Travel Log, now with pictures!

I decided at the last minute to take Bryce and tag along with my dad and stepmom on a day after Christmas trip to West Texas to visit family I hadn't seen since Bryce was a year old. We hyped it up for Bryce by telling him he could watch movies the whole way there. A four-year-old has no concept of a seven-hour drive, but he definitely understands the concept of getting to watch movies ALL. DAY. LONG. See how happy he was about the whole idea? (Note: The sunglasses were purchased by my dad. My stepmom was going to buy more "practical" ones, but my dad hates practical.)

On the way there, we saw lots and lots of this, which my dad thinks is beautiful, and I agree, but MAN is there a lot of it when it's all you see for seven hours:













I tried to look at it in different ways to pass the time, like maybe this way...













Or this way...













But, nope. Still looks the same. The lack of stimulation would probably have sent Bryce through the roof, and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE, we can't have that happen inside a car. Thank you, Honda manufacturers, for your life-saving genius inclusion of the DVD player. Look how peaceful he is. Just don't take the movie away, I'm begging you.













I ate way too much of this (notice all the open packages),













And didn't drink nearly enough of this (notice how the bottle is still unopened).













When we finally got there, we sent Bryce to the front door by himself and watched with much glee from the prickly bushes in the front yard as my aunt opened the door and squealed in delight at the sight of Bryce on her porch looking up at her in his hilarious sunglasses. They didn't know we were coming with my dad, and I probably should have thought about the fact that my grandmother is a pretty frail 80-year-old and that shocks such as her daughter screaming at the front door wouldn't necessarily be doing her any favors, but we're a bunch of selfish, narcissistic jerks, and we wanted to see the joy on their faces after their near heart attacks were over, damn it. It's the holidays, after all.

I guess my family figured that since Bryce is only four, they should do something with us to keep him entertained, so they took us to a new museum dedicated specifically to West Texas and its oh-so-peaceful history. You can tell in these pictures that we were bribing Bryce with candy and cinnamon rolls to get him to pose. He looks like he's thinking, "god, I hate my dumbass family."













My aunt forced him to wear the coon hat in exchange for buying him the wooden snake he's holding in his hands. See, my dad and I have a genetic reason for our sadistic ways.













Don't worry, though. Bryce got us all back. My dad finally coined the phrase, "you've been Bryced!" after hours of manipulation during which my frail grandmother actually attempted to appease him by trying to mimic the sound of a baby dinosaur while squatting under the patio table that was his version of the forest. You see, they made the critical mistake of asking him to show us how he could roar like a dinosaur. But Bryce doesn't do anything without directing it like an elaborate broadway show, and everyone available WILL participate THE RIGHT WAY.

When he wasn't telling me that "lots of people have been killed in Texas" (thanks a lot, you stupid informative museum) and screaming at my dad, "NOT ONE SINGLE PART OF MY BODY IS HURT!" when my dad stupidly asked if he was okay after he fell on the concrete patio while racing my uncle, he was trying to win the affections of my aunt's dog, named Barkley, to whom he refused to refer as anything other than "Sparkly."













Eventually I gave the poor, unsuspecting saps a break from Pluto's First Emporer and we entertained ourselves while they recovered by playing with the new camera John got me for Christmas. There are about 12 pictures of us like this.













But after it was all said and done, and being in West Texas for only two days , my son turned into this:












His return transformation from redneck to suburbanite will be complete in another 36 hours or so...

Hypothetically Speaking (to protect the innocent)

Maybe you're part of a Blended Family, the young, new part that would be considered "scandalous" and "questionable," and maybe you've struggled for years to prove your virtuous qualities to your in-laws, your commitment to the instant family you inherited, emotional problems, learning disorders, psychological dysfunctions, and all. Maybe you also COME FROM two Blended Families and find it almost entertaining to hear someone have to introduce your dad's wife as your stepdaughter's stepmom's stepmom (would this be a stepgrandmother, a step-step-grandmother, a stepmom twice removed??). Maybe you have both blended families and in-laws coming to your house for a holiday brunch, and maybe you decide to approach it like there's absolutely nothing awkward about having two ex-spouses who emotionally abused each other for decades eating marshmallow fruit dip and egg casserole across from each other at your dining room table.

Maybe during the consumption of said dip and casserole (and loads of champagne to dull your senses from the agony of all the exchanged glances and downturned eyes), you think to yourself, "well, this isn't actually so bad. Everyone is being very gracious and mature. I'm proud of these 50-year-old adults who are behaving like, um, adults."

But then maybe your mom looks up from her mimosa and -- over the roar of your four- and two-year-olds' harmonious and near-angelic (or, more accurately, apocolyptic and deafening) enjoyment of their 12,547,983 Christmas gifts -- says, "Kristen, there's someone walking up to your house holding trash bags." And maybe before you even look out the window, you know who that someone is. That someone is the biological mother of your emotionally damaged and maternally abandoned stepchildren, the very same one who hasn't seen or touched her own children in seven years, but sends cards every 14 to 18 months that gradually become more and more delusional, with references to a vague and mysterious future point in time when the evil world will stop its forces from working against her and she will be able to act like their mother again.

And maybe as time stops while you turn your head and confirm with your eyes that this "someone" is indeed that delusional, lonely figure who chose a life of wallowing in her own self-loathing over getting to know the flesh and blood to which she gave birth almost two decades ago, you don't realize the audience you have (namely, your parents and stepparents) when you utter the phrase "that stupid bitch" not entirely under your breath. And then maybe as your heart pounds in anger and disgust at the selfishness of this coward to drop trash bags full of pawn shop trinkets on your porch and try to run away without being seen, your stepdaughter happens to round the corner and see her estranged mother walking away from the house.

And maybe you feel both tragic sorrow for your stepdaughter and immense anger at her mother's lack of thought and consideration for how her actions would affect her daughter. After that, as your stepdaughter pulls herself from the long, deep clutch of a reunion hug conveniently occurring right outside your dining room window, maybe you feel a deep curiosity about what that stepdaughter is learning about her identity and sense of self as she finally places a focused gaze on her mother's old, hard face. Later, when your stepdaughter describes the 15-minute interaction with her mother as "weird" and her mother's face as "more like a grandmother's," maybe you think to yourself that you haven't given your stepdaughter enough credit. She's not immature, oblivious, or lazy; she's an emotional survivor, and she learned her survival methods (avoidance and denial, mainly) from a tragically absent and poor teacher.

And then as your four-year-old asks why your stepdaughter is crying when she comes back into the house, maybe you think, "so much for a completely NOT awkward Blended Family holiday. Where's the liquor, anyway?"

Although it's been said many times, many ways...

Many bloggers have recently expressed a wish for this holiday season to be over already, what with the traffic, the weather, the in-laws, the cards to send, the social functions to attend, and the shopping, my god, the shopping. I couldn't agree more. Have I wrapped the pile of presents for the kids yet? No, I thought I deserved one more week of stalling and stammering a fake answer every time Bryce walks downstairs, looks at the tree and says, "Mom, when are my presents going to be under the tree?" Have I sent out Christmas cards? No, it seems I prefer the guilt of receiving other people's cards and realizing I was too lazy to actually take the five minutes to choose a picture of the kids and address some envelopes.

This week would have been the week that I might be pulled out of my anti-holiday slump, though. There was my stepdad's annual holiday birthday party Tuesday night, a work Christmas gift exchange dinner Wednesday night, a trip to see A Christmas Carol performed live at a local performing arts center Thursday night. Parties, music, food, oh my! If anything could infuse one with the proper amount of holiday cheer, it would be my fun-filled week of Christmas events. But for whatever reason, I'm just not feeling it. Is it my decision plate problem? Is it that I've gotten too old to enjoy it all? Is it that the stress of the past five years of my life has obliterated my ability to appreciate the moment rather than worry about details out of my control? I don't know.

But I do know this. Right in the middle of a stress headache over unwrapped presents, uncooked meals, unplanned family get-togethers, I heard Alvin and the Chipmunks "Christmas Song" being played over the office phone intercom system. I was immediately transported back 20 years to Christmases in my grandmother's house when my brother, my cousins, and I wore out her Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas 8-track tape and performed live renditions of our Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas music video for all of the gathered, willing adults. My grandmother, Nana (pronounced NON-uh) gave us the impression that she rather enjoyed our chipmunk performances, so we obliged her every year until we were just too old and too cool for it. She died two years ago, during the Christmas season actually, and I've wondered where that crazy 8-track tape ended up. I know if she were still around and healthy enough to be with us at Christmas, I would probably be passing on the chipmunk tradition to Bryce and Quinn, who I know would gladly take it and make it their own.

So thank you, crazy IT guy who played the chipmunk song over the intercom this morning. How strange and unexpected that something so brief and mundane, and at work, no less, is what would finally plunge me into the Christmas spirit. I wish I could call Nana and tell her about it, but since I can't, I'll have to be content with playing this song for my kids while I sneak into my closet to wrap their presents.

I hope you find your chipmunk song memory. Merry Christmas!

Buffets Are Bad

I have way too many items on my decision plate right now. In fact, it feels less like a decision plate and more like a Furr's Buffeteria Decision Smorgasbord! Only in America! Larger than life! More than you'd ever want to think about in a lifetime! Need some more? We've got it here!

Which life-altering decision shall we sample today? First, we have the ever-present "new counselor for disturbed teen" decision. This one's maternal and creepy, and that one's energy level might suck the life out of the kid - which will it be?

If your palate isn't primed for that one yet, perhaps you'd like to consider a new job offer! Oh, but wait, this is America. We have more than one choice for you, we have many LARGE AND COMPLEX choices. Not only can you have a job offer to consider, but we'll get you a hefty raise at your current job, too. Now what's your decision? "Loyalty, comfort, and stagnation" or "stress, new territory, greater long-term income potential"? This decision's always a tasty classic - there's no bad choice, but deciding between peanut butter pie or Godiva chocolate cheesecake is a delicate issue not to be taken lightly.

Still a tad overwhelming? Then relax, and enjoy a seasonal favorite - the holiday meal decisions. Oh, will it be brunch on Christmas Eve with in-laws, dinner the day after Christmas with in-laws, afternoon snack on Christmas Day with in-laws, or running away to a convent to spend a peaceful next five decades without in-laws? The faint smell of gingerbread and peppermint lingers over this decision, giving it a warm and familiar taint. Surely this is the decision to make today.

Feeling...

...strangely ambivalent about my job interview tomorrow (overthinking will just set me up for failure, right? So I'll just deal with it when I get there...that's a great approach...).

...slothful and bloated from a severe lack of exercise (damn you, cold mornings).

...ecstatic that Bryce, of his own accord, played host to the children of my mom's neighbors at her husband's birthday party tonight (you should have seen his little innocent, hopeful smile when he said, "I have some blocks in the toy room. Do you want to play with them?").

...mildly concerned that Quinn's popularity among a room full of 50 inebriated adults is a frightful sign of what's to come (he was doing the "cool guy fist bump" with one particular guest).

...like cancelling forced Christmas plans and instead, paying lots of money for someone to get me a spinach pizza from Giordano's (500 miles away, literally) in which to drown my stressful sorrows.

heaven

When we get to heaven, everyone will be filled with joy and happiness, and we will sing eternal praises to the Lord, with this lady playing the organ.

You know I've reached a low point when I reference Beavis and Butthead.

Even though I work for a large, international firm with over 9,000 employees, I only have contact with about FOUR OF THEM in any given day. And they're the same four. Every. Single. Day. Forever. And ever. They're basically decent people, but I need some variety. And my office is not one of those environments where everyone becomes best friends and has dinner parties together on the weekends because we all love each other so much we can't bear to be apart when we're not working. It's very professional and courteous, very "let's just do our jobs and go to our separate ways afterward...you're great and all, but I've had enough of you for today." Plus there's this pesky morale issue that I've mentioned more than once which prevents much more than a surface level courtesy between all of us.

My job is also "all or nothing," "ebb and flow," "hurry up and wait." For the past six weeks I've been in the "nothing," "ebb," or "wait" phase. This is also known at our house as the phase where a hopeful Kristen answers her office phone after only half a ring in the mornings, but after nine hours of mind-numbing, thumb-twiddling solitary confinement, returns home for dinner with dead eyes and a black, black soul.

Yesterday, mid-morning, before my descent into the darkness of my daily boredom coma was complete, one of the four humans I work with came into my office, irritatingly interrupting my blog-reading time. "Do you want to be on this conference call with corporate?" This was a difficult decision for me. On the one hand, I should jump at the chance for something, anything to do. On the other hand, in the past six weeks, I've quite nicely honed my morning reading routine, and I realized I was loathe to sacrifice it for anything WORK-RELATED. Don't worry, dear readers. I have not yet fully transformed into a sloth ("yet" being the operative word here), and I completed my internal struggle over this in mere milliseconds, said, "sure!" and agreed to participate in a call, the contents of which I had absolutely no indication. All I needed to know was that it was with "corporate." That was a beautiful, happy signal to me that people other than the four I normally work with would be involved. Oh, Happy Day! Contact with other humans!

I knew I'd made the wrong decision, though, when the conference call began with total and utter silence. My co-worker was typing away on his laptop like this was perfectly normal. "Uh, is this the call? Shouldn't someone be, um, talking?" He kept typing, then said we were waiting on everyone else to join the call. Oh, right. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. *Beep* "Now joining," cracked the phone robot "Bob in, in New York" came Bob in New York's voice. Oh, goodie! "Hi, Bob! Now we can start the call. Right?" Nope, still waiting. Silence. Bob in New York clears his voice. More silence. *Beep* "Now joining,...Michigan." Yes! "Hello, Michigan! Ready to start?" You wish. Feet shuffling. Throats clearing. Who's in charge here? *Beep* "Now joining...Mark in Boston." Mark in Boston, please be the one in charge. "Hi everyone," Mark in Boston says. "Who's here so far?" Yes!! He's asking who's here, now we can get started since he's obviously in charge. *Beep* "Now joining," (there's that robot again, I'm getting sick of her voice), "California." Mark in Boston started talking, and my heart skipped a beat in pure bliss. Yes! Yes! The meeting is starting and I might get something to do as a result, and at the very least I'm not sitting in a coma at my desk right now...it's a Festivus miracle! *Beep* "Now joining" (someone shut her up!) "Kentucky"...okay, now that's enough people. It's past the meeting start time, so don't be rude enough to interrupt -- *Beep* "Now departing" (Oh, she has a broader vocabulary than I thought) "Kentucky"...huh, they didn't want to stay long. Now back to the meeting. Mark in Boston is still talking - *Beep* "Now joining" (OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO KILL THAT PHONE ROBOT) "Kentucky again." Kentucky, what the hell is problem here?! We're trying to have a meeting, I'm trying to keep from dying of boredom and poisoning my children with the soulless futility of my existence. Have some RESPECT ALREADY!

Finally, the meeting started. And then I remembered why I felt that struggle, that little doubt tickling the back of my brain when my co-worker originally walked into my office and asked if I wanted to participate. THESE CALLS MELT MY FACE OFF. People drone on and on about things that have absolutely nothing to do with the original purpose of the call, but nobody does anything about it. I wasn't even technically supposed to be on the call, but if I were, I think I would have stood up (just for my own satisfaction, since nobody on the call would actually experience the dramatic effect of such) and pounded my fists authoritatively next to the phone (THAT they would have heard, heh heh) while shouting, "FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIVES, JUST STAY ON TOPIC, PEOPLE!"

But I didn't do that. I had to be satisfied with my own internal Beavis and Butthead dialogue over the fact that one particular participant kept referring to his branch's "penetration" into the market of "vertical construction wrapped in a wrapper of green." Oh, man. If only I had dinner parties with my co-workers. We'd really get a kick out of that one.

Bryce's View

"Mom, does this look like Louisiana?"
















Yeah. Some days I just wish he'd play with trains. But he's right. See?

the one about the double wedding weekend

John being the over-achiever that he is, when he takes pictures at a wedding, it's an all day affair. And by "all day," I mean I won't see him for about a WEEK leading up to and following the wedding. You can imagine how I feel about this during the peak of wedding season, when I am only aware of his existence because the kids are still alive when I get home from work on the week days and because I sense a presence in his office when I walk by at the kids' bedtime. By the time the leaves start to change colors and fall off the trees in our yard, I realize something: I have a husband. And he lives here! All hail the end of wedding season!

But alas, in a twisted fluke characteristic of this misfit household, today is day 2 of an unseasonal Double Wedding Weekend for John. Usually such horrific occasions only take place during the summer, when there are potential outdoor activities on my list of What To Do With The Kids To Keep From Gouging Out My Eyeballs With A Spork (or is it a foon?). During the winter, what do I have?

A trip to the mall?

I'm trying NOT to gouge out my eyeballs, though. So that wouldn't work, although the mall near our house recently installed a kid's play area with a psychological half-wall barrier that kids think they can't escape, even though it would take about three seconds to hoist a leg over it and bolt into the nearby JCPenney's (which is paradise for a hiding toddler with all its affordable hanging clothes items). This play area has at its center a house-shaped yellow plastic structure with round holes for climbing or looking through. There is a huge plastic dog-mouse creature sitting on top of the house, with a proud, peaceful smile on its canine-rodent lips, its eyes downturned to the children's space. The first time we walked by this play area, actually I should say, the first time we came within 10 miles of the play area's aura, Bryce loudly demanded to go there, but he had never seen anything as wondrous and utopic as an indoor mall play area, and he didn't know what to call it. He thought the yellow house-like structure with round holes looked like cheese, and the creature on the top looked like a mouse, I guess, because he dubbed the play area "The Cheese Mat," and that's what we call it to this day. In fact, the last time we were at the mall, I was spending entirely too much time deliberating which scent of lotion to buy at Bath and Body Works, and John had the double stroller with the ticking time bombs, aka Bryce and Quinn, threatening to incinerate the newly renovated consumer paradise with the lava that would shortly come spewing from each orifice of their spasming, over-stimulated bodies. Bath and Body Works is apparently part of the Keep Kids Out Of Our Store By Preventing A Path Wide Enough For A Stroller team, and I was too far back into the store for John to get my attention. (Really, I was awash in the confused delight of 12,000 aromatic journeys, and was therefore unreachable.) Always prioritizing efficiency over decorum, John bellowed, interrupting my nasal adventure, and the nasal adventures of my fellow Bath and Body Works patrons, "KRISTEN, WE'RE GOING TO THE CHEESE MAT!!" (If this had been in a movie, before the bellow, I would have been a non-descript member of a large group of people in a store. After the bellow, the camera would have zoomed in directly on me, but not before showing every single person's head swing dramatically to look in my direction.)

No, no Cheese Mat for us today. We were down to a stale bagel and leftover pizza for breakfast this morning, so I figured I should act like I'm responsible and go grocery shopping. I never voluntarily go grocery shopping with both kids, but since John has to be all "professional" and actually "show up on time for his clients," I had to suck it up. Amazingly, Bryce only caused premature deafness in one Wal-Mart employee, and the only part of Quinn that spontaneously combusted was his ankle! Not bad. Not bad at all. And the best part? The grocery shopping seemed to have exhausted them, because THEY ARE BOTH TAKING NAPS! AT THE SAME TIME! [Enter Handel's Hallelujah Chorus]

If I were a really nice mom, I would take them to The Cheese Mat after they wake up from their glorious naps. And I am a nice mom. I am. Sometimes. But today all I can think of is the fact that entering the mall one week before Christmas means that I would be physically overwhelmed and swallowed up by hordes of last minute shoppers whose priorities probably would not include moving the hell out of my way so I can get my exploding kids to The Cheese Mat more quickly.

They're just going to have to get by with the two dozen boxes of shiny, plastic toys in their rooms. Call me cruel.

Holiday Suggestion Box

Dear Family Matriarchs,

In an effort to streamline the Obligatory Holiday Gathering Activities this year, here is our suggestion:

You decide what you want to do, and then let us know. Like faithful, robotic minions, we will show up at the mandated time and location. We have finally learned the lesson you have each earnestly worked to teach us for the past decade, and that is this (you'll be so proud): OUR OPINION REGARDING WHAT WE DO WITH OUR TIME MEANS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Now, we know there are many intricacies to this lesson, and that one of those intricacies is that our opinion will, in fact, be asked. This complex twist is one of the things that fooled us for so many years, and made it so difficult for us to really commit your lesson to memory, what with our crazy, non-passive-aggressive way of thinking and all. But now, now we finally get it. We apologize for making you expend all that extra energy every year for the past several years trying to pound into our brains that simply because you ASK our opinion doesn't actually mean it will be taken into consideration. What can we say? We're a little slow on the uptake. We get it now. Truly.

But, Matriarchs, we thought this year that we might make a suggestion regarding the holiday planning. You see, now that we understand and accept that we actually have no say in when and where the holiday gatherings will occur, we thought that maybe - just maybe - it would save you some time and energy to plan everything without actually going to the trouble of involving us. This way you will have more time to criticize our parenting skills and other major life choices without, well, US and our pesky opinions about our own holiday time getting in your way. We realize that this will disappointingly eliminate the traditional Awkward Silence after our unsatisfactory schedule suggestions, as well as the Repeated Matriarchal Suggestion Stated With More Authority And A Glare, not to mention the annual holiday favorite, our very special and perfected Give In And Go With The Original Matriarchal Suggestion Like The Spineless Wonders We Are. But every tradition should be re-evaluated every once in a while, right? And this one seems like a waste of time now that we are finally graduating from the University of Matriarchal Rule, with passive-aggressive honors.

Let us know where you want us this holiday season, and we'll be there. We’ll leave our opinions at the curb, since that’s where they ultimately end up anyway, under the shreds of wrapping paper, half-eaten candy canes, and our self-respect. Merry Christmas and congratulations on your hard-won success with your slow-learning family members. You've earned it, Matriarchs!

Snips, Snails, and Puppy Dog Tails

I've been thinking a lot about this book I've been reading, and I'm intrigued. Here is the summary:

When author Andrea Buchanan, already a mom to a little girl, was pregnant with her second child, she marveled at the response of friends and total strangers alike: "Boys are wonderful," "Boys are so much better than girls," "Boys love their mothers differently than girls." This constant refrain led her to explore the issue herself, with help from her fellow writers and moms, many of whom had had the same experience.

I've read almost all of the essays in the book now, and I haven't come across one yet that addresses the opposite response from people, the response I got during both pregnancies, and still get every time the subject of my two sons comes up in a conversation with a new acquaintance. Rather than the antiquated (almost dynastic or feudal) societal expecations to "carry on the family name" or "provide a male heir" to which this book constantly refers, here's the apologetically toned response I received when I told people I was having a boy, especially the second time:

"Oh." Sad pause. "Is that what you wanted? Are you going to try for a girl next time? You need to have a girl, they're so much easier than boys, and you can do so much more with them."

Now that I'm not pregnant, when people learn that I have two young boys, the inevitable question is, "Are you going to have a third baby soon so you can try to have a girl this time?"

What does that mean? Did I somehow "get it wrong" the first two times? Would Bryce be more socially valuable if Quinn were a younger sister rather than a younger brother? Is Quinn less unique because he's the second son rather than the first daughter? Would it be okay for me to stop at two kids if I'd had one of each sex? I'm just wondering, because apparently I wasn't given the How To Please Society By Giving Birth To The Right Gender Each Time You Have A Baby manual, and I just wasn't aware of the highly nuanced rules regarding my reproductive activities.

Where are these women writers living, where people value baby boys so much more highly than girls? 18th century England? Or perhaps China? That would at least make sense. Certainly not in the midwest U.S., where moms who have boys are practically given sympathy parties, and are expected to go on having kids, until they get it right and have a girl, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! If this means some poor, conforming sap ends up with a classroom-sized family of 21 boys and 1 precious, prized girl, then so be it. So be it.

Pluto, Meet Your Future

In a recent conversation with a friend and mentor about the constant frustration and sense of defeat John and I feel when dealing with the manifestation of Bryce's intensity, it was pointed out to me that perhaps I've been looking at this in the wrong way. You know, I need to put a positive spin on it, look at the bright side, see the forest for the trees and all that. She said to me, "I always think of it in terms of career counseling. How would these qualities translate into a successful life?"

"Well," I said, "He'll make a great mafia lord."

When I told John about the conversation later, he said, "or a journalist. He'd make a great journalist with the way he won't take no for an answer, can talk over anything, and can just basically WEAR YOU DOWN." But that still doesn't quite take all of his quirks into account, so I came up with a more accurate list.

Most Likely Career Paths for Bryce:

1.) Mad Scientist
2.) Dictator of a Developing Nation
3.) Eccentric Billionaire
4.) Ruler of a Small Planet

The Titanic Was A Cruise Ship, Too

A year ago, Bryce went to his very first dentist appointment, and this particular dentist's office takes a Disney World approach to introducing kids to the joys of dental health. He was inundated with chipper, bright-eyed female hygienists asking him lots of interesting questions (do you brush your teeth every day?), taking pictures of the inside of his mouth (for fun!! isn't this fun?), letting him pick his own flavor of floss (bubble gum or blueberry?! wow, you get to pick your own!), all in effort to ease him into the luxury cruise ship experience that a dental cleaning can clearly be. By the time we met the dentist, Bryce was in a catatonic state, completely over-stimulated by the fast-paced questions and the goodie bags he clutched while he watched the blaring Nickelodeon station on the TV that was aimed directly at his face, right over the dentist chair. After the cleaning and exam was over, they whisked Bryce to the Toy Area and let him pick a toy and a balloon to take home with him. The cruise and brain-washing was complete. See you in six months, new initiate.

The next visit wasn't so much a cruise as a visit to the circus. There were sights to see and interesting things to consider, but not as many treats or comforts as our first time. He still got a toy and balloon at the end, but there was some flouride swallowing and a long wait for the dentist with a fuzzy TV...so, some less than stellar aspects to our visit dampened his enthusiasm a bit.

Yesterday was his third visit. This time, as the eerily calm hygienist, Sherrie, prepped him for his cleaning, he said, "This isn't my favorite part. My favorite part is at the end when I get a toy." Calm Sherrie chuckled and started the whirring, high-pitched, pulsating instrument slathered with that sandy fruit-flavored teeth-cleaning chemical. Whoah. Hold it right there. Who decided it was okay to use THIS thing? On the previous two visits, the cleanings were done with an innocent toothbrush and some special toothpaste. There was no warning to the kid with the insane gag reflex and TEXTURE ISSUES FROM HELL that he was about to undergo this medieval torture! In some attempt to cooperate, Bryce kept his head still, but his eyes filled up with tears, his fists were clinched into tight little balls, and he alternated between banging his knees and his heels together violently. Calm Sherrie used the water hose to rinse off the sandy residue, but Bryce is still trying to grasp the concept of using the suction hose, so he gagged as he tried not to swallow it, his face turning bright red and his neck craning. "Uh, he's choking!" I told Calm Sherrie. Without looking at me, she said, "that's just what they do, he's fine" with a tone that suggested Bryce was some oblivious dog yelping over shots at the vet: "Oh, he'll be fine, we'll get him a milk bone in just a sec, hon." After the cleaning was done, Bryce was still doing the "there's no place like home" heel-thumping, and it just didn't look right. "Do you need to go to the bathroom, Bryce?" He nodded his head violently, looking at me with panic in his face. I scooped him up and took him to the bathroom down the hall. When we got in there, he gave me an accusatory glare: "I do NOT like it here, Mom! I'm ready to go! And I don't want to come back here EVER AGAIN."

The jig is up, Dr. Smith and Calm Sherrie; you'll never indoctrinate Texture Boy into your Disney Cruise of a dental practice. Nice try, though. And thanks for the balloon.

As an entertaining side note, the dentist asked if I knew whether or not Bryce grinds his teeth in his sleep. He showed me where Bryce had been wearing his teeth down to teeny little nubs, and said, "He may have a little Type A personality going on here." I just chuckled and said, "Oh. You have NO IDEA." He responded with, "well, we won't speculate on where he got that."

Cheeky bastard. See if I bring any more kids on his creepy dental Cruise-Circus-Torture Chamber.

He didn't care about the Mouse King anyway.

Three Weeks Ago

John: What do you think about taking Bryce to see a performance of The Nutcracker? He loves nutcrackers so much, and there's a lot of music and colorful scenery; I bet he'd really like it.

Kristen: What a lovely idea. Let's see if your mom can watch Quinn while we go.

John: Okay. It will be a great holiday tradition. Look at us go!

One Week Ago

John: My mom said she could watch Quinn while we go to The Nutcracker with Bryce and Hannah.

Kristen: Cool.

Two Days Ago (while shopping with Kristen's mother)

Kristen (answering cell phone): Hello?

John's Mom: Kristen, did you end up getting tickets to The Nutcracker?

Kristen: Yes.

John's Mom: Well, the show starts at 2:00, right? What time do you want me to be there?

Kristen: Probably before 1:30.

John's Mom: Okay, see you then.

Two Hours Later (back home)

Kristen: Your mom called me and asked what time she should be here.

John: WHAT??!! I told her FOUR TIMES that she should get here by 1:15!! Why did she even call you at all?

Kristen: I don't know. Because that's how she is. Hopefully she'll be here on time, then.

Yesterday (1:30 p.m.)

Kristen: Where is your mom???!!! We're going to be late!

John: I have no idea. Why do we even bother?

Yesterday (1:35 p.m.)

John: Here she is, let's GO!

John's Mom: Hi, everyone.

John and Kristen: Hi, we have to go, there's Quinn's monitor, there's his diaper bag. See ya!

Bryce (falling flat on his face on icy sidewalk): OOOWWWW!!!! I hurt my knee!! My pants are wet!

Yesterday (1:40 p.m., in the car after changing Bryce's icy wet pants)

Kristen: Are you okay now, Bryce?

Bryce: Yes, I'm better. I want to watch a movie!!

Kristen: We're going to see The Nutcracker, it's not a movie. You're going to see a person in a nutcracker costume, isn't that cool?

Bryce: Oh yeah!

John (muttering): What is this?! The Toys for Tots thing. Crap.

Kristen: What do you mean?? That's what all these motorcycles are for? Get off this road! Now! We're going to be stuck here for hours!

Yesterday (2:00 p.m., in the car)

John: I'll just take the back roads.

Kristen: It doesn't even matter, we're already late, and there's no late seating!! We're going to miss the entire first act of the show!

John: Well, as long as we're there for the Mouse King scene...

Kristen: ISN'T THAT PRETTY EARLY ON, THOUGH??!!

John: Crap. There's the blockade for the motorcycles again.

Kristen: What's wrong with this stupid city?? You can't get from one side of the city to the other no matter what road you're on!? This makes no sense!

Yesterday (2:20 p.m., at the theater)

Usher: Don't worry, we know you were blocked by the bike traffic, and we're breaking our "no late seating" rule and letting people into the balcony until intermission. It's okay, breathe.

Kristen: Cool! John, we can go on in to the balcony, and we probably haven't missed too much yet.

John: I hope he can see the Mouse King!

Yesterday (2:25 p.m., in the balcony seats, ballet in progress)

Bryce (in a loud "whisper"): Mom, when's the nutcracker part coming?

Kristen: Just watch. Shhh.

Bryce (in a louder whisper): MOM! MOM!

Kristen: Stop pushing against me with your head!! If you have something to ask me, put your mouth up to my ear and whisper it.

Bryce (directly into my ear, in a loud whisper): WHEN IS THE NUTCRACKER PART COMING?!

John: (Laughing)

Kristen: Right after this part. See, these are the parents dancing at their party, and pretty soon the kids are going to come down, and the little girl is going to get the nutcracker as a gift.

Bryce: Where is the nutcracker?

Yesterday (2:45 p.m., in the balcony seats, the nutcracker part has come and gone, the nutcracker is now a boring, normal-looking prince)

Bryce: I want a treat! Mom! I want some candy!

Kristen: Bryce, SHHHHH!!! We'll get a treat when the lights come on at intermission, before we go to our seats.

John: What does he want?

Kristen: A TREAT! Don't mention it!

Bryce: When is the nutcracker coming back?

Yesterday (3:20 p.m., in the lobby at intermission)

Bryce: These are good Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

Kristen: Do you like the show so far? Isn't the way they dance really pretty?

Bryce: Yeah. When does the nutcracker come back, though?

Kristen: Um. I'm not sure. Maybe in the next scene, but I doubt it. I think he's going to be a prince for the rest of the show. But there will be a castle, and there will be all sorts of cool dancing!

Bryce: Oh. I want another Reese's Cup.

Yesterday (3:40 p.m., in correct theater seats, second act in progress)

John (hissing): Quit head butting me, Bryce!

Bryce: I want a treat!

Kristen: You already had one. Hush! You have to be quiet in here, we talked about this!

Bryce: Why can't I have a treat?

John: Stay in your seat. If you're not going to sit on the chair, then sit in my lap and be still.

Bryce: Dad, I want another treat!!!

John: Be quiet. Look at those cool dancers!

Bryce: (mildly distracted, but then head-butts John again)

John: OW! I told you not to do that! (gets up with Bryce, heads to back of theater, Bryce whimpering for a treat)

Yesterday (3:50 p.m., in lobby after being told once we leave, we can't return to our seats)

Bryce (crying): But I want to see the show!!

Kristen: Well, we can't go back in. We told you you had to be quiet and you weren't even watching. Let's just go.

Yesterday (4:00 p.m., in the car)

John: Why do we even bother?

Kristen: I'll tell you what: next time we have an idea like this, remind me to just take a $100 bill and go ahead and put it right into the paper shredder. That would be a quicker and less painful way to waste our money.

John: They should have had cocktails there.

Lessons Learned

1.) Don't put an over-sized hat on an already clumsy kid. Observe:





























2.) There really are other things to do besides watch movies. For instance, you can torture your sibling by continually knocking over his domino structures:











































3.) But no matter how many times you hear your brother scream, "NOOO!! I SAID STOP IT!" he's still willing to team up with you in the game known as Refuse A Natural Smile No Matter How Many Times The Parents Sigh While Trying To Take This Picture:

It seems like a normal winter day, but it's snot.

It snowed in Oklahoma. Do you know what that means? DISASTER! TERROR! What will we do? It's all over the roads! And the grass! And our cars! And the wind, it's so cold! Will we die if we step outside? Has this ever happened anywhere else in the world? And if so, how did they handle it? Surely by closing down all the schools. Because there's NO WAY the school bus drivers could drive on ONE. INCH. OF. SNOW. No way.

The schools here build in "snow days" for just such emergencies (you know, days when the snow leaves a dusty layer on the road - a layer that is obviously so dangerous that the streets aren't even salted and the traffic is only lightened by the absent school buses). Well, how convenient. We have built-in snow days, and it snowed today. Schools are closed! It's a big party! Oh - except for the parents, who are now plunged into the depths of hell. Message from the schools: "Yeah. Good luck with that."

I probably wouldn't be so bitchy and sarcastic if:
1.) I had gotten any sleep last night.
2.) I didn't have 300 pounds per square inch of sinus pressure force bearing down on the left side of my swollen, throbbing face.

John convinced me to take NyQuil last night, which means I didn't hear the first three times Bryce woke up screaming because his hyper-sensitive, psychic brain noticed his night light "blink" during power surges at 2:00 a.m. from snow on the wires. I did, however, hear Quinn wake up screaming as a result of Bryce's screaming. Then I fell back to sleep, and woke up 10 minutes later when another power surge pushed Bryce over the edge. He was at the top of the stairs, furiously turning on all the lights in the house (the surges only lasted a few seconds), holding his tattered blue blanket, Noir, and yelling like he was in an argument with a sibling, "stop it, nightlight! Stop blinking! I told you if you do that again, I'm going downstairs!" I tried to hush him and get him back to his room, but he refused to move off the top stair, and then he started with the wailing: "But!! But! Daaaaahaaaaad said if the nightlight blinked agai-ai-ai-hai-ain, I could come downstaaaaaairs and sleep in YOUR behhehehheed!" Oh he did, did he?? But where is dad now? In my drugged and half-asleep state, I walked Bryce down the stairs and into our bedroom, where John was wishing, hoping beyond hope that I wasn't going to make him move for a fourth time. "Did you tell Bryce he could sleep in our bed if the nightlight went out again??!" He said (in a muffled voice from under the covers), "I said if the lights went out and stayed out. Go back to bed, Bryce." Uh, dude? The kid's four. He doesn't really know what power surges are, and I don't think his brain can QUITE wrap itself around the concept of qualifiers like, "if it goes out and stays out" vs. "if it goes out."

So, for the first time in his entire life, Bryce slept in our bed with us. Well, he was IN our bed with us. There wasn't much sleeping - for me, anyway. First he needed a drink of water. Then he lost his lamb (it was right by his head), then I had to threaten to send him back up to the scary flashing nightlight if he didn't stop kicking me in the stomach. By the time I woke up to Quinn screaming "DAAAAAAADDY! COME HEEEEEEEERE!!" at the top of his lungs at 6:00 this morning, only my pinky toenail was still actually on the bed and under the covers. The rest of me was left in a delirious shivering mass teetering on the mattress seam. By then my cold had turned into a sinus infection, so the entire left side of my head was throbbing, and every time Quinn shrieked over the monitor, it felt like someone was taking an icepick to my ear. Bryce was fast asleep, arms and legs sprawled out like he was sleeping alone on a fluffy California King, as opposed to a 20-year-old lumpy, hand-me-down Queen-sized mattress next to his twitching, sleep-deprived, sinus-packed mother.

If we reacted to daily life the way the Oklahoma school systems react to weather, I'd be planning my funeral right now: "A SINUS INFECTION?! GOOD GOD! THERE'S BACTERIA INSIDE MY BODY? We better shut this thing down RIGHT NOW, PEOPLE!"

Freak Incidents: Is Someone Trying To Tell Me Something?

I promised an update on whether or not my immune system would win the battle against the Rhinovirus. Well, I'm not winning. I'm breathing out of one nostril, coughing, and I have the proverbial frog in my throat, only this frog is having a big phlegm pool party and inviting all his friends to dive in while the mucus is plentiful.

Well, not to worry. I won't be humiliating myself in coughing fits and obnoxiously loud attempts at drainage control as I try to prove how professional even a walking snot factory can be. What? How can this be? Did I cancel the interview? Did they just decide to hire me based on my magnificently impressive resume and glowing recommendations? Did my current job wake up and realize that they should double my salary and give me six months of vacation for my unparalleled quality of work, thus negating my need for a job interview?

Um, no.

Actually, in keeping with the Twilight Zone characteristics this entire job opportunity seems to espouse (and yes, I'm personifying the job opportunity at this point - believe me, after what it's put me through already, it's lucky I don't demonize it instead), a complete freak incident has shut down THE ENTIRE COMPANY. Get this: a water main broke in our downtown area two days before the interview was scheduled. The most damage? The building where this company keeps it's headquarters. Specifically, the basement of the building. Specifically, the area of the basement where all the freaking important servers were housed. So, not only are operations shut down right now, but everyone there is panicking, and I won't be surprised if they actually contact me next week and tell me that the entire hiring process has been "put on hold" once again.

It's what I get for complaining about the potential of having to interview through snot. Oh, snot's a problem for you, eh? How about a MOAT AROUND THE BUILDING?! That'll keep you out. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Damned haunted job opportunities. Now it's the principle of the thing for me - I will have that job. It may take another five years and an epic battle of freak incidents and delays, but have no doubt: IT WILL BE MINE.

10 Things Most People Don't Know About Me

Allison suggested this, so here we go:

1. I grew up in this college dormitory because my parents were "resident heads" there while my dad worked on his Ph.D. I returned to the same university for college and lived on the same floor of the same dorm as I had during childhood. It was weird. Everyone thought so.

2. My grandparents owned and operated a funeral home in a small town in West Texas. We had to go visit it every time we saw them. We liked going there. (Allison, I knew you'd appreciate that.)

3. During the first snow of my first winter in college in Chicago, I participated in a spontaneous activity wherein three friends and I etched the word "spam" in the snow on every windshield in the dormitory parking lot. (This was when the word "spam" still referred only to the canned meat product.) We thought this was the most hilarious thing in the world.

4. I really can't stand it when people don't use adverbs correctly (for instance, when someone says, "I'm doing good" or "I'm going slow," etc.). It drives me nuts, and I can only resist correcting people about 10% of the time. But I'm nice about it, at least.

5. I once wrote a paper comparing the movie Pulp Fiction with the Police song "Wrapped Around Your Finger" and Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. And it actually made good sense.

6. When I was seven years old, my brother and I had two pet gerbils. We had been taught to pick them up by their tails. One day my parents were on the phone long distance with family, and we decided we wanted to play with the gerbils (the urge must have been so strong that we simply could not wait for the parents to get off the phone and help us). I picked one of them up and TORE THE TAIL COMPLETELY OFF. Blood was everywhere. I thought I'd killed it. Apparently no one ever specified to me that you're supposed to pick them up by the BASE of their tails, not the tip. DOH! The tail grew back eventually. I never got over it, as you can see.

7. As soon as I come home from work or an event, I pretty much change straight into my pajamas for the night. Lazy bones, that's me.

8. A professor (one of the famous ones at my school) once wrote that reading my paper "was like hacking one's way through a jungle." I still got an A- in his class, and he was one of my favorite professors. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.

9. I've never seen any of the Rocky movies, Sixteen Candles, or Pretty in Pink. I have, however, seen The Breakfast Club. I never saw BladeRunner until it was a requirement for an Art History class. Yes, that's right. Art History.

10. On a weekend camping trip with my girl scout troop when I was nine, someone's napkin caught on fire while the troop leader was grilling something. Everybody freaked out, but I saved the day with my nerdy level-headedness (or complete lack of respect for the dangers of fire), and stomped it out with my tennis shoe.

Feverish Nightmares

Oh no. Please tell me this isn't happening. What have I done? I'm on my way to my interview, I've just woken from some unexplained but apparently normal blackout (judging from the fact that no one around me is questioning it), and I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt? And I'm riding in a car with co-workers from my current job? And we're on our way to lunch first? Okay, stay calm. Just get through the lunch, warp time to allow yourself an additional 20 minutes to change clothes in the restaurant bathroom, and then force these co-workers to drop you off at your interview location. No problem. Okay, here we are at the restaurant, and here I go into the bathroom to change clothes. In the mirror I see that I have received some type of "trendy" hair cut and color that makes me look like a Degrassi Jr. High character. WHAT THE BLAZES IS GOING ON HERE?? I change clothes, head back to the table and shriek uncontrollably to my co-workers that we have to leave NOW. They drop me off at the interview building, I stumble in the door, and the male receptionist tells me, "she's not here, hold on. I think we'll have to re-schedule your interview." WHAT?? He disappears. While I'm waiting for him to return, my entire extended family and a whole bunch of other families with kids stream in to the waiting area, and some type of public performance is about to start. My mother-in-law walks up to me and chides, "you need to bow your head during the prayer!" The male receptionist returns and says, "yep, I was right. You'll have to come back next week."

Yesterday I woke up in a cold sweat with stress tears at the outer corners of my eyes. "It's your body's way of dealing with your nerves over the interview," John tells me. But it's so much worse than that. My throat hurts. I feel clammy. My eyes and skin are burning. Oh. Holy. Crap.

I'm getting sick.

I never get sick.

But when I do, it's really, really, REALLY BAD.

Am I going to be hacking and delirious all the way through my five-hour hazerview on Wednesday? Or is my usually hearty immune system reserving all the vitamin C and Airborne I've been chugging in some internal bio-arsenal, so as to release its assault on the evil virus just in time for my interview? Tune in tomorrow to find out!

And someone pass me some echinacea.

That Stupid Wolf - It Gets You Every Time

I think by now I've made it clear that Bryce is in constant, loud communication with us about his every move. He yells as much in excitement and happiness as he does in anger and fear - it's just the way he is. Unfortunately for him, it's had a bit of a "boy who cried wolf" effect on the rest of us. Now when I hear shrieks coming from another portion of the house, I'm not overly concerned. I usually finish whatever bonbon I'm savoring, take another sip of capuccino, read the last sentence of whatever magazine article I'm enjoying, and then slowly, casually look up and make sure there are no feet poking through the ceiling rafters. Of course it always checks out, so I blink twice and go back to my day of leisure. The screams mean nothing to me.

So you'll understand, then, why I didn't flinch at dinner when Bryce announced at his usual jet engine volume, "I have to GO PO-TTY!!" I said, "that's fine, Bryce. Go ahead." "OKAY!!" he screamed as he ran down the hall at top speed. We all went back to eating. To be honest, I think I forgot he was even IN the bathroom.

All of a sudden, the entire foundation of the house cracked with the force of an agonizing bellow from the bathroom. It was followed by the sound of a terrified four-year-old crying. But you see, this is so much within the realm of normal for us, that none of us really even flinched. Even Quinn just kept shoveling spaghetti into his bottomless pit of a belly. After enough time had passed that I could verify Bryce wasn't fake crying or role playing in some strange bathroom skit, I went to check on him.

"What's wrong??"

"AAAA!!! The toilet seat fell on my penis!! It HURT!!"

The entire toilet seat was down, Bryce's pants were still around his knees, and he was standing there, in shock, I think. I'm sure I would be too, to be so rudely and painfully interrupted in the middle of an every day act such as peeing.

What I was wondering as I stifled my laughter and simultaneously winced in pain for him was, how long did he stand there and scream while the toilet seat was smashing his future manhood? If only his screams actually alerted his housemates to danger, someone might have made it to his rescue sooner. Poor boy.

I think the company might LIKE this level of creativity...you know, quality under pressure. Or something.

Yesterday I had to put on my happy face and go to a company holiday party an hour and a half away. This required a ride in a car with three co-workers down a stretch of the most boring, and also the most deadly, highway in the state. It then required two hours of watching one of the said co-workers drink spiked punch and fall all over herself, then insist that she would be "FINE" driving the rest of us miserable sober sobs home after the obligatory amount of attendance time had passed. The attendance time included sitting through the most boring round of a "dirty santa" gift exchange I've ever witnessed. The most laughs came from a pair of slippers manufactured to look like bare feet in flip flops, only the toes were about the size of gorilla toes, and the fake gorilla toenails were painted fire engine red. These were the slippers that caused the tipsy co-worker to trip and almost fall, and she would blame those slippers for her flushed, tipsy state for HOURS to come. The final requirement of the day was a white-knuckled hour and a half ride home at 80 mph along the afore-mentioned deadly stretch of highway, this time with an irritable and insistently "not even buzzed" driver. Oy vey. Needless to say, after that, I needed a drink of my own.

I think my mom had my share, because she called us at home while were watching a movie later that night. Her husband's office party had been that day, too. She said she didn't know how many margaritas had been brought to the table, but she was so drowsy driving the three miles home and she wanted me to talk to her. The conversation went something like this:

mom: You have to talk to me. I dunn een know how many margurritas they brought to the table, Kristen.

Kristen: Where's Brent? Why isn't he driving you home?

mom: Uhhmmm, I'm not sure WHERE he is! I told him to ride with me, but he said he's driven in mmmuch worse states. But I'mmmm thinkinnn...he's getting older, too!

Kristen: Where are you?

mom: I'm almost home. I dunneen know how many margurritas they brought, Kristen!

Kristen: Geez. WHERE IS YOUR HUSBAND??

mom: I tttried to get him to rrrride with me, but....

Kristen: How far are you from the house?

mom: Oh. I just pulled into the drivvvveway. This is a good thing.

Kristen: Go to bed.

mom: Tthhhat won't be a probbblem!

Note to anyone freaking out about my mom's mental state: this post is exaggerated for comic effect. It was a funny phone call, and she did have more to drink than usual, but she was coherent and in control. She sounded more fatigued than anything else. Nonetheless, given my dealings with tipsy drivers yesterday, and the fact that I could have done absolutely nothing to help the situation FROM THE PHONE, it was disconcerting. After we hung up, John said, "your mom just drunk-dialed you!"

Earlier this week I received a call from the company I used to work for. During the Enron scandal, they were forced to lay off a third of their employees, and I was one of the casualties of that layoff. There is an open position for which I've been in the running for the past nine months, and now, after a human gestation period of waiting, hoping, and then giving up, they have actually scheduled a friggin' in person interview. With me! In person! What's that? There's a little pre-reading to do? No problem. I like to read. Reading is good. Oh - you estimate it will take no more than two hours. That's a little much, but - no it's not, it's the perfect amount, I'm in!! Interviews are good. OH...the interview is ALL DAY LONG? Uh...okay. I, um, guess I can take the day off for that. Sure! What am I thinking, of course I will! I'd be glad to! I love taking random days off in the middle of the work week after a week long vacation - that never looks suspicious at all! What's that you say? Pre-interview essay questions?? That are really more like post-graduate level theses? Due two days before the interview? Geez, what kind of organization am I getting myself into here?

I spent the entire morning working on my pre-interview assignments, so John had the not-so-simple task of entertaining the kids, keeping the house quiet, and getting the festive holiday lights on the house. Bryce kept coming in and out of the house with heavy breaths, looking like a miniature professional skier with his sunglasses, fleece coat, and oversized gloves: "Mom, I'm coming in for a *gasp* drink of water. My throat is dry *gasp* so I'm just getting a glass of water, that's all I need. *gasp* There's something in my throat so I need some water to push it down to my digestion." Quinn was happy outside until John turned on the leaf-blower, which Quinn finds as tolerable as having nails shoved into his eye sockets. He ran inside and started rummaging around on my desk, picked up my mp3 player, put the headphones over his ears, and handed me the player, like, "Turn this on for me, yo?" Seizing the opportunity for three more minutes of silence to write approximately five more words of my brain-boiling essay about career development techniques, I turned the music on, stuck the player in his pocket, and sent him back outside. I was quite pleased with myself until I realized that I JUST GAVE MY MP3 PLAYER TO A TWO-YEAR-OLD WHO WILL PROBABLY END UP THROWING IT DOWN THE GUTTER OR FEEDING IT TO MY DOG.

Despite all the interruptions, I did complete my pre-interview post-doctoral thesis. Hopefully my answers don't have any references to gorilla toes, digestion, or drunk-dialing grandmothers.

Behold an actual e-mail I received today. And my translation.

-----Original Message-----
From: Human Resources Manager
Sent: Thursday, December 01, 2005 12:20 PM
To: All Employees
Subject: Pay Issues Regarding Tomorrow

Some of you are asking if you will be paid for attending the Christmas party in OKC tomorrow, and the answer is, no. Also, no mileage will be paid. Attendance is voluntary. If you are non-exempt and normally work on Friday afternoon, you should charge your time to TOWP (vacation time).

Thanks.
Human Resources Manager

-----My Translation-----
From: Human Resources Manager
Sent: Thursday, December 01, 2005 12:20 PM
To: All Employees
Subject: Pay Issues Regarding Tomorrow

Some of you are asking if we give a shit about you as employees. And the answer is, no. Also, no annual salary increases will be paid. Keeping this job is voluntary. If you are expecting more money than you currently make, you should get a second job (McDonald's).

Happy Flipping (burgers, that is) Holidays.
Human Resources Manager