So much depends on what you're expecting

You adopt kitty thinking this:

You end up with this:

Adventures in Parenting, vol. 27

Yeah, she was about this impressed.

Yesterday, as The Runner is applying a bit of pressure on Number One Son to actually pick up the play-doh from the carpet:

The Runner:  "Come in here please."
Number One Son:  "uuugghhhh what is it now??"
The Runner:  "excuhyooose me??"

me:  shaking my head.  Son, you never want to hear that phrase from a woman.

Adventures with Students, vol. 32

I don't want excuses.
Neither does Capt. Reynolds.

 
Yesterday I had a short conference with a student who has been a bit of a thorn in my flesh . . . the poor guy has several issues making it very difficult for him to be successful in college.  Among them is his inability to pass the remedial math class.  This summer he is taking it for the third straight semester, and it isn't going well.  After getting his latest test grade (31%), he was feeling awfully sorry for himself.  I asked him if he really needed to be in college, if the math is giving him this much misery.  He vehemently listed several reasons he needed to be here.  I then said, "in that case, you have to make this work, whatever it takes.  One thing you have to do is stop using Facebook until you've passed the class."  He kept trying to change the subject, mutter about not knowing how he can do it.  I kept reiterating, "you have to."  

I don't usually speak so bluntly, but he had finally gotten on my last nerve. 

In which Piers wonders, "what the heck?"

This picture was taken mid-March 2009.

Why didn't y'all tell me I looked so terrible??

(on the upside, it's fun to look at older pictures of Little Red)

Monday Update, Get Those Kids Out of The House Edition

The children went to swimming lessons today; Little Red has essentially recovered...and we knew when we saw that he ate like a horse yesterday.  Number One Son is still a little wan.

This was the weekend of trying to reclaim some sense of order in the yard.  The project continues, but now it's a matter of shrubbery massacre.  Let me take this opportunity to point out that it's hot.

This may be shocking (it is to me):  I've had this unaccountable itch in my fingers this past week to do some bike tinkering.  But there aren't any problems to fix, and I don't want to inadvertently create any by taking things apart and putting them back together. 

I tried to smoke a boston butt on the grill yesterday.  I give the outcome a "C" . . . need to tweak the rub and find a better way to create the smoke.  But hey, even mediocre bbq is better than none at all.

I'm wondering if perhaps my tendency to pour myself out on behalf of all sorts of other people has backfired (feel free to disagree with the premise of this sentence if you wish), left me without the resources necessary to see to the things that actually matter.  It could be that one of the things that I'm having to learn is where to most profitably spend myself.  I don't have the reserves I once did--and don't have the hope I once did, either.

It is difficult to see, these days, how not having a cruel or heartless streak is working in my favor.  The same goes with this mind that will  --  not  --  stop  --  turning  -- stuff  --  over.

Little Red fell asleep like this yesterday afternoon.  After "naptime" was over, of course:

In which Piers pulls out of that nosedive

I don't mean to complain, but the children are lucky to be alive after this past week.  Lots of patience exercised, and some tempers lost.  Little Red, speaking of losing, has a flatter tummy, poor guy.  He was still awake at 10:00 last night, curled up in our bed (!), "reading" The Runner's copy of The Noticer.

Yesterday afternoon I was wandering around in the yard and heard a loud cheep near my feet.  I looked down, and there in the grass, looking petulantly at me, was a fledgeling Robin (yes, just like that one).  I wondered if it were injured or abandoned, but after bringing the boys out to look at it, we discovered that it was perfectly capable of hopping all around the flowerbed.  And so it did.  I'm guessing I just startled it by showing up.  The Runner reported that the puppy next door had been nosing around our bushes earlier in the day, and had been suffering the assaults of dive-bombing mama bird.

Speaking of little creatures, Simon has now brought at least two mice up to the house for our examination.  Didn't think he had it in him, but I guess he feels like he needs to pick up the slack now that Sock The Garage Kitty has left us (*snif*).

Our garden is not succeeding this year.  I don't know what we did wrong when we did the planting, but it's just not thriving, even though we've had plenty of rain (well, up until this past week).  Which is okay, I guess.  I don't feel so bad about ignoring it in this heat if it's not producing much of anything except cayenne peppers (which we planted by accident and are too hot for us to eat). 

Teaching summer classes is a challenge because it's hard to get the timing right . . . when you've calibrated your approach for a regular semester, it's difficult to adjust to the variable times required during the 1.5 hours/day, 5 days/week schedule.  I've already had to significantly adjust my approach in the composition class. 

I don't think people like me have any business going around in pro racing kits, but I'll admit that the Leopard Trek kits are pretty sweet.  Birthday present idea, if you're wanting one.  The non-pro level stuff is actually reasonably priced.  It wouldn't be a waste:  I averaged 17mph on my ride this morning.  That's faster than I've been in a few years.  It's not fast, mind you . . . just fast for me.

Monday Update, tonsils edition

It's not the surgery, it's the aftermath.

Piers and the Youngest One had a fine time at home while the others were in Paducah; as a matter of fact, he has been more solicitous of my attention than ever before.  This morning, he cried because I had to hand him over to his mom.

Little Red has decided that I'm the one who needs to sleep with him ALL THE TIME.  And of course, given that we're trying to get the boys to rest, I've obliged.  I have a feeling that it's going to be a hard reckoning with reality next week.

Classes started last Tuesday, so we're a week in.  I currently have a stack of papers to grade and a couple of classes to prepare for.  To say that things have gone according to plan would be a gross exaggeration.  I know I always have unrealistic expectations, but this is ridiculous.

Don't get the idea that I'm repining at having to help the children (and their mother) with the recovery--I'm just bemused at how thoroughly it has turned the household topsy-turvy.

Hot weather saps the will, and when the children are sapping the energy at the rate they're doing it, it's a remarkable thing that anything gets done at our household.

In an attempt to shine some sunlight in the house, I bought Mario Kart Wii for the family.  It has been a lot of fun, though (as I should have known), it hasn't really helped the moods all that much.

vroom!

I have vivid memories of visits to the Tropical Hut supermarket near where we lived in Quezon City when I was a child.  They had a toy counter outside, just in front of the main entrance.  Arrayed in neat rows behind the glass were boxes upon boxes like the one above (I am almost positive that was the name of the company).  I'm sure we bugged my mother to death over those little cars.

This comes to mind because Little Red has started carrying around fistfuls--or shirtfuls--or bucketfuls-- of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars.  Apparently, this is the same age where Number One Son got all interested in Thomas the Tank Engine.  For Little Red, it's cars.  Honey was nice enough to get him a new carrying case today, so he doesn't have to use the bucket anymore.

Needless to say, The Youngest is not allowed to touch them.  Or even come within a 10 foot radius of them.

Things that are Awesome, Series B, Number 3

The Park Tool PCS-10 Home Repair Stand.

One thing I learned fairly early on in doing some of the basic maintenance I was doing on my bike:  It's really hard (not to mention ineffective) to work on a bike by using the old method of turning it upside down on the garage floor.  I couldn't clean it very well, and even adjusting the seat was a big deal.

I tried hanging it on the bike carrier on the back of the CR-V, but that didn't work very well either.

Enter this tool--and it's heavy, stable, strong enough for anything I might throw at it, and it seems like it'll last forever.  Having quality tools makes these jobs easier.  And as a bonus, my bike is cleaner than it's been since I first bought it.

Things That Are Awesome, Series B, Number 2

fortunately, if you buy the right shoe, they throw the left one in for free.

The Clarks Desert Boot.

Incredibly comfortable shoes that get better with time . . . and go with just about anything . . . and are relatively cheap.

"Piers," you might say, "what with the leather bike saddle and the steel frame and the vintage-style shoes, one might think that you were showing signs of being one of those 'no school like the old school' sorts."

And you might be right about that.

Man is a giddy thing

In medieval/renaissance physiology, following Galen,
the liver was often thought to be the source of the emotions.

It has taken a long time to accept and/or articulate this, but I've discovered one of the things that has bedeviled me as an adult:

I'm a romantic at heart (truly . . . though it shames me to say so).
I'm also a relentlessly analytical thinker.

The two do not play well together, and what's more, I don't trust the former quality at all . . . yet it has the far greater power to push me down the stairs, take my lunch money, key my car, etc.

I realize that in some ways I'm just rehashing an old saw about human life.  We all face the same issue.  In my case, I have just realized that I can't work hard enough to make the pieces fit...there will always be that ragged seam.

Just like there is in all of us.

So I guess it's not much of an insight after all.

Monday Update, sans training wheels edition

1.  The big event of the week has already been announced:  On Thursday evening, The Runner asked me to take the training wheels off of the bike . . . and then she worked with him for about 15 minutes . . . and at the end of it he was wobbly but training-wheel free.  Since then he's asked me to ride with him two more times--we've gone out to the big park and done loops.  I knew he was excited because he couldn't stop chattering the whole time we were going.

2.  I finally got my bike seat figured out!  It involved purchasing a proper binder bolt, but I trust we shall not have the seatpost slippage blues any more this summer.  I worked on the bike while using my brand new work stand.  Yes, I know:  you're asking yourself, "there is such a thing as a bike work stand that you can spend money on to purchase?"  And my answer is, yes, yes there is.

3.  Took a day trip to Paducah today to do a little shopping, a little bike store browsing, a little taking of the children for lab work and pre-op consulting.  As it turns out, the children weren't needed at the hospital . . . the only thing they did was interview The Runner about allergies, health issues, etc. . . . i.e., stuff that could have been taken care of by phone.

4.  Heat indices for the past three days have topped 110 . . . and wet-blanket humid.  The kind of weather that saps all your energy.  Did that stop me from entering the great unknown (and surprisingly hilly) area between Martin and Dresden on my bike this morning?  And then thinking I was hopelessly lost only to find myself right at Court Square in Dresden?  No, no it did not.

5.  Vacation is over.  Starting tomorrow, I teach summer school, which will blend seamlessly into the 10 days of meetings before the Fall term starts.  In other words, I'm pretty much booked until December.

bull's eye

From an essay called "Comfortably Alone":

As a shy person, I’ve believed for most of my life that being among new people required an elaborate social disguise, one that would allow me to feel both present and absent, noticed and unnoticed. I’d yearn for some sort of social recognition without the bother of having to be recognized, without that oppressive pressure to live up to anything that might get me attention in the first place. So I’d find myself executing oblique tactics — being stingy and stealthy with eye contact; wearing a mask of deep concentration; staring at an underappreciated object in the room, like a light fixture or molding — in hopes of discouraging people from engaging me in actual conversation while still conveying the impression that I might be interesting to talk to.

The problem with polite conversation, I thought, was that it required the orderly recitation of platitudes before one can say anything interesting, let alone something as original and insightful as I wanted to believe myself to be. I couldn’t bear it. I had an irrational expectation that people should already know what I was about and come to me with suitable topics to draw me out. Rather than attempt agreeable chitchat and compromise my “authentic” identity with false congeniality, I would isolate myself, hoping that withdrawal would make me come across at a glance as mysterious and different rather than rude and feckless. If I had to volunteer talk about my tastes, interests and opinions out of context, they might be exposed as somehow wrong or worse, as not especially distinctive. And even if I hit it off with someone, my ineffable singularity could have easily vanished in the consensus of compatibility. I’d rather my self-importance remain undisturbed by anyone’s curiosity about me than risk seeming ordinary to myself.

This gave me my basic framework about how to behave in social situations. The possibility of discovering genuine connection with other people receded to fantasy; I could only try to make it through without embarrassing myself. Shyness had made me so deficient in empathic experience that I could only view social life in terms of risk rather than opportunity. The best way to manage that risk, I thought, was to be unapproachable but legibly fascinating at a distance, to present myself as an object to be read but with a message that’s inscrutable and fleeting, one that could convey the complexity of the real me without reducing it to something superficial. I could not get past the wish to broadcast my identity without having to interact with anyone.

(the remainder is about how Facebook and other forms of social media cater to and transform the above impulse)

"So Moses returned to the Lord and said,

...Alas, this people have sinned a great sin; they have made for themselves gods of gold.  But now, if thou wilt forgive their sin--and if not, blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou hast written."  (Exodus 32: 30-32)

I don't understand the genre of praise music (or even hymns, really) that emphasize the cuddly, avuncular God that wants to sit us in His lap and tell us a story.  In fact, what the scriptures tend to reveal (and I'm looking closely at every verse until I've read the whole thing) is that it's a pretty terrible, conflict-ridden, soul-searing experience to fall into the hands of God.  Moses, for his part, argues and argues with Yawheh and despite all his striving is denied entrance into the Promised Land. 

We do ourselves a disservice when we try to make God a reconstructed 21st-Century man.  He is a consuming fire, even in the person of the Christ.

The shufflers

I suppose every town has a few.  Today I passed two of ours:  a couple of lumpy-shaped older men--not old enough to be called "elderly," but certainly past middle-age--who shuffle around town a good deal in various stages of dishevellment.  One likes to think of mature adulthood as a time marked by dignity--but that doesn't seem to be the case with these gentlemen.  Today, the one had on jean shorts and a t-shirt, and was making his way down University Street holding a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke as he peered through his thick smudgy glasses at the sidewalk.  The other passed me in the grocery store, his short-sleeve button down shirt crammed with ball-point pens in both chest pockets--probably at least twenty in total.  He was wearing a little girl's backpack, polka-dotted pink. 

I wonder how thoroughly they are "present."

And I think, too, of all the many ways a life can go wrong--how even the strongest character can be derailed.  We are so, so fragile.