fine excuse for me to avoid cutting the lawn for another few days.

A week of medicine doesn't seem to have fixed up the boy yet. But I have noticed he sleeps quieter when he's flat on his back. He dozed off yesterday after I got home, and he snored not once. This morning, I checked him before I left, and no snores erupted from his crib as he lay flat as a plank. Maybe this problem of his is easily corrected. The only time I remember snoring -- and I mean "woke myself up by snoring" -- was when I napped in a tub ten years back. My head was in a similar position to his while in the bassinet. I'll test this over the weekend.

Your Motivated Sister took an impromptu walk with Kathy last night, and they discussed school matters. I intend to run this weekend and maybe shed a few pounds of water and dessert before the reunions.

Your Parents and Aunt are planning to visit the house Monday while I'm at work.

Your Scheming Sister and I have made our official preseason NFL bet:

Her Picks
AFC
Indianapolis Colts
Pittsburgh Steelers

NFC
Atlanta Falcons
Green Bay Packers

My Picks
AFC
New England Patriots
Baltimore Ravens

NFC
Carolina Panthers
Green Bay Packers

Picture of the Day
Not a ringing endorsement.

1,000 Posts

Yes, really.

We started this Feb. 12 of 2006, and since then I've typed approximately 48 words. Obviously, I've babbled about the daily doings at Chez Debacle, but I branched off into theatre journals, recipe gags, and now-rare news commentary. Also, Pictures of the Day most all the time.

The stack of fake lumber was waiting for me when I got home. The class should arrive today, weather permitting, to start the assembly.

We finally thawed some of the leftover garden produce to make spaghetti, and it was nice. We also gobbled half of Your Sister's homemade blueberry pie.

Because the sidekick hates the taste of the Vitamin D supplement in his milk, I tried dropping it directly into his mouth before a feeding. There was no reaction at all. I think the cold temperature hid the taste. Clearly this is the way to go.

We're still getting credit-card solicits for my ex, but the collection calls have stopped. Thankfully.

Picture of the Day
Can it last? Well, the do both hate fire.

A Revelation

I am suffering for the variety of eats I done et. My stomach is noisy and bloated. I think I drank too much of that Sunday coffee. I discovered that both our bottles of Pepto-Bismal were out of date, and I've swilled some Alka-Seltzer.

Your Sister took The Deputy to welcome Your Parents at the airport only to learn the plane arrived early, and they had already gone home. They didn't know she would be there.

We spent Monday watching the original trilogy, and I noticed something: The droids are on Tattooine to escape the empire. Ben and Luke are on the run from the stormtroopers and hoping to take the droids off-planet to Leia. In Mos Eisley, Luke and Ben avoid a trooper confrontation by using the force. They then go to the cantina to find a pilot. This cantina won't allow droids inside, so Luke -- a redneck idiot -- tells the droids to WAIT OUTSIDE. Where there are troopers looking for them. Troopers who could avoid the destruction of the Death Star simply by nabbing the droids.

Sure, Leia could still get rescued, but only if Ben decides to nudge Luke into fighting the empire (and his dad, but because Lucas hadn't written that yet, Ben doesn't know it). Otherwise, if they have no droids and no secret plans, why visit Leia? They don't know she's been captured yet. Threepio and R2 didn't seem to know that.

Picture of the Day
Sample costumes from Atlanta's DragonCon, held every Labor Day weekend. We plan to go next year.

Oh, Hi There

I ran into a sometime actor with the local theatre. She was in that courtroom play from Fall 2007. "Sometime" sounds dismissive, and I don't mean that. She took time off to be married and see her son off to college. She joined the show cuurently in rehearsals, the show I was twice asked to join and twice I declined so I could "help" raise the sidekick. She and I got along great after an initial adjustment period in the early courtroom rehearsals, and we caught up yesterday as she was getting coffee before rehearsal.

I had hopped into the store to buy cookies and ice cream (no, we're not pregnant again), and she was leaving, but we stopped to chat for a while. She's nervous about the show because of her commute and new family and the rehearsal schedule. She doesn't have her lines yet. Most of this show worked together before on a show prior to our courtroom show, and I assured her it's too good a gang to leave her hanging.

She'll be fine. She was also nervous about her work in our play. She was the widow of the rich man found flattened at the foot of a skyscraper, and she had her lines well before we had an audience, if I recall right. Anyway, she frets, but I contend that fretting can be productive if it drives you to work harder. Same thing with the seven deadly sins. As motivators, they can't be beat.

She asked about our new parenthood. I babbled for a while. And off she ran to rehearse, and off I strolled to the freezer aisle.

The deck is down to the joists. The kids are scheduled to clean the concrete foundation before the weekend, leaving only the assembly of the new lumber. The teacher objected to the original construction stairs, and he'll show the kids the right way to attach them to the deck.

We received the deputy's social security card. He's officially official.

Get over here and veg out on the couch.

Picture of the Day
Outta here.

Sudden Destruction

I arrived home to find the deck half disassembled. The carpentry teacher realized that his class needn't wait until the composite lumber arrived to remove the old stuff. The iron railing art was stacked, the wood rails are gone, and a third of the flooring is removed. The joists will remain, I'm told, as they are deemed healthy. They look discolored to me, but apparently, they are fine. I expect to go home today and find everything but the support skeleton removed. The new stuff arrives Tuesday, and the whole thing should be finished by next weekend. There will be no work done while you are visiting us, I'm positive.

Something I realized only recently is that the composite lumber should rebuff all the carpenter bees that burrowed into our old railings. I'll no longer have to fight them off with WD-40. Our new deck, happily, won't be a potential firebomb.

The attention for the cooking sub-blog has died down, but that short-lived basking was fun. The stats are impressive. Google added blog stats in June, so the blog records are few, but there was an obvious propulsion in numbers based on the Doom links.

Check this out. These are the top ten countries represented by blog visitors :

Those figures wallop the June and July numbers combined. Also? Asia is in the house.

Picture of the Day
Our child's feet. Not to scale.

Internet Famous

I intended to post last night's coq au vin recipe. I was to use it for Cooking With Villainy and employ the Doom voice. The whole schmear. But I ruined the dish, and I can't pass along to anyone the right way to cook it.

The autopsy of the meal suggests that I should have used a heavy iron skillet instead of a large sauce pan. The meat and veggies are to simmer in a thick glaze of wine, broth, mushrooms, carrots, and spices. My sauce was soup. I also overcooked the noodles and undercooked the bacon. The recipe is sound. My execution was lacking. I'll try again next month, and Doom will do it up right.

And here's irony: I ruined the dish for the latest entry right after I become internet famous. Cooking With Villainy was linked here, and the blog's stats went haywire.

UPDATE: The links have spread here. And here. And FINLAND.

Picture of the Day
Young Sigourney from Alien and the cat that failed to save anyone on the doomed salvage ship.

Saturday Night Fevers

As if we didn't already appreciate vaccines, the sidekick's constantly goopy eye cleared up completely. We cheer and breathe sighs of relief and sell our stocks in cotton-ball companies even as we agree that this could be a symptom of an energized immune system. The goop could return.

We thought he had a fever Saturday morning, and we responded with a Keystone Kops series of incompetent actions.

Here's some petroleum jelly for the rectal thermometer. The directions say we can't use that.
What do we use? Is there any Crisco?*
The reading says 98.9. What's the temperature supposed to be for babies? I don't know.
And how many books on babies have we read in the last year?

Meanwhile he's screaming loud enough that My Dad could hear him. We got him settled down and agreed he had no fever. I tried to put lotion on him to cool him down, and that annoyed him. Now he was screaming and slippery. He's become so averse to sleeping lately that we resort to wrestling him into oblivion with sleeper holds. Yes, we admit it: We use submission maneuvers on our baby. I have claimed his cruiserweight championship belt.

We took him to a teacher party Saturday night and took turns wearing him like Flavor Flav's clock. Your Dispensing Sister took a time-out to nurse him while I guarded the door against insistent preschoolers. In efforts to reclaim her normalcy, she followed up on wine recommendations from a magazine and bought two bottles of new flavors yesterday. We cracked one bottle open and enjoyed half of it, saving the rest for tonight. I don't think I've had muscadine wine before, and this was nice. Not too sweet, but very fruity. It goes great with spicy food.

I'm trying more elaborate recipes lately, and I'll add this week's efforts to the Cooking With Villainy entries. Your Sister made a great curry dish Friday with material you gave us from South Africa. That stuff doesn't diffuse.

She walked with a teacher buddy yesterday while I watched the deputy sleep finally, at last and unaware that he was no longer a champion. He stayed awake during the Sunday outing for lunch and groceries, and much cooing followed him everywhere.

We got an estimate for the new decking, and we agreed to it despite the hefty cost. If nothing else, we are increasing the house's value each year with out little projects. We see news reports on housing values and are amazed at the people who thought the aberrant high prices from the early half of the decade were the norm. One ABC News report showed a three-bedroom ranch in the Northeast going for less than $130,000, and the owner couldn't sell it. He based that price on the highest price from the housing bubble, not what he paid for it nor its current value. And he was shocked and dismayed he couldn't get a buyer. Your Savvy Sister and I just stared at each other, wondering if we were hearing right.

I made arrangements with My Mom to watch the former champion during my reunion next month. Your Parents might watch him during Your Sister's.

Her Cat was so inspired by the documentary on lions last night that he played fetch with a catnip mouse. I'm not sure it's safe for us to let him watch those on the big TV anymore. He might regress.

*No, not really.

Picture of the Day
Let us send our best and brightest and mane-iest to Mars.