Tales of an Impish Gren

Bottles in Waiting

2009-11-13T16:08:00.001-06:00

There are baby bottles in our kitchen cabinets, there are diapers hanging behind the nursery door. There is a second car seat riding expectantly in Moonshot’s car and there is a newly replenished bottle of whiskey atop the fridge. Yes, the House of Gren is ready for a second go-round at this whole parenting thing. True, some of us are more ready than others. For myself, I’m excited to meet my son, but I’m not sure how that compares to my wife’s desire to have the still-mysterious tyke stop pummeling her kidneys, stomping her small intestines, elbowing the back of her ribs, and generally making her grimace unexpectedly at all hours of the day and night. Lutine is also quite ready. She has painted young Dean many pictures and continually requests that we buy infant toys at the store, announcing that they are “so cute” and “Baby Dean needs that.” Her new favored play locale is Dean’s room…rattles and plush toys spread across the floor with a “how will Baby Dean play with this?”

In all, we’re as prepared as we can be…which is to say ready to be blindsided.

We’ve scheduled a C-Section for November 18^th but are keeping our fingers crossed that we won’t reach that cut-off. Given her choice, Moonshot would rather go for the natural childbirth that brought us Norah. However, for reasons that are perhaps a bit more graphic than some of the readers here are likely to want…she’s unwilling to go natural on a baby as big as Norah again. And so, we’ve given Dean his first parental ultimatum. “If you’re not outta that uterus by the count of three, young man…the doctor is coming in after you!” To which young Dean is apparently replying with his sister's sense of defiance. there being absolutely no movement toward birth in the week preceding yesterday's check-up. "Yeah?" he says. "Come and get me, then." Of course, if he is truly like our Lutine...he'll make a mad dash for the exit just as we go into surgery prep.

In addition to our family, the entire neighborhood seems ready for Dean to join the community. They threw a shower for us a few weeks back and there is apparently a sign-up sheet floating around to supply meals to the new parents. If I haven't said so before, allow me to say now that I love our new neighborhood. I still miss the actual house we left last year, but the trade off has been well worth it. Between all the extra tools I now have access to in the neighbors' garages, the number of kids Norah and Dean will be able to play with, and the general wonder of living among a group of people who care about what you're doing without prying...I'm getting used to suburbia. I am sad, however it report that my friend three doors down...we'll call him Bob Appleton...lost the dollar he put into the "when will the Gren's have their baby" pool. He had picked yesterday and I was really hoping he was right...Moonshot and I were really hoping to have gotten started on that whiskey by this weekend.

Conversations with Norah

2009-08-28T11:40:00.006-05:00

Norah changes on a daily basis. And it’s easy for me to lose sight of just how different she is from month to month as the changes are hidden away in minor…well…baby steps. I’ll look up suddenly and realize that some phrase or habit of hers that once dominated our routine disappeared unnoticed some time ago…can’t say for sure when, but now that you mention it it’s been a while. So, below are listed a few of her favorite current sayings. While her vocabulary is immense at this point, the quotes below constitute a disturbing percentage of our conversations with our daughter.

"That happens sometimes"
Said as she spills her water, slops spaghetti on her shirt, or if I do any of the same. She has become very wise in her acceptance that upsetting things do, indeed “happen sometimes.”

"I so silly"
Yes. Yes she is. This statement is most often joyously declared as she puts her underwear on her head, intentionally sings a song lyric incorrectly, pretends to be a dog darting between our feet as we try to set the table for dinner, or other such activities that she finds fantastically absurd.

“Make him talk.”
Demanded as she hands you a stuffed animal. It’s cute at first….but loses its luster after you’ve pretty much exhausted everything you can think of that a triceratops might want to add to the conversation.

"It was only an accident"
Her second favorite explanation for disaster. This one can be interchangeable with “That happens sometimes,” but finds better traction when the destruction is punishment-worthy.

"You want to play with me in my room?"
Imagine puppy dog eyes and a hopeful tone of voice that almost never fails to deliver you into her room for a rousing game of “Make him talk!”

"Good morning, Baby Dean!"
Said almost every morning in a high pitched voice that is muffled due to its being spoke directly into my wife’s pajamas and ever-growing belly. Norah is keenly aware that there is a baby in there and does her best to include her brother in moments of family togetherness.

"Daddy tooted!"
This one’s self-explanatory. There will come a time in the near future when she doesn’t find this nearly as amusing as she currently does. She’ll eventually come around to her mother’s view on this subject and my flatulence will be outnumbered by disgust votes. My only hope is to stall this inevitable betrayal by Norah until Baby Dean is old enough to find delight in such low brow humor. Then the votes will be tied and the tie breaker will go to he who is willing to face the ire of a mere 50% of the household.

"What kind of _____ is it?"
She has yet to discover the incessant “why” that I’ve heard so much about. But this is her current version of the same thing. “What’s that?” “It’s a bird.” ”What kind of bird is it?” “It’s a goldfinch.” “What kind of goldfinch is it?” “It’s a boy goldfinch.” “What kind of boy goldfinch is it?” And on and on and on. I really do try to humor this for as long as possible because she does learn a lot through this routine…but often I’ll try to end it by creating a loop. What kind of boy goldfinch? A bird boy goldfinch.

"I want that in my home"
Spoken in response to just about any toy commercial. Currently, her favorites seem to be Baby Doctor Barbie, Barbie Three-Musketeers, Paperoni, Slimer Shoes, Tinkerbell play set, and several others whose product names I cannot currently recall.

"That's awesome"
It’s a phrase her Dad overuses and it has rubbed off on her.

"I miss Grandma"
Don’t worry, Husker, she misses Grandpa too…but with two Grandmas, this phrase gets spoken twice as much. She’ll frequently and quite suddenly miss any number of people. She wept today in the car for 15 minutes because she missed her friend David. She is keenly aware of all her friends and family who are not with her.

"Watch TV?"
She asks this a bit more often than I would like. She’s in a Sponge Bob kick right now and we are often trying our best to distract her from her love of TV with coloring books, outside play etc…only to have her ask, “Watch TV?” again the second the page has been colored or she’s peddled her trike once around the cul-du-sac.

“Poo Poo!!”
The cornerstone of any three-year-old’s comedy routine. “Norah, what’s that a picture of?” “Poo Poo!” “Norah, what do horsies eat?” “Poo Poo!” It really is a quite versatile joke, the use of which is often followed by “I so silly.”

"Just a little bit"
Used to cutely mitigate a transgression and frequently an answer to the following questions: “Norah, did you hit any kids at school today?” “Norah, did you spill your cereal?” “Norah, did you have a potty accident?”

"I'm a nice T-Rex"
She feels the need to explain this quickly if your response to her jumping into the room with a roar is to act afraid. It seems to me that a truly nice T-Rex would stop scaring us like that and politely announce its niceness BEFORE it roared its way into our living room. But I’m not a paleontologist.

“He’s not real”
Norah loves to care for and talk with her stuffed animals. She brings at least one of them to the spare chair at the dinner table every night and feeds them imaginary food. However, should you be tempted to play along with her illusion, for instance to ask if Mr. Giraffe would like a helping of carrots or to playfully ask if Mr. Hippo could pass the pepper, Norah will fix you with a wilting “duh” look that declares to the whole room that you are the stupidest person in existence adding, “He’s not real,” just for good measure. There’s really no way to defend yourself against it. You just shake your head and get the pepper yourself.

Reminds me of a funny story. Mr. Dingus (my former boss) is an energetic guy who loves to play with his kids. Makes a fool of himself in public with them in a way I wish more fathers were comfortable doing. Anyway, we were out with his two daughters, one 4 and one probably 7 at the time. Mr. Dingus is playing with the 4-year-old. She would dart behind him and Mr. Dingus would pretend to have lost track of where she was. “Where’s [Dingus Daughter]?” he would cry in over the top confusion as the 4-year-old giggled hysterically. Me and the 7-year-old are off to the side watching this, the 7-year-old taking no part for reasons that I assume have to do with her greater understanding of the act her father is putting on. Surely, the game holds no interest for her since she’s in on the joke that the 4-year-old doesn’t get. But then, she turns to me sadly and shakes her head as she rolls her eyes and explains, “My dad gets confused sometimes.”

Anyway, back to my own daughter.

"I love that dinosaur/movie/book"
Exclaimed whenever she is reminded of one of her favorite things. She sees a T-Rex in a book. She points at a child at the playground wearing a Wall-E t-shirt. She sees a Tinkerbell backpack. Someone mentions Max and Ruby.

I’m sure there a many other expressions that I’m just not thinking of right now. Picking out small threads that make up your every day tapestry is rather difficult since it all just blends into the design. But these are the ones that stand out most in my mind as I write this, so that’s a good sign that they are the ones most worth mentioning. By next month, the quotes will undoubtedly be different and I’ll read back over these and wonder when exactly she stopped saying “What kind of _____ is it?”

At least…I’m hoping that’s the next to go.

The Gren Rises

2009-07-16T22:09:00.007-05:00

It all happens so fast. Life just keeps on propelling me and my family through the days, weeks, and months that have elapsed since last I posted out here. Norah just keeps growing and changing on a daily basis. She barely resembles the baby pictures I last shared. However, the good news about being away for so long is that I get to saunter in with exciting news.

First of all, the backlogged tidbit that many of you already know. Norah is preparing herself for her new role as big sister. Her baby brother is expected to join in the family hubbub sometime in late November. Moonshot and I are rushing around in an attempt to get the house ready for the neglect it will suffer in the months following the arrival of the child we are temporarily calling Nugget. We’re unpacking and organizing boxes that we’ve been ignoring since we moved last year. We’re painting walls and generally making the house our own after all this time since we know it will never get any easier than right now.

For her part, Norah is excited but a little confused about the logistics of it all. Last night as Moonshot read her a story, she asked to look in her Mommy’s mouth. Moonshot obliged with a doctor’s office type “aaaaah.”

But Norah was unsatisfied, “It’s too dark, Mommy,” she complained.

“Too dark for what, sweetie?”

Norah’s face turned sad as she explained, “I can’t see the baby.”

These are the sorts of things I love about toddler logic. There is a baby in Mommy’s belly. Food I eat goes to my belly. Therefore… say aah, Mommy.

In other child related news, today was Norah’s first day of preschool. She has been excited about this for a few weeks. Her teacher Ms. Michelle mailed her a welcome letter last week and Norah has carried it around with her, periodically asking us to reread it to her. So, it was with much anticipation that she hefted her Elmo backpack and marched bravely into the new and fascinating world of public education. She did not reenact the screaming tantrum that I recall from my own childhood, but rather sat down at the tables and began the important task of making friends. She hugged us goodbye and never looked back. Three hours later, we picked her up and her first words to us were “I want go back there, Daddy.” Ok, I’m glossing there. Her very first words to me when I picked her up were “I want ride the bus.” Apparently, being seen with her parents is already uncool when all the big kids get to tool around town in a bright yellow party-on-wheels. I had kinda hoped to postpone that development until she hit her tween years, but I suppose I should just be proud that she’s clearly so wise beyond her years that she understands how unhip her father truly is.

But I digress, the second thing she said was, “I want go back there, Daddy”

So, I think she liked it. Here is the photographic evidence:

And finally, since I know this is what most of you come here for. Here are a few extra pictures of Norah that I’ve been hoarding to myself the last few months.

*As always, images can be clicked for closer scrutiny

Reverend Gren's Holey Finger

2009-01-12T21:55:00.002-06:00

I have a hole in my finger. Personally, I am fascinated by it; but knowing that most people get a little nauseous when they see it, I do my best to conceal it from friends and customers. Most days I remember to put a Band-Aid on it, but when I forget, I spend my working hours bending my left middle finger under my hand while I type so as not to disturb the little old grandmother who has come to our store for a loan.

I guess I should qualify my statement. The hole isn’t really in my finger as such. That implies impaled flesh, and that’s not what I’m dealing with here. It’s more precisely a hole in my fingernail. It’s one of those injuries that make people a little queasy to look at but that’s about the extent of it. Having never lost a fingernail before, I would have assumed it was a more painful ordeal. It certainly looks painful. But the truth is that my left middle finger feels no different than my right. This leaves me totally free to marvel at the oddity of how my body is dealing with this injury.

The body’s ability to heal has always impressed and mesmerized me. Its ability to rebuild itself to a state that is almost indistinguishable from the pre-injury condition is just shy of magic to me. And something like this, this slow-motion restoration, gives me time to watch and wonder what will come next.

It began as little more than a slightly smooshed finger while building a stack-brick wall around our mailbox in early October. You see, the previous owners had surrounded the mailbox with decorative lava rock, and my wife thought it would be even more decorative to have some flowers sprouting from that rock. I agreed with her easily since it didn’t really involve me. Some money spent on bulbs, sure…but mostly it just meant I’d get to look at pretty blooms when I get home from work. Who would complain? She would simply scoop the pebbles aside, shove the bulbs down there and walk away; waiting for nature to work its tiny miracles. And that’s how it would have been at our old house. Our old house with its rich topsoil deposited by the muddy Missouri River and left untouched when the house was built 70 years ago. But here in this new house nestled in the suburbs of the St Charles explosion that metastasized in the 1980’s, there is no topsoil. It was hauled away by the same trucks that brought the concrete and asphalt to the trees and farmland; sold by Bob Whitaker as he unfolded his curved streets and cul-de-sacs to make room to plop down his little, green, plastic houses. And so, when my wife donned her gardening gloves and cleared a small circle in the lava rock, all that greeted her was clay.

She returned to the house and announced that we needed to buy some dirt to pour around the mailbox. Reasonable, I replied…but difficult. The stonework edging that was currently holding in the red rocks was only three inches high and already packed to the hilt. Where would this new soil go? The obvious solution was that a deeper space would need to be dug for this new dirt. And having dug this space, the old edging would certainly not be up to the task of containing this newly enlarged space. So, new stone work, more rugged and sturdy would need to be purchased and installed.

My wife’s eyes pleaded and suddenly this project very much involved me.

Fortunately, I was up to the task. Not only do I secretly enjoy a day’s hard labor, but I had also just purchased a 2005 Subaru Baja (white with leather seats and a sunroof) and had yet to come across a good reason to use that bizarre, little truck bed.

I was meticulous. After the digging, I tamped and retamped each layer of crushed stone foundation, leveled and releveled each brick. It was somewhere in the midst of the leveling that my middle finger found itself between two bricks.

I may have cursed a bit.

Always conscious of the possibility of loosing a nail, I walked to my open tailgate and rubbed firmly on the point of injury. It’s true that I often get strange looks when I do this.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” people will ask as I grimace.

“Oh, it hurts enough to make you pee,” I always reply...which is the exact reply my father gave me when he taught me this painful trick. His theory was that by continually rubbing the smashed nail, you prevent blood from pooling, thereby preventing the loss of the nail. Better, he reasoned, to suffer momentary pain than a protracted period with no fingernail. Although I have never attempted to prove this theory, I have religiously maintained the tradition. Consequently (or maybe coincidently,) I have never lost a fingernail, a distinction that will soon need an asterisk at best, a complete refutation at worst.

I completed the wall and it was a thing of beauty. We included a chicken wire floor for the planting area to keep moles and other burrowing animals from disturbing the bulbs. I washed my hands of the task and declared it good. Over the days, however, a small semi-circle of deepest purple appeared at the base of the squished fingernail. It was not sore in the least and was pretty easy to disregard, so I thought little of it. The small amount of blood would dry, I reasoned, and be broken apart and dissolved at my body’s own pace. I went about my business.

The purple grew. I reasoned that the blood was being flatted; marched toward the tip of my finger to be ejected like a splinter. I continued to ignore the coloration, but received ever more questions as it became more and more noticeable. It became more difficult to convince people that it didn’t hurt…not in the slightest. I would tap it vigorously to prove my case, leading only to more wincing from my unconvinced audience.

Then, last week, I gave up trying to convince people of the painlessness. Not that the injury became more painful…just that, well…the aforementioned hole appeared and no one was willing to believe that the nail could be anything other than agonizing. With that said, I feel I should warn my more squeamish readers that the next few paragraphs, while still painless to me, are a bit more graphic. If you’d like, you can skip down to the paragraph that begins “I have no idea what will happen now.” Conversely, you are welcome to the details.

I noticed that the very back of the nail, where the purple had originated, was surprisingly thin. Just a rice paper thin wisp of an idea of a fingernail. I pushed the cuticle back a bit and found the nail just faded away to nothing, leaving just the dried blood there from months ago. While the nail itself had clung on stubbornly, the finger’s ability to grow new nail seemed to have been nixed from the collected blood. Unexpected this was…and unfortunate. Would my fingernail fall off from the back forward? I’d never seen such a thing happen, but who knows. If that was true, I reasoned, I might be able to clear the way for new nail growth, allowing my body to grow a new nail before the old nail fell off; a slick piece of healing that would leave me nailless at no point during the process. I peeled back just a bit of the old nail, thinking to clear out some of that blood. A few chunks fell out, revealing soft skin below, visible through a squarish hole at the base of my nail.

It was at this point that I got nervous. Should I keep picking at the injury? Was I making it worse? Perhaps I should go back to my original theory of letting my body handle this, I thought. And perhaps I’d done enough already and this small hole would relieve pressure, giving the rest of the nail a chance to cling to life.

I reverted to my waiting game.

I have no idea what will happen now. Will the new nail grow from the base forward? Will the soft skin beneath simply secrete a new nail? And in either of these cases, what will the remaining old nail do to help or hinder this reparation? I wait to find out and walk about with a violent violet rainbow on my nail; pink above and pink beneath like some miscolored manicure depiction of my fair city’s arch.

As I said, I am astounded by my body’s long trek back to a healthy, non-descript fingernail. I watch with detached curiosity to see how this disappears, as I know that it must. In the meantime, I’ll keep the offensive sight of my disfigured finger, my grisly reminder of my attempt to bring flowers and beauty to our neighborhood, away from unsuspecting onlookers. A Band Aid here, an awkwardly turned hunt-and-peck there, and a picture of it viewable only through this link…for those of you who may have been curious to find what’s under the surface of this impish Gren.

Long Overdue

2008-12-11T17:19:00.002-06:00

As many of you have been too polite to publicly notice....I've not been keeping up with pictures of my Little Lutine. It's not that I don't find her as cute as ever. It's not that I haven't been taking pictures. It's just that...well, I've stopped sharing them with you. I know...quite rude of me.

Anyway, consider this post an appeasement of sorts. Because while many of you have refrained from noticing my laziness in public…you have been less reluctant to share your feelings in private. So here. Here are some pictures that showcase my little girl’s ever changing face. And, just so you know, the larger images linked to have been pre-formatted to 1280 x 960 so as to work perfectly for most wallpapers. (Well…not you crazy Mac users, but all the Mac users I know have daughters of their own they should be posting as a wallpaper…so any complaint they register will be an insult to their own family.)

Enjoy

Norah discovers the joys of finger painting

A picnic in Forest Park. Norah decided it was just a bit too scenic.

Norah wearing the old leather hat I wore when I was her age. I think my Dad picked it up in Mexico.

Norah wathcing TV.

Norah during our latest attempt to capture a Christmas card image. She's getting some molars so was throwing a fit about...well...we never really figured that out. But even her temper tantrum couldn't stop her from smiling when Daddy said "Cheese!"

Moksha the Dancing Alien

2008-09-19T16:48:00.004-05:00

As many of you know, I've been spending some time in an alien suit of late. For those of you who don't know that...perhaps I should explain.

My brother and I own a loan store here in the St. Louis area. We have a cute little alien mascot we use in our advertising and in our store decore. Recently, we opted to take it to the next level to capture some of the excellent traffic flow we have in front of our store...mascot suit!!

As often as time allows, I zip over to the store and suit up to dance by the roadside, wave to kids and do a jig for folks on cell phones who pretend to be far too busy to notice me as they sit at the light. "Really? You don't notice the six and a half foot tall alien dancing next to your car...perhaps you should surrender your license, sir."

At any rate, here is the proof that those who knew about this have been asking for...and the images that those who had no idea will wish you could forget ;)

Norah Throwing Flora

2008-09-12T14:55:00.005-05:00

As many of you may know, my brother, JET finally tied the knot with his wonderful new bride, Em. The entire ceremony was beautiful…but as the father of the flower girl, I’m rather partial to that specific section of the day.

Norah had done a few practice runs at home, showcasing her abilities to a) dump flower petals into one huge pile, b) stop walking and begin putting said petals back into the basket, then c) drop the basket and run away. Not exactly promising, but we all made our peace with the fact that two-year-old flower girls were mainly there to look cute and add comic relief. Whatever she did would be fine.

On the drive to the wedding, Moonshot asked young Norah if she remembered what she was supposed to do. Norah responded with what I’m told was a spot-on imitation of a snotty teenager. “Yeah!” she said in a tone that meant, “Gawd, Mom why do you keep asking this? It’s not like this is brain surgery.” So, Moonshot dropped it.

And then came the moment of truth.

Video by Marino Video Productions. Editing by JET (which explains why it starts a little late and runs a little later. But, on the up side, you get to see a tiny snippet of Em in her bridal splendor.

A Serious Lack of Lasers

2008-09-11T11:49:00.003-05:00

“Seriously,” I said, “which is more exciting: Jane Austen, or Jane Austen getting shot by a laser?”

“I can think of someone else I’d like to see shot with a laser,” she mumbled as she put “Becoming Jane” into the DVD player, ignoring my claim to the superiority of sci-fi to chick flicks.

* * *

“What did you think?” she asked as the credits rolled.

“It suffered from a serious lack of lasers,” I replied.

“True,” she reasoned, “but the same could be said of the whole 18th century.”

Bit-O-Grit-O-Honey

2008-07-05T22:57:00.003-05:00

It only took Norah a few floats to get the hang of darting out to pluck candy from the asphalt in yesterday’s 4th of July parade. We’ve been parceling it out to her at a controlled pace ever since and taking a few liberties for ourselves along the way.

The Tootsie Rolls are a popular treat for all members of the Grenstead, and the Jolly Ranchers are pretty inoffensive as well…but it seems I am alone in my enjoyment of the Bit-O-Honeys. Moonshot tends to make nasty faces as I unwrap them and then gagging noises as I eat them. Her face turned to bewilderment however, when I commented, my teeth gummed together with confection, “Ya know, they’re good…but they’re just not the same without the grit in them.”

You may be making a face similar to the one my wife made, because to understand my sediment sentiment, you’ll need some history.

I started caving with my Dad when I was about five. He purchased a kid’s football helmet and outfitted it with a headlamp since no one made functional hardhats for the preschool set. He taught me to pack for safety: three independent sources of light (typically your main headlamp, a reliable flashlight, and one or two cyalume lights (glow sticks.) Also on your person should be a canteen of water, maybe a space blanket (foil hypothermia blanket,) some matches in a waterproof container (especially important is you were a carbide caver…which I wasn’t at that age,) and some snacks.

My Dad took the snack selection very seriously. The snack break on a one-day cave trip (I wasn’t allowed on the overnight trips at that age) nearly always came at the very back of the cave. You’d stop, chat with your mud-coated friends and refuel for the trip back which you knew was going to be exactly as grueling as getting there in the first place. So, Dad was looking for a snack that was compact, delivered a good sugar punch for energy, would stand up well to being squished, rolled on and possibly soaked, and had at least the illusion of some healthy benefit. And as a man who raised bees and swore by the health benefits of his tablespoon of honey per day, the mere mention of the word “honey” on the label, even if it did only promise a “bit” of the substance, was enough to make Bit-O-Honey the obvious choice for our caving snack.

We didn’t eat them any other time. They weren’t my favorite candy and Dad was a Jelly Belly man when out of the confines of the cavern. And so the Bit-O-Honey was only eaten while resting countless feet below the surface of the Earth with muddy fingers to pull the wax paper from between the little segments of the taffy bar.

Since I’d not had one since those long-ago cave trips stopped, I had never really realized until earlier this evening as I chewed on that beige candy that the sandy grit of Missouri caves had become an integral component to my nostalgia for that red-and-yellow-wrapped Bit-O-Honey.

I tried to explain this to my wife, but she just shook her head and went back to stirring her “Chicken” Tortilla Soup…no doubt lamenting what a thankless job it is to prepare a delicious meal for a man who thinks mud is a gourmet ingredient.

Friday the 13th - Chapter 3: Hockey Night in Kansas

2008-07-02T17:00:00.000-05:00

I’ll admit that I was in a fowl mood by the time I returned to Sarah's wedding reception…and might have stayed that way had it not been for my dear brother. Seeing that the lone half-keg of Boulevard Pale Ale was about to be emptied before I even had one cup (leaving me with only a wide selection of [shudder] macro-brewed lagers) he and my cousin Jerry had schemed to secret me away one cup of the good stuff. It wasn’t so much the beer that snapped me out of my funk as much as the joy with which they delivered their quasi-illicit good to me. Thanks again, guys.

We were just standing toward the back, discussing the beautiful park and building flaming napkin they had found for the ceremony.

What’s that? There was a flaming napkin there? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw that too, but I had to do a double take to be sure cuz it happend so fast. No cause for alarm…just a groomsman fleeing the building with flame spouting from his fist. Go about your business.

Anyway, we meandered outside, my brother and I. He’d been hitting the macro-brewed lager and his arm gesticulation was showing it. My cousin Caleb (Sarah’s brother) sauntered over and as we chatted, Caleb started joking with a group of groomsmen standing in a group beside us. He knows a little sign and so was having fun teasing the guys, all of whom had come down from Toronto (the groom’s hometown) for the wedding. I tried to think of something to converse about with these out-of-towner s and thought to myself that I do actually have a few Canadian friends, and pride myself on knowing a bit more about our neighbor to the north than your average American. I considered current Canadian events and remembered a conversation I’d had with my friend Simon about Hockey Night in Canada losing its theme song. It’s a big deal up there, apparently. It’s been called Canada’s second national Anthem and is a major source of pride. A good place to start a conversation, I thought.

“Caleb,” I said, “Tell them how sorry we are for their ‘Hockey Night in Canada’ loss.”

Caleb had no idea what I was talking about, but began signing. Jet knew this story from my retelling and laughed as he tried to look as sympathetic as he could to make the joke better. The best man looked confused. I assumed Caleb just hadn’t translated correctly. If this thing was as big a deal as Simon had lead me to believe, surly any Canadian would know about it. As I began explaining to Caleb the nature of the joke with him translating what I was saying to the bewildered group, my brother was “helping” by striking an imaginary puck with a pantomimed stick. One of the groomsman got excited. He played hockey and thought were saying that we did as well. We assured him that we did not and tried again. And it was somewhere during this time, while Jet mimicked air guitar to indicate the theme song aspect of our joke and as Caleb turned to shake his head at us that it hit me…none of these fine gentlemen had ever heard the theme song from ‘Hockey Night in Canada.” They’d never heard anything. They had no interest in theme songs and were thus blissfully unaware of any controversy surrounding what tune plays at the beginning of Canada’s most popular sports program. We were, my brother and I, while trying to prove just how sensitive we were to Canadian issues…proving how utterly clueless we were about deafness.

“Nevermind,” Caleb signed to them.

My brother, unfazed…hoisted his beer high and called, “Nevermind….cheers!!”

The three Canadians lifted the drinks and cheered, their looks of confusion gone as they all took a slam from their plastic cups.

Ah, I thought to myself as I slipped away to the shadows, the important thing here really wasn’t that they’re Canadian…nor that they’re deaf. The important thing was that they’re drinkers.

Leave it to my brother to be the first to learn that diplomatic lesson.

Friday the 13th - Chatper 2: For Want of Pants

2008-07-01T17:00:00.001-05:00

So, we loaded up the clan plus Jet into ZaZu the Subaru and made our way toward the Kansas City suburb that would host Sarah’s wedding. In Columbia, we stopped for gas and checked Norah’s diaper. I saw my wife’s shoulder slump and knew. Norah had flooded her poor Huggies and had turned her car seat into a urine sponge. We soaked up what we could and were thankful we were on an overnight trip since we therefore had a change of clothes for her.

Back on the road we checked her again just outside of Kansas City. Flooded again. She merrily sat there, singing songs and making faces at her uncle in her second and final pair of drenched jeans.

We had no choice but to finish the trip to Moonshot’s sister’s place (who was nice enough to put us up for the night since she also lives in Olathe.) We arrived at Mouse and FreddyJ’s home and immediately commandeered their washer and dryer. We had just enough time to dry a pair of jeans before we had to leave for the wedding. The plan was simple…we’d go to the wedding, spend a little bit at the reception and then I’d run Moonshot and Little Lutine back to Mouse’s before returning to the reception myself. It was a bit of back and forth, but the event was only about ten minutes from the house, so it wouldn’t be so bad.

Five minutes before time to go, we check the little pants only to find them still soaked (but just in water this time). Seems there is a significant difference between the “dry” setting and the “air fluff” setting. So, unless we wanted to take Norah to the wedding with no pants, she would have to miss the ceremony. New plan: Jet and I would go to the wedding, I’d come back to pick up Moonshot and Norah for the reception and then continue with plan as before. It was a bit more driving, but it was what we had. The worst part of the plan correction was that Moonshot was upset to miss the ceremony. As a mother who has truly enjoyed teaching our daughter sign, she was intrigued to see the wedding because both my cousin and her groom were deaf. We had discussed many times how we thought the ceremony would go and now she would miss it due to a lack of pants.

Jet and I rushed away and enjoyed a truly touching wedding on the banks of a duck-and-fountain-filled pond. The ceremony was conducted fully in sign with only a seated translator for us hearing folk. The only strange thing about it was the utter lack of music. I had never realized to what an extent I knew what was going on in a wedding based solely on the start and stop of music. Bridesmaids started filing in with no warning. The minister had to point to the alert us that Sarah was entering from the side. But, it was perfect for them, and that made it perfect for us, too. I only wish Moonshot could have seen it.

After the ceremony, as friends and family meandered into the reception hall, I ran to the car and drove away to pick up my own family. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back and suddenly we were passing a giggling Norah about to distant relatives who were amazed at how she had grown. Norah, who had not napped well on the drive over enjoyed this attention for exactly fifteen minutes. Then she began the dreaded melt down. They were just about to open the buffet line when she hit her limit. We whisked her away.

Driving back to Mouse’s we swung through Subway to get Moonshot and Norah a bit to eat and I realized that despite the buffet line that was currently being attacked by hungry wedding-goers, I should probably get something at Subway too. You see, weddings are typically a horrible place for a vegetarian to eat. Not that I’m really complaining. The wedding hosts owe us picky eaters nothing, really. Heck, even Moonshot and my wedding (held two months before we gave up meat) had nothing a vegetarian could have eaten. So, I throw no stones. But facts are facts…the average wedding meal has little to nothing that a vegetarian can comfortably eat. Now, I had failed to even look at the buffet at Sarah’s reception before darting out with Norah, but even if they had something, the timing was going to work such that folks would be finished eating by the time I returned. So, for want of a pair of pants for my daughter, I inhaled a sub sandwich, dropped off my family and headed back to the festivities for the third time.

I was getting to know that streatch of road pretty well.

Friday the 13th - Chapter 1: Can't You Smell That Smell?

2008-06-30T22:45:00.003-05:00

I usually like to write about current events. What I did last night. That funny thing someone said this weekend. However, given that I’m about a month behind on my posting due to massive (but mostly good) upheavals in my life, I’ll instead cherry pick some of my favorite events from the past month. I’ll start with the day of Friday the 13th.

I’ve delived the tale into three chapter. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you hanging like last time. I’ve already written them all and am spacing out the posting only so that I can enjoy a few more conversations with my few remaining commenters.

Chapter 1: Can’t Ya Smell That Smell?

The Grenstead has been a bit of a construction sight of late. Madly rushing about trying to fix all those little imperfections that we’ve been meaning to do for years but can no longer ignore since we were getting our house ready to sell. Why? Why don’t we just update and fix things as we go and enjoy the fruits of our labor? But, no one does…and neither did we.

John, the handyman, had been coming for about a week, focusing mainly on painting the kitchen, when we had to start packing our things for an overnight trip to Olathe, Kansas for my cousin Sarah’s wedding. Well, actually, Moonshot was packing our stuff, I was out on the patio sanding the doors to the kitchen cabinets and generally trying to cram in as much work as I could before we left everything in John’s hands.

Um,” Moonshot called up from the basement, “ I smell that smell again…around the dryer this time. Should we call the gas company?”

I could only groan. Leaving the house with a strange scent hovering around all of our gas appliances made me more than a bit nervous. The day before had found the smell lingering in our living room. We had gone so far as to call our wonderful neighbor Tom over to have a sniff. It smelled nothing like the sulfur smell they pack into the gas lines, so we weren’t really all that worried…just mildly concerned. It smelled a bit like hot electrical wires, a smell I don’t like to ignore, but there was nothing in the vicinity of the scent that was electrical. Tom asked the logical question about the painting being done, but soon found what we had already discovered, that the kitchen had no such smell, only the living room on the far end of the house from the paint. Much sniffing and huffing followed before Tom said he wouldn’t worry about it. It didn’t smell dangerous.

After he left, Moonshot and I kept following our noses about until we were pretty convinced it was coming from our gas fireplace. We killed the pilot light and the odor faded. Given the amount of chaos in the home at that time, we figured we’d take a more extensive look at the gas logs later. Problem solved for now.

But now Moonshot was reporting the smell from the clothes dryer as well.

“Yeah,” I responded. “We might as well call and see what they think.” I mean, it was probably nothing, I knew, but I don’t like to mess with possible gas problems. Best to be safe. Moonshot went looking for a phone (which are usually hidden by our daughter in increasingly bizarre locations), and I left for one last Home Depot run to pick up new cabinet hinges and such. You can see how concerned I was about this smell…leaving my wife and daughter alone in the house. I was really more curious than anything. Apparently, Laclede Gas did not share my laissez-faire approach. Mooshot called as I was leaving Home Depot to report that a fully armored team of firefighters had just stormed into the Grenstead. They had not waited for the door to be opened, had not waited for my wife to stop folding clothes and welcome them in. They rushed in and sent my daughter scurrying. Not that I blame them. I’m actually rather glad they were taking it seriously, but it was far more of a response than we were expecting. Turns out any odor report to the gas company is an immediate dispatch from the fire station. Hmmm, didn’t know that. The fire fighters sniffed around, reported that it wasn’t gas and that we just needed to clean our dryer vent. But wait, that doesn’t explain the fireplace. And my wife tried to make that argument to their retreating backs as they left, but they were finished with us. There was no gas leak and their job was done.

I returned to the house after the commotion and just as the more calm inspector from Laclede was pulling up. “You guys don’t mess around,” I commented.

“Lot’s of lawyers out there,” he replied.

I described the scent to him and he knew what it was before he even stepped inside.

I’ll give you a minute to finalize your guesses before I tell.

You ready?

Ok.

“Been painting?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, “but it doesn’t smell like paint….and it doesn’t smell near the paint, just around the appliances.”

“Yup, we’ve been getting these calls a lot more since Kilz came out with their Odor Free Oil Based Paint. You are using Kilz Oil Based, right?”

I could only nod.

“Used to be folks wouldn’t smell this cuz the whole house reaked like paint. Now, they can’t smell the paint, but it’s still there in the air, floating around. And when it gets near flame, it still smells like a petrochemical burning and people freak out.”

He tested the house anyway, just to be sure, but that was it.

I went right over to Tom’s and let him know…assuming he would be as thrilled with the mystery as I was.

And he was.

Not Dead…Just Resting

2008-06-02T10:23:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me that daily posts about my ongoing road trip followed by a few days of silence might seem rather ominous. So, I’m here to say that the persistent and continually reoccurring rumors concerning the Gren’s demise are unfounded. I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.

You might be wondering, therefore, what happened to my systematic blogging across the country? Well, good news, Oklahoma didn’t need me (as discussed) and Kansas didn’t trust me. And once I got over the insult…I was actually very glad of this mistrust.

See, the stores from which I was gathering paperwork and hardware are cash intensive places; bulletproof glass with double-door mantraps. In Arizona and New Mexico, they checked my ID and then buzzed me back so that I could wade through the boxes and equipment on my own, picking and choosing what to bring, what to leave. In Tucson they even offered to feed me lunch. It was a very comfortable relationship I had at the beginning. Then, I reached Kansas. I called ahead to let the District Manager know that I was on my way. She complained that I was arriving on a Friday (their busiest day) and wanted to know why I had scheduled it so poorly. I calmly explained that I’d been going all week and that someone had to be Friday, sorry it was her. She continued, “My staff just won’t have the time to move everything into the mantraps for you.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I assured her. “Your corporate office has ok’d me to gather the stuff myself.”

“Sorry, that’s against policy.”

“What? I mean…I talked with your CEO on the phone while digging through a back office in Albuquerque. I assure you they’re ok with this.”

“We’ll see,” was her uncommitted answer.

When I arrived at the first Kansas store, I was met with a stern looking teller glaring at me through the glass who let me know that everything I would need was loaded in the man-trap. I grumbled immaturely, loaded my truck and drove away to the next store with a sour expression on my face. It was only at this point that I noticed that instead of my usual one hour per store, I had got in and out of that location in under 15 minutes. And this trend continued through all 6 of the Sunflower State locations. I’d just shaved 4.5 hours off my schedule. I started calculating and realized that I was actually going to make it home on Friday night. In less than 24 hours time I had gone from two days behind schedule to a full day ahead of schedule. Huzzah!!

I surprised my wife at home and was able to give my Little Lutine a long overdue hug before putting her down for the night. I had planned to post a little something about arriving home…but instead collapsed into my own bed. I had then planned on alerting you guys to the finale of the trip on Saturday and Sunday but…well…I was running about with family, basking in the glorious return of normalcy. I didn’t step foot near a computer. Sorry.

And so now I am here, fabulously behind schedule for various work projects due to my weeklong absence…but refusing to take steps to get caught back up until I let everyone know one important fact: the Gren Lives.

Three Thoughts About Time

2008-05-29T23:16:00.003-05:00

I’m too tired tonight to post pictures tonight. Sorry if that disappoints you, but take comfort in the knowledge that all you’re missing are poorly framed shots of Eastern New Mexico, Northern Texas, and Western Oklahoma. In other words (and I mean no offense to those who live there) it’s not exceedingly scenic. Or rather, there is a beauty to it, but it stays about the same for duration. I snapped some pictures, but just don’t have the energy right now to post them

More importantly though, I wanted to take these few minutes before I go to sleep to talk about time. Three points about time as a matter of fact.

1) I’m back on schedule!! It seems Robert, our shareholder in Oklahoma already gathered everything from the OKC and Tulsa locations and needs me to do nothing here. So, while I am a day late arriving in Oklahoma City, I will arrive in Wichita precisely on time. Cosmic, eh? The map has been updated accordingly.

2) I’ve returned to the same time zone as my wife and daughter. This may seem like a small deal, but whenever you have to ask yourself, “What time is it there?” the distance just feels so much more terrible. So, while I still won’t see Moonshot or Little Lutine for a few days, I no longer have to do time adjustments before I call.

3) My wife asked me today if I was sick of driving yet. I was sort of surprised to find that I was not. There are many things about this trip that I will happily complain about, but the cross-country driving is not one of them. And this is odd considering the fact that after a two and a half hour trip to see my Mom, the last half hour is unbearable. On a four and a half hour trip to see my in-laws, the last half hour is unbearable. Apparently, I can tolerate any length of travel that I schedule…but not a minute more. I suspect, therefore, that the last half hour of this trip will be horrendous. Strange place, the human brain.

And with that, my dear friends, I am off to sleep in a hotel room just north of Oklahoma City that looks exactly like the one I slept in last night in Albuquerque. No, wait, the TV in this room is better…but other than that, it’s like I drove in an 8-hour circle.

Moksha Tracker

Miles Driven: 1033
Miles to Go: 830

Tucson, AZ: 3 Stores

Phoenix, AZ: 3 Stores

Albuquerque, NM: 3 Stores

Oklahoma City, OK: 4 Stores

Tulsa, OK: 2 Stores

Wichita, KS: 3 Stores

Topeka, KS: 1 Store and a Huge Storage Locker

Lawrence, KS: 1 Store

Kansas City, KS: 1 Store

Columbia, MO: 1 Store

Desert Drivin'

2008-05-29T00:02:00.004-05:00

Today went exactly to schedule...assuming you ignore the fact that I'm already a day behind. Three stores done by noon and then on the road to Alburquerque. No wrong turns yet, Simon.

Two things struck me today. First, the realization that truck-stop food has come a long way. Time was that such a phrase brought up images of grease-soaked burgers and sponge-like fries. However, these new-fangled, brightly-lit and clean truck stops offer a wide variety of culinary options that ain't half bad. Had me a veggie burrito just south of Flagstaff for lunch that was better than just about any Mexican food I could find in St Louis. I find myself happy for the nation's truckers.

Secondly, I was amazed as the varied scenery during today's drive. I know that my pictures won't really do it justice. Pictures of the expansive Southwest just never capture the sense of space, the depth out here. The flat images so often look rather boring. However, even knowing that, I continued to occasionally hoist my camera to roughly eye-height and attempt a shot or two while cruising down the highway. From time to time I thought about pulling over to line up a better shot, but in the end I like these. This was my view, through the bug-splattered windsheild. Nicely framed shots (while desirable in other contexts) just didn't appeal to me today.

Just outside Phoenix. Lots of Cacti.

Gained altitude toward Flagstaff and got trees and cool air.

Down the other side of the mountain to flatness...and lots of trains like these two

I slowed down to taunt him as I passed

"It's a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford"

Then the rocks got purdy and sculpty-like.

Like massive, massive river stones

This just amused me.

Moksha Tracker

Miles Driven: 473
Miles to Go: 1,390

Tucson, AZ: 3 Stores

Phoenix, AZ: 3 Stores

Albuquerque, NM: 3 Stores

Oklahoma City, OK: 4 Stores

Tulsa, OK: 2 Stores

Wichita, KS: 3 Stores

Topeka, KS: 1 Store and a Huge Storage Locker

Lawrence, KS: 1 Store

Kansas City, KS: 1 Store

Columbia, MO: 1 Store

Alas, poor Schedule...I knew it well

2008-05-27T23:38:00.005-05:00

My schedule lies ruined...tattered by the brutal delays inherent to reality. Alas…it was a beautiful schedule.

My plan had been to knock out six stores today, the three in Tucson and the three in Phoenix. I had visions of driving a few hours even after that to bed down in Flagstaff so I could get a jump on the road tomorrow and be waiting in Albuquerque when they opened at 10am. Instead, I walked into the very first store this morning and discovered that my one-hour per store theory had been wildly optimistic. Especially so if the rest of the stores continue, as did the first one, to pile unimaginable pounds of junk atop the boxes I’ve come for. I spent three hours digging through their boxes, trying to sort out ours from theirs. The next two stores went better, but the damage had been done. I rolled into Phoenix exactly as the stores were closing…and no one was willing to wait around for me to tackle a few extra stores. And so, I’m sitting in a hotel in Phoenix, having finished only three stores. Tomorrow, I’ll rush through the three locations here and then make the drive to New Mexico, but I won’t make it before they close there. In short, the three hours I fell behind has cost me a full day. And since I had planned to finish on Saturday, that pushes me over into Sunday. And since they aren’t open on Sunday, that pushes me over to Monday. So I correct myself…that three hour delay cost me two full days.

However, I am inexplicably in high spirits. The desert scenery agrees with me apparently. I miss my wife and daughter fiercely, but will treasure that first hug upon my return all the more.

And now, I plan to curl up in bed and spend some time with Fiddler’s Ghost. It’s a wonderful book written by a local Missourian who beautifully captures the speech patterns of 1950s Ozarkian without being condescending. As a writer who has trouble with dialogue, I’m inspired by his authenticity.

Anyway. Good night, I hope to talk to you from New Mexico tomorrow night.

Moksha Tracker

Miles Driven: 133
Miles to Go: 1,863

Tucson, AZ: 3 Stores

Phoenix, AZ: 3 Stores

Albuquerque, NM: 3 Stores

Oklahoma City, OK: 4 Stores

Tulsa, OK: 2 Stores

Wichita, KS: 3 Stores

Topeka, KS: 1 Store and a Huge Storage Locker

Lawrence, KS: 1 Store

Kansas City, KS: 1 Store

Columbia, MO: 1 Store

This Is Not a Blog Post

2008-05-24T17:30:00.005-05:00

I know, I know…you got all excited when your RSS feeder buzzed or you saw a new title here on the Impish Gren. But sorry to say, this isn’t really a blog post. I’m not here to share new goings-on exactly. Instead, I’m here to discuss other blog posts; some already posted, some soon to arrive. Together, these past and future posts can shed a bit of light on what this rather lazy blogger has been up to of late. But this post, in and of itself, has almost no real information within it.

First the stuff from the past. A couple weeks ago (has it really been that long?) my fellow Blogfathers, Mark and Simon, descended upon my humble city in search of amusement and comradery. It was the first of what we hope will become recurring get-togethers and given amount of fun we all seemed to have, that looks likely. I had big plans of writing up a detailed retelling of exactly what happened while they were here…but see…Mark is just so much more diligent that I am. He started posting this tale the day his plane landed back in Dallas. Fact is, I had so much fun following along with his telling that I pretty much gave up any illusion that I was going to do the same in my own voice. Instead, I’ll put up this non-post and tell anyone interested in seeing the blast we had over the May 10th weekend to jog over to Mark’s site. That link will take you to the first of, like, six posts he did on the weekend. Like I said, diligent. And if a tale about me isn’t enough to get you over there…there are a few pictures of Norah as well.

Now on to the future…next week, in fact. By the time the sun rises this Tuesday, I will be at the airport preparing to depart for Arizona. What will follow will be a grueling tale I look forward to complaining about for years to come. As you know, the company I work for and own (a teeny-tiny fraction of) sold all of its stores back in February. I had anticipated that this would mean less work for me and a swift absence of a job. Instead, the chaos that ensued meant more work right after the sale and a slow dwindling of my job. It now looks like I’ll be done there by mid-June…we’ll see. Anyway, each of our 40 or so stores had a bunch of old computer equipment and loads of paperwork. At first our Pres and CEO said, “forget all that stuff, it’s not worth the trip out there to get it.” As much as it pained me to let all those electronics go to waste, I couldn’t really disagree with him and was more than happy to ignore the problem. However, about a week ago, the Pres came to the conclusion that while the hardware was still not worth the trip…the paperwork was. Mad rushing about followed as I booked a flight to Tucson, Arizona and a 24-foot moving truck in time to gather the boxes and equipment from 23 or so of the remote locations before the deadline imposed by the folks that bought our stores: May 31st. After that…they start pitching stuff, they say.

Ok, so flight out on Tuesday, twenty-seven hours of drive time along my route (not counting the jogs from store to store) and figuring about 1 hour load-time per store I calculate I should hit my last store in Columbia, Missouri about an hour before closing time on Saturday, May 31st. If I fall behind schedule, I miss the last store.

I’m planning to bring my camera and laptop along for the ride. And since wireless access is fairly ubiquitous in hotels these days, I should (given a lack of exhaustion) be able to post the day’s events on a nightly basis from my hotel. Once again…we’ll see, but I wanted to lay the groundwork now so that I don’t have to waste precious, precious minutes explaining the set-up on Tuesday night.

Stay tuned.

Moksha Tracker

Miles Driven: 0
Miles to Go: 1,996

Tucson, AZ: 3 Stores

Phoenix, AZ: 3 Stores

Albuquerque, NM: 3 Stores

Oklahoma City, OK: 4 Stores

Tulsa, OK: 2 Stores

Wichita, KS: 3 Stores

Topeka, KS: 1 Store and a Huge Storage Locker

Lawrence, KS: 1 Store

Kansas City, KS: 1 Store

Columbia, MO: 1 Store

Damn You, Eddie Izzard!

2008-04-29T10:59:00.001-05:00

It seems that I shall never again receive a back rub from my wife…and it’s all Eddie Izzard’s fault.

You see, we were watching Ocean’s 13, my wife and I, about two or three weeks ago.

“Is that Eddie Izzard?” I asked, having difficulty imagining Mr. Izzard without his typical stage getup. He’s one of my favorite stand-up comics, but I’d probably walk right past him on the street if he weren’t dressed as an “executive transvestite.” I know he’s supposedly in a TV series now sans dress, but I’ve not seen it, so I was left to squint at the gentleman talking to George Clooney and mentally apply make-up.

“I don’t think so,” replied my wife.

We watched for a few minutes more before I once again interrupted the on-screen action. “I’m pretty sure its him.”

“Ok,” she hissed, more interested in the unfolding plot than in the presence or non-presence of Mr. Izzard.

Despite her affirmative response, I could tell she still didn’t agree. “I’ll bet you a back rub that it’s Eddie Izzard,” I smiled. I didn’t even have to look away from the TV to know that she was rolling her eyes.

“I’m not betting.”

My wife is not a gambler. Neither am I really. In the five years we’ve been together, we’ve never stepped foot in the casino a mere mile or so from our house. But, I’m up for throwing the occasional, non-monetary ante into the pot and a backrub seems pretty unthreatening. I mean…I’d be willing to give her one if she asked anyway, so we’re basically just fighting for the bragging rights. Besides, a nice, friendly wager seemed appropriate to the Vegas action we were watching.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not even arguing with you. I’m not betting. And I’m trying to watch the movie”

“Sure you’re arguing, you said you didn’t think it was him. The bet is on.” She ignored me. “And you’re goin’ down.” Her silence continued. “Cuz that’s totally Eddie Izzard right there.”

“Shut up!”

Ninety minutes or so later, as the credits rolled, she rose from the couch and left the living room. She claimed it was out of need of a bathroom trip, but I suggested to her retreating back that she was merely trying to avoid the inevitable confirmation of Eddie Izzard’s presence in the film. My theory was supported when she failed to respond to either my suggestion or my shouts of victory as Mr. Izzard’s name crawled up the screen.

Huzzah!!

Now, a more gracious winner than I would probably have had a much better chance of getting that backrub. My wife, being the fine woman she is, is not a fan of the egotistical strutting I was about to engage in. I knew this. I understood fully that creating a situation whereby the only way I could get a backrub was for Moonshot to admit defeat in a contest to which she had not agreed was a guaranteed way to miss out on my prize. But, I had to weigh this fact against the infinite joy brought on by the absurdity of such apparent pride in recognizing a comic. You can argue that this indicates something warped in my mind, but absurdity wins out in this battle every time for me.

“Mmmm,” I hummed in mock anticipation as we crawled into bed that night. “My back is sooo ready for my reward.” She rolled over and went to sleep without another word.

Every night since then has played out in a similar way, although I have now taken to calling it my “Izzard rub” for the sake of efficiency. “That Izzard rub is just racking up interest, my dear,” I offer.

She shows no sign of cracking and I seem totally unable to stop myself from continually throwing one more log on the fire. I know the answer. I just need to shut up for about a week or so and let her offer me a backrub on her own with no strings attached. Then we’ll be back on track. Even that, however, is risky since we both know how likely I am to bring up Eddie Izzard in the middle of any backrub, even one offered in the spirit of kindness. Luckily, it’s not probable that we’ll even get to such a point any time soon considering that upon completing this post, I’ll probably walk downstairs and remind Moonshot of her continuing debt to my back.

Damn you, Eddie Izzard!

Project Looking Through (Curtain Call)

2008-04-20T23:05:00.004-05:00

As the name suggests, this will be my final entry in Mark's Project Looking Through. Probably time to sit down and write some actual content intead of relying on my daughter's cuteness to distract eveyone from the fact that I'm not really saying much.

Further, how do I top this shot? I just honestly don't think I have it in me.

Project Looking Through (Basket Case)

2008-04-19T15:08:00.006-05:00

Norah loves to help her Mommy fold clothes. Sadly, Mommy doesn't always appreciate this assistance. So, since I'm not really encouraged to help in the folding either (I don't do it right apparently) I instead attempt to keep the Little Lutine occupied and uninterested in her Mommy's efforts. The clothes hamper serves as endlessly useful in this endeavor.

This is my second entry in my good friend, Mark's photo challenge, Project Looking Through. Check out Mark's site for a list of participants or to contribute your own pictures.

And, as always, clicking the picture will open an image of Norah so huge you'll be thankful she's trapped behind those bars.

Project Looking Through (Norah's View)

2008-04-17T13:15:00.004-05:00

Springboarding from the success of Anna's Project Yellow, my good friend, Mark has launched a photo project of his own he's calling Project Looking Through. The task is to post photo's that give the sense of looking through something.

Yesterday, I took a slightly extended lunch break to try out the newly availible recreation of the"family bike trip." Moonshot and various family went in to get me a new bike for Christmas and we fixed up the old bike (a loaner from my buddy Duke) so Moonshot could ride it. We also sprung for a swanky little towbehind contraption that will allow Norah to come along for the ride.

She squeeled in delight for the duration of the short test trip and did NOT want to leave her chariot when we returned home.

Norah enjoyed the ride as well ;)

Click the image to enlargify the viewing experience and Visit Mark's site to see a list of those participating in his project

Project Yellow (Looking into the Eye of Spring)

2008-04-14T07:34:00.000-05:00

This is the last of my Project Yellow shots. I'm hoping spring gets the message and returns to our neck of the woods. It's been just above freezing and rainy for four days. And while, "Wow, can you believe this weather?" will get you through a short dip as you marvel at the meterological chaos, it's time to get back to saying that same phrase with wonder and appriciation for the warmth.

To see the "real" Project Yellow photos, jump over to Anna's site. You can also take a look at other folks who are on the look out for yellow and maybe take part.

Project Yellow (Bunny at the Wheel)

2008-04-13T14:04:00.001-05:00

Norah loves her little toy bus. And Norah loves bunnies. It was inevitable that she would find a way to combine their awsomeness.

To see the "real" Project Yellow photos, jump over to Anna's site. You can also take a look at other folks who are on the look out for yellow and maybe take part.

Calling in my Muscle

2008-04-12T15:46:00.002-05:00

“Hi,” I called, smiling innocently as I approached the group of college-aged rockers lounging on their front porch. They grinned back curiously and twitched their cigarettes in a lazy but friendly simulation of a wave. It was Thursday night, practice night for Troubadour Dali, the band that insists on cranking out concert level rock music at ungodly hours of the night, the band that routinely wakes Norah from her sleep, the band that had worked its way through all the good will I had tried for the last year to show to anyone following their rock and roll dream.

Nice kids when they weren’t lost in their rock star haze.

I had long since stopped knocking on their door to complain about their 2 am sound shows, the noise level high enough to hide anything so quite as a pounding fist. And while I had, at one time, waiting patiently on this very front porch for them to reach the end of a song so that my knocking might be heard, these days I just throw open the door and stomp my blurry-eyed way into their set. And they always look appropriately embarrassed. “Too loud?” they ask with genuine concern as if there were any other reason I would be standing in their living room in my bath robe and slippers.

But this time, my lovely wife had devised and even more direct approach and I was more than happy to implement it.

“I just wanted to come over,” I began, shifting my daughter’s weight in my arm, “to introduce you all to my daughter, Norah…the little girl you guys make cry every Thursday.” I smile and laugh to make the accusation as friendly as possible. Norah hears the word “cry” and responds by pantomiming the word, balled fists rubbing at her sad eyes as if she had been practicing for this encounter. The band responds with appropriate “awwwws”, especially the female bass player. It’s stereotypical, I know, but the girl’s presence on that porch was exactly what had kicked this plan into motion in Moonshot’s mind. And judging from the response she was giving my daughter…it was looking like Moonshot’s instincts where right. Even if everyone else on that porch got stoned and forgot about the volume, the bass player was our trump card.

We chatted there, the band and I…friendly like. I asked about their new cd and truthfully let them know how much I was looking forward to hearing it. I like their music, I explained, it’s just hard to appreciate it through the seething rage after it’s roused my family from slumber. They laughed uncomfortably.

Moonshot, Norah and I departed with neighborly good wishes. We smiled to each other once we were out of eyesight of the band, curious how the guilt trip would work.

Not a single bass rift or drumbeat invaded our sleep that night. Even rock and roll could not withstand the combined efforts of we Grens.

Project Yellow (Funshine Huggin)

2008-04-12T07:53:00.000-05:00

To see the "real" Project Yellow photos, jump over to Anna's site. You can also take a look at other folks who are on the look out for yellow and maybe take part.

Project Yellow (With Lemon)

2008-04-11T06:43:00.003-05:00

Not much of a story here. Norah, Moonshot and I met my brother Jet at a local Mexican Restaurant last night. Jet and I dominated the conversation with discussions of investment property (we're both entering the market as cluelessly as babes, and tend to obscess a bit) and I got strange looks by pointing my camera at random yellow objects on or near our table.

To see the "real" Project Yellow photos, jump over to Anna's site. You can also take a look at other folks who are on the look out for yellow and maybe take part.

Three Quick Pictures

2008-04-10T14:37:00.003-05:00

Each of these pictures probably deserves more time and attention from your negligent blog host than I am going to give them as I consume my Amy's frozen tamale pie.

For instance, this past weekend found we Grens strolling the fantabulous St. Louis Zoo with Norah's good friend David and his folks. It was a wonderful time with wonderful friends in a wonderful place with wonderful weather. I should tell you the details...instead I'll just post this picture.

Another example: Anna, a wonderful photo blogger, started a bit of a meme she's calling Project Yellow in which she has called on her readers to post yellow pictures. I should probably have gone out and found exotic saffron subjects at which to point my lens like Mark did. Instead, I'll just post a shot of the amazing daffodils that are bursting into spring just outside my sunroom door.

And finally (and I'll admit that I am woefully behind on letting people know about this new update in my life) I'm leaping into the house flipping business. Lots of houses on the market and prices are low. I'm looking to buy some up, renovate them, and rent them out to make some extra money. I'll try to write a post soon on staggering amount of information I've already learned in the last few weeks (and the astounding amount I still have to learn). However, in the mean time, I'll just post a picture of this, my first little house. It will officially be mine tomorrow. Wish me luck.

I Gotta Call You Back…My Dad’s Being a Jerk

2008-03-04T11:50:00.001-06:00

For your literary entertainment, a snapshot of 19-month old Norah’s current problem solving skills:

Entering the kitchen, I see her marching about with the portable phone to her ear.

“Hi!” she blurts into the receiver. “Yayayayamaaaaaa!” she continues while waving her free hand in the air. She then lowers the phone and begins hitting buttons. I hear a faint dial-tone and remember the various occasions that she has accessed the speed dial, calling unsuspecting friends and family. I take the phone away.

Tiny hands reach past a pouting face. “Da!” she demands.

“No, honey, you’re going to have to find something else to play with.”

She shoots a reproachful glare at me and then stomps off toward the sunroom. She heads directly to the stack of flash cards that have been left on the ottoman. Finding the card with the phone on it, she hoists it to her ear.
“Hi!” she blurts into the faux receiver. “Yayayayamaaaaaa!”

With any luck, I’ll be unemployed by Saturday

2008-01-31T16:14:00.000-06:00

Well, not totally unemployed. I’ll still have that store I own with my brother, but that’s not making any money yet so I barely count it. My job, the thing I’ve done from 8:30 til 5:30 every weekday for the past seven years will cease to exist with just a few swift flourishes of pen. You see, if everything goes as planned, the company I work for (and own some infinitesimal portion of) will be sold to a massive company that makes its bread and butter munching up small companies like ours. It terrifies me and excites me and basically has me turning circles in my own head as I try to plan ahead. We’ve been working on this deal for just about a year, during which time my family could make no real long term plans. With such massive change looming on the horizon, I was hesitant to commit too much of anything. “Just another month,” I’ve been telling myself for far too many months, "and the deal will either collapse or go through, either way, I’ll know how things sit.”

Uncertainty sucks.

Actually, in the spirit of full disclosure, I guess I won’t be truly unemployed right away. There will be wrapping up to do. The corporate equivalent of folding up the chairs and pulling down the streamers after a wedding reception. It’s not work I’m looking forward to, a bit depressing actually to box up everything and close the lid. But, I’ll be around for that for a couple weeks after the stores and employees are all gone. And then? Well, first I’ll need to spend some quality time with the company JET and I own together since I’ve been negligent on that front recently. I’ll focus my energies and hope we can start turning a profit off that business before the financial cushion I get from Saturday’s sale dwindles down and my daughter starts wondering why we’re using old newspapers on her bum instead of diapers.

To tell the truth, I’m actually kind of looking forward to this aspect (no, not the newpapered bum, the working in our store.) JET has done a wonderful job of running everything up there in my absence, but taking more of an active roll in that investment will be good for my stress level. Plus, even though I haven’t been spending as much time as I should have with that enterprise, I did work at it. It was a second job that took time away from my wife and daughter. It will be nice to have just one occupational focus. Who knows, maybe it will give me more time to write.

What’s that? You noticed my lack of recent blog posts? Yeah, between the race toward the sale on the one hand and handing the year end financial duties for the JET partnership (W2s, W3s, 1099s, 1096s, 941s, 942s, etc, etc, etc until you start tugging at your hair and scratching at your eyeballs) on the other, I’ve been spending enough time staring at my computer screen that when the day is done, no part of my mind finds it desirable to spend even one more second typing. I’ve even been rather absent at quite a few of the sites I usually made a point to visit and converse on. I look to remedy my rudeness when things settle down.

Anyway, that’s about all the time I have to spare. I need to get back to telecom transfers so the new owners can take over our accounts. It’s not thrilling…but it’s one of a million things that need to get done before Saturday if I am to make my goal of being unemployed.

Happy Birthday, MoMa

2008-01-05T12:09:00.000-06:00

The Final Christmas of 2007

2008-01-04T15:10:00.000-06:00

As it is with so many of life’s memorable experiences, there were good things and bad things about Christmas in Iowa with Moonshot’s family this year. On the plus side I’ll stack family togetherness and almost a foot of pristine snow that sparked a child-like twinkle in this gren’s eye. On the down side I’ll mention the countless hours of late night screaming our Little Lutine inflicted upon us. It seems routine has become quite important to the little miss and sleeping in her Pack-N-Play in a strange room was not on her list of acceptable alternatives to her own bed. The only thing that made her stop crying was to pick hr up and let her play. We were, inexplicably, unable to muster much enthusiasm for playtime at 3 in the morning.

But that’s enough about the down side. I’ll distract myself from the horrible memories by mentioning that I got one last present for the season. The bike previously mentioned was a combined gift from Moonshot’s family and had already been received, so Moonshot saved one of her presents for me so I’d have something to rip open in Iowa. A Star Wars Pop-Up book finished off my holiday season just right. It may well be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. The light sabers actually light up for god’s sake. I would keep singing it’s praises…but the New York Times did it much better than I could.

Norah received (among other things) a dump truck of her very own. And while she would, on occasion, fill the loader with her toys…she would typically just use the dumped loader to form a bucket seat for her oversized self.

It took some convincing to get everyone out in the snow. It seems not everyone shares my love of snowy fun. But, eventually they were convinced. Warm clothing was borrowed from Husker since I had failed to look at the weather before heading north. Had I known there would be so much snow I would have packed all my Colorado snow gear that sits unloved in my basement. Regardless, though…we trekked out to make a snowman.

Sadly, the powdery snow refused to stick. There would be no snowman. We amused ourselves for a little while with snowballs until I was distracted by the huge snow pile created by the plow. It was probably eight feet tall and at least 20 feet wide…a full sized adventure land of frozen joy. For a while it was fun to climb up and slide down or throw myself off the top in a white, powdery explosion. But eventually I found myself raiding Husker’s garage for digging tools. Moonshot and Mouse ignored my engineering efforts and contented themselves by making a miniature snow fried from the compacted snow I was removing from the bottom of the pile. FreddyJ pretty much just stood there and laughed at me in a good-natured way. My goal was to burrow all the way through the pile…but after I realized that Moonshot and FreddyJ had gone inside and that Husker and Mouse were pretty much just waiting around to keep an eye on things in case the snow should collapse on me, I called the job complete after I connected the main entrance to the exit that was originally designed as a cave-in escape tunnel. It was much shorter than I had envisioned…but by god, it was a tunnel.

And I was proud.

(Clicking any picture reveals its true Christmasy goodness)

All Pictures by Husker

Christmas at the Lake

2007-12-27T16:16:00.000-06:00

Christmas has come and gone, zipping past in a blur that seems to get faster each year. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that it already happened, but over all, Christmas this year was a wonderful time.

Last year was Norah’s first Christmas. She was 5 months old and understood nothing of what was going on. This year, we made it just about halfway to the enthusiasm that I’m so looking forward to as a parent. She recognizes Santa and points to him with vigor. She knows reindeer and can pick Rudolph out of a group. She is excited by images of snowmen and understands that they have carrot noses. And she knows just what to do with a wrapped present. All that’s missing is the ability to understand stories and anticipate events and we’ll have entered that all too short period of time in which Christmas is truly magical.

I can’t wait.

We opted to travel to the Lake to spend one last Christmas at MoMa’s with Jet and his girlfriend, M. In anticipation of Norah’s better understanding of the season next year, we have made it clear that Christmas Eve will from hence forth find Little Lutine snug in her own bed. Grandparents and aunts and uncles are welcome…but Christmas is now being past down to the next generation and we all get to work around her holiday

I would be lying if I said this holiday was relaxing. Enjoyable? Absolutely. But see…MoMa has a cozy little house that is packed with knick-knacks. The Christmas decorations truly put you into the spirit of the holiday, but time spent there with a toddler boils down to basically running around constantly moving things and redirecting Norah’s attention to safer toys. There was no deep sigh of holiday relaxation until the wee girl was asleep…and even this was stressful since she doesn’t like falling asleep anywhere but in her own room. She shrieked and wailed. Her kicks and flailings could be heard over the baby monitor, but we stayed strong and waited her out. However, even once the monitor went silent, there was no promise of sleep. We listened to more screams from 2 to 4 am in the middle of the 23rd to 24th night. She in her Pack-n-Play and Moonshot and I beside her in bed…she saw no reason that we should not be holding her. But holding her only enraged her more. So, she went back and forth from bed to Pack-n-Play, from Pack-n-Play to bed. This delightful routine led directly to a grumpy daughter the next day whose tolerance for being led away from various decorative items was markedly reduced. And also to grumpy parents whose tolerance for their daughter’s fits was greatly reduced as well.

I should say that in all, Norah did very well. It’s a lot to ask a 17-month old to deal with, so I’ll not judge her too harshly. And I’ll also say that by the time we packed up to leave, she had learned which items in her Grandma’s house were toys and which weren’t. And she slept soundly on Christmas Eve…so we were all in good spirits for the actual event.

Santa brought Norah her first trike this year. She can’t work the pedals, but she loves to sit on it and scoot about. We had planned to get a cheap plastic Big-Wheel type thing…but thanks to Costco we were able to swing a cool Schwinn retro thing. She rounded the corner from the bedroom, scanned the room and ran straight for that tricycle. She climbed right into the seat and started making “vroom” noises. Ah, parental bliss.

She got lots of art supplies this year. Magna-Doodles and water markers…perfectly times for her new love of scribbling. And also lots of mimicry toys. Small pots and pans, an assortment of truly impressive fake food, and a little vacuum that apparently actually works. We’re introducing the new toys into her world one at a time so that she gets a chance to really look at each one beyond the sensory overload of Christmas morning.

As for me, I came away with a spiffy new bicycle from Moonshot and her family so that I can resume my dream of biking the Katy Trail, an assortment of cool new clothes, tickets to see Wicked at the Fabulous Fox Theater with my wife and few other cool odds and ends.

This weekend will find us in Iowa with Moonshot’s family. Even though I already got the bike they got me, I suppose I’ll still go up there to see them and give them some gifts ;)

And finally, since I haven’t processed any of the Christmas pictures just yet, I’ll leave you all with the shots we sent out with our Christmas cards this year. They may be repeats for many of you, but I think you can never stare at Norah’s cuteness too much…

Hope you all had a wonderful holiday.

Our Beautiful, Snowy Prison

2007-12-16T22:03:00.000-06:00

Things have been a bit busy around the Grenstead lately. Between road trips, work schedules, various bouts with viral attacks, Rock Band at the O'Fallon crew's, and this little thing called Christmas hovering over everything...it's been a bit of a whirlwind.

But rest assured...we're still alive (and as of this moment, all healthy) even though you haven't heard from us in a while.

St. Louis was blanketed in our first snow of the season this weekend. It's timing was particularly unfortunate since it meant our extended family Christmas with MoMa’s side of the family was canceled. However, that didn’t me from marveling as I always do at the beauty of new fallen snow.

I skipped the cozy, snow-covered house shot since you all remember what that looks like and instead went for the subtler joys of the season.

I suppose I could put down the camera and help shovel...

Gren(ch)

2007-11-29T15:20:00.000-06:00

Nothing can ruin a Christmas surprise quite like a gren

There exists in my marriage an unfortunate combination of traits that makes the statement above unfailingly true. In me there is the constant vigilance for puzzles and clues. In my wife there is the complete inability to keep a secret. Together, these traits have meant that I have ruined the surprise of my Christmas or birthday gift nearly every single time.

Earlier in the year, just prior to my birthday, Moonshot and our friend Pinky had gone shopping together. Moonshot returned quite proud of her birthday purchase and told me that it was, in fact, such a great gift idea that Pinky had picked up one for her huband, Duke, as a Father’s Day gift.

“Cool,” I responded. “So all I need to do is wait til Father’s Day and see what Duke gets. Then I’ll know what I’m getting.”

She grumbled and walked away.

However, she needn’t have worried. The secret was not even to last that long. A few days later, my brother was over. We were watching Heroes in the living room and chatting through the commercials. Suddenly, Moonshot turned to Jet and said, “Oh, that reminds me, after Hereos, I have something to show you.”

I take a quick look at the screen and see a pocket watch displayed prominetley. Through college, I had carried my Dad’s old pocket watch and had often commented that I’d like to have one again. So, clearly I was getting a pocket watch…and said as much.

My lovely wife stuttered and stammered in search of a lie, but came up with nothing. Instead, she opted to overload the situation with far too much information.

“It’s not a pocket watch…it’s a wrist watch. And…just so you know, I didn’t spend as much on yours as Pinky did.”

I stared…dumbfounded. I certainly didn’t care how much she had spent…but was attempting to sort out why this was something she felt she needed to reveal.

“I just didn’t want you to see Duke’s and think you were getting one that nice,” she continued.

Jet interrupted at this point and mercifully stopped the hole my wife was digging.

Recently, Moonshot has been rather proud of some super secret gift she has tucked away for my Christmas. I have actually been trying not to guess, not to look for clues. I would, both for my enjoyment and my wife’s, actually rather be surprised in a timely fashion.

Last weekend, though, Moonshot’s family came to town for Thanksgiving. On Friday night, we got a babysitter for Norah and we headed down to Old Town St. Charles for dinner and a stroll with Mouse and FreddyJ. As tends to happen, FreddyJ and I ended up walking a few paces ahead of the women folk. We were chatting contently about some geeky thing or another when we realized the wives had stopped. I returned to them and was promptly shooed away. As I walked back out of earshot, I noticed they were standing in front of our local bicycle shop. In what I thought was pure whimsy, a playful tease at the ongoing inability to keep a gift secret, I skipped down the sidewalk singing, “Yea!!! I’m getting a bike. Yea!!!”

I had expected at least a small chuckle from my wife, but was met instead with dead silence when my little song was done. I turned back toward her to see what I can only describe as an evil glare. I quickly assumed that she was angry because I was guessing rather expensive gifts that would make her actual gift seem small by comparision (like Duke’s fancy watch, for instance). However, before I could voice such a theory, Moonshot blurted, “You always do this, you always guess!!” By the time I reached her there were the buddings of tears in the corner of her eyes that made me feel grinchlike in my consistent ability to smash my wife’s Christmas plans.

I declined her invitation to see the specific bike she purchased. At least I can be surprised at the color.

Goin’ Mobile!

After months with no laptop…I am pleased to announce that I’m mobile once again. This will make no noticeable difference for you, my readers. But I thought you might like to share a moment of joy for my joy at scoring a free laptop. See, Trixalot picked up a sweet Black Friday deal on a new laptop, which meant his old company one could flow downstream to me. It’s worn and probably on its last leg…but by god, for these fleeting days before it craps out…I have a laptop.

“Now all I need is a flash drive,” I said idly to Trixie, “and I can be totally free to roam.”

Trixie reached into his bag o’ goodies and handed me one. “I got a 4 Gigger when I got the laptop…I don’t need this old 250M anymore.”

Sweet!!!

As is my norm, I called my Mom on the way home from work. I told her about the laptop and the flash drive. As I spoke, I thought perhaps I should define what I was talking about.

“Do you know what a flash drive is?”

There was a small pause followed by a somewhat tense, “Yeah.”

I knew even then what that pause meant. I knew exactly how my mother had learned what a flash drive was.

After a moment of silence, MoMa sighed, “I’m just going to tell you….there’s a flash drive for you wrapped under my tree right now.”

My brother had overheard me wishing for a small flash drive, passed the info on to MoMa who had gone right out and let a salesman talk her into the biggest, baddest flash drive the market currently offers…a flash drive embarrassingly huge for my meager requirements.

So, as I drove, I discussed my plans for my little flash drive. I told MoMa how I really didn’t think I’d have anything on there other than the stories I am working on and various notes and such. A 250M will do me just fine.

She unwrapped the gift and plans to return it today.

Another gift ruined by the gren.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa Husker

2007-11-19T22:39:00.000-06:00

Who Wants A Hedgehog Thingy for Their Night Stand?

2007-11-16T10:45:00.000-06:00

Mouse Asked the Gren: What is your favorite book and/or author?

Easy one, Mouse. When I was a junior in high school, my good friend Oaf (he’s since made his name public here in the comments, but I still like calling him Oaf) gave me a book and said it was amazing. I took one look at the god-awful, cheesy sci-fi cover and said something non-committal like, “Um…yeah, I’ll see if I can find some time to take a look.” After about a month, I returned the book to him unread. I tried to explain that this sort of Piers Anthony stuff just wasn’t my cup o’ tea.

“Is it the cover?” he exclaimed. “Yeah, the cover’s bad but, dude, the book is great.”

I was unconvinced, “I don’t know, man…that’s a pretty bad cover.”

At which point he ripped the cover off his paperback and handed it to me once again. What could I do? I had to read it then. He had sacrificed his book in order to ensure that I would give it a chance…I kinda owed him.

I will continue to maintain that the cover of this particular book ranks up there with some of the worst. Curse as it is with a rainbow of pastel colors and a hedgehog looking creature that looks nothing like the character I assume the artist was trying to depict, the cover still makes me cringe. However, Oaf was right…the story itself is absolutely magical. I reread it every few years…and with the speed at which I crawl through books, this is a huge complement. But I always find the time for Hyperion by Dan Simmons.

Simmons himself is an amazing writer. He’s written sci-fi, horror, mystery noir, historical fiction, and just about every other genre you could think of. And he brings an artistry to each of them that so many genres often lack. What makes Hyperion his best by far is that he tells seven different stories, each in a different genre and with a different style. All the stories are woven together by their voyaging storytellers (ala Canterbury Tales) and work toward an overarching plot. It’s a book only a genre-hopping author like Simmons could write and it’s filled with countless amazing scenes that continue to stun me no matter how many times I read it. It’s the first part of a four-part series, and while it is undoubtedly the best of the four…the whole saga is still some of the best fiction I’ve ever read.

Sound like something you’d like to read? Well, you’re in luck. About a year ago, I purchased Hyperion in hardcover so that it could take a more prominent position on our bookshelf (and also so that I wouldn’t have to look at the hideous cover art.) This left me with a spare and well-worn paperback copy. Then, as if by divine intervention, along comes a conversation with Simon in which he says a) he has never read Hyperion but would like to and b) he detests creased spines on paperback. I, being who I am, took this opportunity to a) do something generous for a friend and b) annoy him at the same time. I took my beat up Hyperion, inked an inscription in it, wrapped it loosely in brown paper, and entrusted it to the USPS with the understanding that they would in turn hand it over to Canada Post who would deliver it to the unsuspecting Simian. With any luck, they’d add a bit more “character” to the book by the time it arrived so poorly packaged, thus adding to my secondary goal.

Simon read and loved the book. Then, since Mark had also expressed an interest in Hyperion, the book was again inscribed, packaged, and shipped…this time bound for Texas.

Mark read and loved the book. Then, since Alvis had expressed an interest in Hyperion, the book again inscribed and was hand delivered to him since he’s also in the Dallas area.

Alvis read and loved the book and that brings us to the current state of things. We have a well-worn copy of one of science fiction’s finest literary achievements available for shipping. It’s no stranger to travel and is looking for a nightstand on which to crash for a little while. Our goal is to keep this little guy jumping nomadically from reader to reader until the pages can no longer be taped back together.

If anyone reads this and would like to join in the growing list of people who have loved this little paperback, just say so in the comments and email me your address and we’ll have it to you as soon as possible. By accepting this book, you agree to the following:
1) You will read it in a reasonable period of time
2) When finished you will write an inscription and mail it to the next person on the list

So, anyone out there want to spend some time with a hedgehog type thing?

Ozark Oddities: Part II

2007-11-15T14:35:00.001-06:00

Oddity #2: Still Hangin' In There

In modern day society, we are obsessed with safety. From air bags to antibacterial soap. From warning labels to child choke hazards. We scurry about removing or labeling anything that could possibly harm us in any way. It is therefore rather jarring when I stumble across a little something that breaks this rule. And, I must admit, it’s oddly comforting. Part of my love for St. Louis’s City Museum is the fact that folks are encouraged to climb with wild abandon on rusty metal, hovering several stories above the ground. Hell…they’ll even serve you beer while you do it. And so, while the UFO was a pleasant side-trip, the actual destination was something a bit more anachronistic. File it under: They don’t build ‘em like that anymore. Cuz as cool as the UFO is, no one calls that long gravel road that connects County Road A to the distant Highway 42 “UFO Road”. No…they call it “Swinging Bridges Road.” Because while the scenery along this path is truly stunning, you will eventually be forced to take your life into your own hands and cross one of the most marvelous and menacing structures I’ve ever seen.

Built by Joe Dice (who coupled his poor eyesight and fourth grade education to build over 40 bridges throughout the Missouri area), the old cable and wood suspension bridge that crosses the Auglaize Creek is one of my favorite pieces of history from my hometown. The rusted metal cabling is the same that was strung across the creek with mules in 1930. The wood planks are replaced occasionally, but not often enough to keep boards from rotting away to leave massive gaps in the bridge deck. And the motion, oh the wonderfully terrifying motion of this thing. Just walking on it sends the whole structure undulating. And that says nothing about the full out waves that push along in front and behind each car that dares trust its weight to the ancient span.

The first sight you see as you coast down the road is the bridge’s western edge juttin from the overgrowth like some sort of lost Incan ruin. The sign claims a weight limit of a mere 5 tons…but I find even that a bit optimistic.

You can’t see the other end of the single-lane bridge. There is really only one way to know it there is oncoming traffic. You roll your window down and listen for the telltale “CLACK CLACK CLACK” of the floorboards bouncing under the weight of an oncoming truck. If all is quiet, you should be able to make it safely to the other side in about the time to takes to say the Lord’s Prayer.

I grew up just a few miles up the road from this piece of history. We used to hunt for crawdads in the creek below. I just took it for granted as we drove back and forth across it regularly. Today, however, I’m just astounded that it’s still here and being used on a daily basis. In the twenty minutes or so we spent there, about 5 vehicles crossed the bridge, so it’s not exactly an untraveled path. One of those five vehicles had a 20-something couple in it. They smiled as they clacked over the creek, but the girl’s smile faded after they parked and walked back across the bridge to get a closer look. In fact, she looked downright hostile toward her boyfriend who had driven them across the deathtrap.

I know that at some point the old bridge will have to be replaced or reinforced. A shorter suspension bridge just around the corner was retrofitted with steel flooring and new cabling several years ago. The two bridges are still collectively called the Swinging Bridges even though only one of them still swings. It will be a great day for safety…but a sad day for me when they finally bring the old swinging bridge kicking and screaming into the 21st century.

Note: All photos can be clicked to view a massive version...the details of age make the download time worth it in my opinion.

Another Note: There are no pictures of the second, smaller bridge because MoMa would not let us drive over this one. At first she said she’d just sit in the back seat and close her eyes. But as soon as the tire touched the wood, she started flailing about and insisted we turn around. She didn’t even like standing on it.

Ozark Oddities: Part I

2007-11-12T16:43:00.000-06:00

People, particularly children, are poor judges of just how abnormal their normal environment is. Which is to say, we all assume until proven otherwise that the details of our daily existence are perfectly normal. I bring this up because I’ve been thinking a lot about the little corner of the world that I called home through my childhood lately. The series of stories I’m currently working on more or less takes place there, so I’ve been mentally wandering around the old locales of my childhood, looking for great locations for action, looking for colorful details to throw into the background. And what I’ve realized is that there is a great deal of oddity tucked away in the thick Ozark greenery.

Last weekend, the Gren clan ventured down to the Lake of the Ozarks to visit with MoMa. While there I cajoled the family into taking a little drive down the winding gravel roads that lead to the very rural property that I called home until 2nd grade. The old homestead itself didn’t hold much of use for my story, but there were two destinations for the drive…objects hiding down that old dusty road that I have come to realize, after being removed for so many years, are true rarities. I wanted to see them again to remind myself of their details. I’m not sure if I’ll use them or not, but nostalgia coupled with the prodding of a gren lurking in my imagination sent me directly to them.

Plus, it was a beautiful day for a drive.

Oddity #1: Imitation is the Highest Form of Flattery

There is a quiet clearing a few miles down the road from my family’s old farmhouse. I can’t recall the man’s name that owned it, but I do recall that my Dad was on friendly terms with him. Friendly enough at any rate for the eccentric gentleman to tell my father the story of what he had built in that quiet clearing.

It seems one night, many years ago, this unnamed Missourian looked up into the sky and saw a cluster of five UFOs flying low enough that he could see the basic design of the ships. He waved his arms and tried to make contact…but to no avail. He therefore decided to take measures to ensure that if these alien vessels ever returned, they would stop. So, he proceeded to construct an intricately detailed replica of one of the ships he had seen. He reasoned that if the aliens saw his replica ship in the clearing they would assume one of two things: a) that one of their ships had landed and they would follow to assist or b) that a human was making a clear attempt at communication. Either way, he figured they’d probably land there on his property.

The UFO in the clearing has been ravaged by time…weather and drunkards have done entropy’s work. But in its prime, the little concrete ship was a wonder. It was gleaming silver with a glass windshield, a leather seat and mock controls in the cockpit, and a thick metal door in the rear. These days, the silver has been all but worn away, replaced by graffiti and etchings. The door has been hauled away, the glass has been smashed, and the cockpit is nothing but a concrete cavity filled with litter. However, the surreal effect of hiking over a small hill to encounter a life-sized UFO parked in the forest is still as glorious as it was when my family used to visit this clearing for picnics.

We didn’t dally long…it was the first weekend of deer season.

...to be concluded in Ozark Oddities: Part II

The Perfect Cookie

2007-11-11T21:23:00.000-06:00

While falling asleep the other night.

Moonshot – I’m thinking about making cookie baskets for some of our friends and family. Maybe six different kinds of cookies. I’ll put a card in each basket and people can vote on their favorite cookie. Then, I’ll swap out the three lowest vote getters next year for new cookies. I keep that up year after year until I have the perfect basket of cookies.

Moksha – The perfect basket of cookies? For that, you know, we’ll have to travel around the world to find the perfect flour.

Moonshot – Absolutely, and then the perfect heat source.

Moksha – It certainly will be exciting and fast

Moonshot – And exciting and thrilling

Moksha – And exciting and funny.

A moment of silence.

Moonshot – You know, there is this small group of parents in the world who would understand exactly what we were talking about…and then there’s the other 98% of the population.

Holey Man

2007-11-09T13:45:00.000-06:00

Simon asked the Gren: What's up with the nose piercing? Why'd you get it in the first place and decide to do away with it? You probably wouldn't be married to Moonshot if you hadn't lost it before meeting her, so do you believe in fateful timing, or was that just blind coincidence?

I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have told you what a pain ritual was when I was in 9th grade. In fact, I’m fairly certain I didn’t stumble across the term until some time in college. But when I did finally have it described to me, it clicked in a way that said, “Of course! That’s exactly what I’ve been feeling all these years.”

The basic concept is the marking of a life event, achievement, or milestone with a “ceremony” that a) is painful and b) leaves a mark. Painful because it shouldn’t be easy. Whatever it is that you’re commemorating took hard work and sacrifice, the symbolic version should be no different. And there should be a mark because that mark will remain as the reminder of the life event.

I blame my parents for this type of thinking. You see, I had wanted to get my ear pierced when I was in school. They wanted to give me enough freedom to express myself, but also wanted to make sure I wasn’t rushing into such things on a whim. Thus, I was told that I could have my ear pierced when I was 15. Reasonable, but my friend Brock, two years younger than me, already had his ear pierced and was more than willing to remind me of it. It was an agonizing wait.

Luckily, Mom was willing to round my age up a bit and shave about a month off the wait. On the last day of school of my freshman year, my final day as a junior high student, we journeyed into Osage Beach and got my left ear pierced at some place where the “ceremony” involved a pink plastic gun in the hands of a gum-chewing fellow teenager. It was, at the time, the only option I knew of and I walked out with the desired stud in my ear. So I was thrilled.

Perhaps it was due to the piercing coinciding with the completion of an academic level or perhaps I would have made this connection on my own, but I instantly began viewing my earring as a symbol of my completion of junior high, my entrance into high school. I equated that single stud with transition. The concept of a pain ritual had entered my psyche even though the term itself was still years away.

By the time I turned 16, I had moved on to a small 16-gauge hoop and returned to the needle to commemorate my driver’s license, giving me two holes through my left ear. High school graduation was marked by a hoop through my right lobe and then I took a break for a while as I went away to college and learned to over-analyze these things and use terms like shamanistic pain ritual. I vividly remember watching a documentary in which a suited gentleman with a bone through his nose said (and I’m paraphrasing):

“Pain rituals are not done solely for decoration, it's part of an initiation, a rite of passage. It's part of transformation.”

On the pain itself he said:

“If, while walking, I accidentally walk into a thorn or a needle and pierce my skin, there is a sensation of pain. It is a message sent by my brain to alert me to the danger to which I was previously unaware. On the contrary, if I pick up that same needle and consciously decide to pierce my skin with it, contemplate the act and deliberately do so, there is an intense sensation…but it is not exactly pain. The skin sends the same message, the same endorphins are released, but the brain, in knowing exactly what is going on, processes the information differently.”

To which I said, “Rock on!!” I would later learn that that suited-gentleman was Fakir Musafar, the godfather of the “modern primitive” movement, but at the time he was just a cool looking dude saying things that made a lot of sense to me.

In the following years, I relished my newfound ability to intellectualize what was a fairly common tribal marking of my generation. However, when my next life event unfolded, I was ready to contemplate that needle with deliberation once again.

A few weeks after my Dad died in the fall of ’97, I jumped in the car with two college friends and headed down to St. Louis to find a reputable piercer. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted yet, nose or nipple, but I knew that I was no longer going to trust it to a pink, plastic gun. I found the look of the nose piercing more appealing, but the nipple was more painful, and that suited my mindset at the time. So, I settled on my right nipple.

It was strange. The pain (or sensation of whatever) was fully bearable…intense, but bearable. What I was truly not prepared for was the endorphin rush. I had to step outside. I paced the balcony overlooking the St. Louis Loop as I took in the cold November air and tried not to throw up.

It was exhilarating.

A year later, I was living in Breckenridge, CO, but had come back to Missouri to be with my family on the first anniversary of Dad’s death. On my way out of town I swung into the piercer. I’m not exactly sure what I was commemorating. It was sort of a combination one-year-without-Dad and moving-out-on-my-own deal. But really, I think I just wanted to get a nose-ring and was looking for a reason.

I don’t think anyone really liked my nose ring. My family hated it, my friends found it silly…but I loved it. I worked as an electrician up in Breck and just loved the interactions it would inspire. I remember one very well in which a little old lady who had called for service work answered her door. An uncomfortable/terrified look flashed across her face. She tried hard not to stare at my nose and then tried harder to avoid me completely. Eventually, she mustered the courage to ask the standard opening question, “Did that hurt?” After a few minutes of discussion, we were chatting comfortably. Her granddaughter had a pierced eyebrow and she was relishing my willingness to explain why someone would want to do such a thing.

She made me chocolate chip cookies.

A few months later I was living in Ft Lauderdale and took a job installing home theaters and such. The company frowned on the nose ring and I agreed to take it out during work hours. I figured I could maintain the hole that way for the six months or so that I planned to be in the south Florida area. Sadly, (or perhaps fortunately) the hole closed up during my first 8 hours shift and I said a sad goodbye to my facial piercing. I hated losing it but it was, as mentioned, the only piercing with no specific ties to a life event. I missed the ring itself, but didn't feel that I had lost something truly significant.

And so, it was a relatively normal-looking Moksha that met Moonshot in 2002. And that’s a good thing since I have no illusions that she would have taken an interest in me had I been sporting a metallic nostril. She barely tolerates the four 12-gauge rings I currently wear. However, to address the original question, I’m not one to believe in fate on this level. On the list of cosmic coincidences that made Moonshot and I perfect for each other, the lack of nasal jewelry was but a small factor. So no, I don’t personally believe the universe had a plan for my nose.

Things have been quiet on the body modification front for several years now. Between Moonshot and an office job…there’s not much room for more stainless steel. However, I am currently looking forward to some inkwork. Lack of funds prevented me from commemorating Norah’s birth in this way, but as soon as resources allow, I plan to make the Chinese wu-fu a permanent part of skin. It may take a while to save up the funds since a) it will be an expensive piece of art and b) Moonshot has made it clear that if I get to spend such money on a tattoo…she gets jewelry of equal value, thereby doubling the cost of my wu-fu ;) And I figure that’s fair. It will be, like the piercings before it, my own personal ritual commemorating the events of my life. If she wants to join in the celebration but skip the pain part of it…I don’t think many would blame her.

Happy Halloween (In Costume)

2007-10-31T22:18:00.000-05:00

Norah was supposed to be Arlo for Halloween...but she kept wiping the face paint and wouldn't leave her ears on. So everyone thought she was a kitty. By the fourth house...I just started agreeing.

I was worried she'd be afraid of this mask...but she just giggled and focused on her very first lollipop. When I took the mask off later that evening, she kept trying to put it back on me.

Happy Halloween (Mostly Wordless)

2007-10-31T06:26:00.000-05:00

Arlo, our very own church grim

Queasymodo

"I got my costume ready...let's go get some candy!!"

Norah's Boyfriend

2007-10-17T06:50:00.000-05:00

Note: For those of you following along with Piper and the Gren, Part 3 has been posted. The link on the left-hand side menu will keep you up to date on the story posting.

I know someday she’ll be old enough to read this. And at that point, young Norah will most likely be horrified at my choice of the word “boyfriend.” But in the meantime, I get to write this unfettered by my daughter’s impending realization that boys have cooties. So, boyfriend it is.

Norah and David go way back. For over a third of Norah’s life, she’s been joyously pushing David down and steeling his toys. He doesn’t seem to mind, so I guess it works out for everyone. They met at the Little Gym where they were a perfectly matched little pair. Same size, same hair, roughly the same development level although David had a few words and was a bit more stable on his feet (when he wasn’t being pushed.) Based on the kids’ budding relationship and the fact that his folk’s seemed like cool people, Moonshot and I made an effort to chat with David’s parents. A weak effort, mind you, since we’re horridly introverted and small talk is painfully awkward. But, they seemed nice, so we kept up the unnatural at of…meeting…new…people, and eventually got comfortable conversing with them.

When the Little Gym class ended, we set up a play date for the kids and have since got together with David and his family twice for social functions.

I don’t have nicknames picked out for David’s mom and dad yet. Partially because I don’t know them quite well enough to label them the McCheeses (after we learned together that no matter how much you beg, a gas grill will not melt fat-free cheese…it’ll just make cheese-flavored rocks atop your pizza) and partially because my wife refuses to join me in my thought experiment.

Me: What’s the opposite of a kangaroo?

Moonshot: Nothing, that’s stupid.

Me: It’s…I’m trying to think of a good nickname for David’s folks so I can mention them on the blog.

Moonshot: You are such a dork.

Me: True, but what’s the opposite of a kangaroo?

Moonshot, sighing a she realizes I will not go away until she plays: Fine. Um, I don’t know. Some animals have opposites. Like if you said dog, I’d say cat, but….oh, my God, I can’t do this. It’s too stupid. I’m going upstairs to read.

So, for now I’ll just call them David’s mom and dad.

Anyway, before I sidetracked myself, I was meandering this post toward our recent trip to the pumpkin patch. The 90-degree weather made it slightly difficult to get into the pumpkin selection mood, but we did our level best to make it festive. And since the kids had no pumpkin related expectations anyway…fun was had by all.

Don’t they make a cute couple? (Sorry, future Norah!)

Happy Birthday, Uncle Jet

2007-10-11T00:01:00.000-05:00

An Introduction to a Gren

2007-10-08T14:28:00.000-05:00

Saying that I’ve been working on a story for almost 10 months makes it sound like a pretty impressive story, yes? As if for these past 10 months, I’ve been hunkered over my keyboard, tweaking sentences in an artistic quest for just the right word to make my audience burst into spontaneous applause there in their distant cubicles and home offices. The truth is somewhat less thrilling. The story whiled away most of its ten-month life sitting unloved and untouched. Oh…I spent a great deal of time thinking about it in my car or as I drifted off to sleep. But actual work has been pretty sparse. Unlike previous stories I’ve attempted, however, I never lost my love for the characters or the story premise. See…some one had asked me, early in my life as a blogger named Moksha Gren, what in the world “gren” meant. After mulling over the best way to answer that, I fell in love with the idea of simply introducing everyone to the twisted, little creature called a gren. So, after a few months of neglect, I would always slink back to my computer and peck a few extra words here and there before drifting away again. Then, I made a deal with myself. Since the events told in the story take place in October, I figured October would be a good time to post it. And since I came to this conclusion in July or so…it fit nicely into my natural inclination toward procrastination.

And suddenly it was late September and I hadn’t opened the story in months. Panicked, I began rushing around, squeezing in writing time wherever I could, forcing my poor wife to edit at a frantic pace. My cousin Tony out in Reno had agreed to draw some sketches to accompany the story. But my lack of time management now means the story will be posted sans artwork since Tony hasn’t even seen the story yet.

But……the story will be posted.

And that in itself is an amazing thing for me right now. It’s the first story I’ve completed since I was in college. And though I tried valiantly to follow my usually routine…I did not let this one slip silently into the forgotten recesses of my brain without ever seeing the light of day. I’m proud of that. True, it’s got some cumbersome sections. The linguistic artistry is not what I had hoped and I don’t think I was able to capture everything I had wanted. But, I still love the story and my wife tells me that it’s “better than she expected.” I’m taking it as a complement.

So, I’ve set up a new blog called From Erebus to house this and any future fictional writings I do. It’s just an empty shell as I type this, but on October 11th I’ll lift the curtain on the first section of my first story, Piper and the Gren.

I’m a bit nervous.

The Gren, an Evil Genius?

2007-09-27T11:22:00.000-05:00

Simon has so labeled me...and who am I to disagree? To me, however, it just seemed painfully obvious what needed to be done.

A little while back, as you may recall from my initial telling, I conducted the wedding of my dear friends Taltap and Elsa. However, what I was careful not to mention in my original reporting was a particular coincidence that occurred there. During the rehersal, I was chatting with the various members of the wedding party, many of whom I had never met. The bridesmaid was a delightful, red-headed girl who mentioned that she lived in Edmonton, Alberta (that’s in Canada, eh?) Now, there are many possible responses to this bit of trivia, but I, being the sort of person who is constantly looking for a way to talk about the friends I’ve made out here in web-land, immediately told the bridesmaid (who I will henceforth refer to as Laegren for reasons I will explain later) all about Simon. Plus, I was well versed in odd little details about her city, having conversed with my ice-bound friend many times about his environment, and so was interested to get her take on the same city.

Over the course of the weekend, it occurred to me that I was sitting on a golden opportunity. I had just met a person who apparently lived only five minutes away from a friend of mine who lives over 1500 miles away from me. Plus, her kids go to some sort of play group even closer to Simon's house. The odds were staggering and made me want to break out into a few rounds of “It’s a small world.” But more than that...it made me want to mess with Simon’s head.

I quickly scribbled a message on a piece of notebook paper and gave it to Laegren, asking her if she would be willing to post it to Simon’s door. She seemed excited by the prospect of a practical joke...then she saw the letter. She seemed a bit concerned since it was vaguely threatening and didn’t have my real name on it. I would have been worried as well…were I her. “Is this going to get me into trouble?” she asked. My wife quickly vouched for me, trying to explain that Simon would, indeed find this amusing. Laegren seemed convinced and all was settled.

Upon returning to St. Louis, I quickly wrote the tale of my weekend, carefully avoiding any reference to Edmonton so as not to give Simon any clues to work with when the note was posted. However, I had overlooked one detail. I had forgotten to tell the groom, Taltap, about the impending prank. This hadn’t seemed such a large oversight since he rarely posts here, but as soon as the story hit the web, Taltap swooped down and mentioned to Simon that one of the guests had been from his neck of the woods.

Drat!!

I ignored it. Refused to enter the conversation. Hoped it would die down.

Laegren, meanwhile, was waiting for me to send her Simon’s physical address and could not deliver the letter until I did. I figured this was my one chance to salvage the game since I had some control over the timing. I’d just wait. Give Simon some time to forget this seemingly minor detail.

A month went by. Some would politely call it delayed gratification. I would call it torture. Finally, about a week ago, I sent the address to Laegren (Long Arm of an Evil Gren) and waited.

For the completion of this story, visit Simon or his wife, Amy.

The Amazing Disappearing / Reappearing Gren

2007-09-18T15:47:00.000-05:00

Currently, I’m sitting in my new, slightly smaller office, looking out the odd little window that opens into our much smaller warehouse and crunching on a baby carrot. “But wait,” you say. “Where have I been for the last two weeks? You can’t just dissapear like that and pop back in talking about windows.”

Well...I’ve been getting here. I’ve been fighting and struggling and gnashing my teeth so that I could sit here in relative relaxation and tell you that I have an odd little window in my office.

About two weeks ago, the president of the company I work for let me know that we’d be moving our corporate office. This I had already known. There was a loose contract on our building, but he wasn’t too concerned about the timing…so I wasn’t too concerned. I figured everything was under control. Then he mentioned casually on Wednesday, August 29th, that the new owners would be taking possession of the building we occupied on September 14th. Two weeks. Prep work done at that point…none. New location to move to…hadn’t even started looking. Panic level…stratospheric.

There’s a part of me that would love to go into excruciating detail on all the hurdles of the move, but two things prevent me. First, while we are now nestled into our new digs…the move isn’t really over. Folks want their voice mail and their printers to work. The warehouse evokes a 300 lb man squeezed into sweatpants designed for a man half his size…it demands some compressing and Tetrisizing. And there’s all that pesky work I was ignoring while focusing exclusively on the move…it didn’t magically disappear as I had hoped it would. Secondly, if my wife’s glossed-over eyes were any indication…the minute details of my battles with telecom, my attic crawls, my shelving assembly, and all the other skirmishes that made this such an ordeal are slightly less interesting in the retelling. I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty.

Besides, all that minutia were only tangentially related to the more important aspects. The new office itself tells nothing of my wife and daughter, left home to await the return of some semblance of normalcy. There were days in which I saw Norah for less than 20 minutes total. There were days when Moonshot nearly lost her mind from boredom and loneliness; unable to leave the house due to an illness Norah was fighting.

So, instead of telling all the details, I’d rather take these precious moments of remaining lunch break to thank a few people who really made a difference in all this.

Thanks to MoMa for coming up on short notice to keep my family company in my absence. Thanks to Panache for meeting Moonshot and Norah in Hannibal last week just to get them out of the house. Thanks to Jet, for shouldering the burden of our store with absolutely no help from his suddenly absent business partner. And a huge thanks to my wife who worked every single long hour I did…with no co-workers to keep her company.

Wordless Wednesday #19

2007-08-28T22:11:00.001-05:00

Click the image to crank up the air

To see more Wordless Wednesday Participants, visit www.wordlesswednesday.com

Choosing Sides: A Scientific Poll

2007-08-24T14:45:00.000-05:00

Moonshot and I have noticed a peculiar trend. We have no scientific basis for believing that it is a trend, but Emilie’s hilarious current post brought it to mind and I wanted to throw out the “scientific” poll on the side bar menu.

UPDATE: Emilie brings up a good point. I'm defining left and right from the perspective of someone lying face-up in the bed. Apparently designers define this differently. Sorry for the confusion. Feel free to change your vote if needed.

Wordless Wednesday #18

2007-08-21T21:27:00.000-05:00

Click image for a Big Mack

To view other Wordless Wednesday participants, visit www.wordlesswednesday.com

And Be There When I Feed The Tree

2007-08-20T15:18:00.000-05:00

Mark asked the Gren, “Tell us about the first time you smoked a joint. Or, smoked part of a joint.”

I knew I was opening myself up to this sort of situation. In an open forum where readership includes high school and college friends as well as parents, grandparents, and in-laws; where members of my in-law’s church regularly swing by and where Norah herself may eventually read what I write here, I have been asked, straight out of the gate for my new “Ask the Gren” feature, to discuss my first experience with marijuana. What a fun little minefield to tiptoe through.

I’ll admit my first instinct for this was to just ignore it. Maybe meekly write back to Mark and explain my understandable reluctance to tackle this topic in such a public way. There’s a good chance he asked this just to watch me squirm. And besides, if I play along, won’t he just ask more and more challenging questions until he makes me crack? Cutting this sort of thing off at the start is certainly tempting. However, what fun is asking questions if the only ones that get answered are the ones I’m totally comfortable tackling?

In other words...fine, Mark, I’ll march into the minefield so that you can prop your feet up down there in Dallas and enjoy the tale.

And Be There When I Feed The Tree

The Lake of the Ozarks was a pretty weed-friendly place to grow up. Most of my friends were reveling in their love of nature’s psychedelic bounty by the time I was in eighth grade or so. If it weren’t for the huge stubborn streak that I still claim as my own, I’d have probably started down my road to herbal decadence at about the same time. But, I had little inclination to follow the crowd and staked my claim to a strange middle ground in the social dynamics of high school. I dressed in tie-dye shirts and rope sandals; I listened to my dad’s old stoner music from the 60s and 70s; and I studied all things hemp. I was fascinated by the counter culture revolution: Woodstock, Haight-Ashbury, etc. But I never partook of the drugs so openly endorsed by the era of my fascination and so freely available in the circle of friends I ran with. I’d sit in the circle and join in the insane philosophical discussions…but I’d simply and merrily pass the joint around.

There were several reasons for this I suppose. First, I had this idea that I was going to become a big time hemp activist once I got to college. I reasoned that my opinion would be taken more seriously if folks couldn’t quickly discount me as just another stoner. Secondly, while lots of my friends seemed to be having quite a bit of fun with their pot, several were smoking more and more and developing a habit that I just wasn’t too thrilled with. So, I sat on the side of the metaphoric pool and continued to size things up before jumping in.

As the high school years went by and graduation loomed, however, I began to give up on the dream of major legalization activism. I became more comfortable with the idea of smoking in moderation and came to feel that I’d rather smoke for the first time with my long-time friends instead of the mysterious and undefined friends I would make in college. So, on April 8, 1994, my friend Laska and I set off after dark, hiking up to the Elder Tree’s clearing on the hillside facing my mom’s house.

The town of Linn Creek is nestled in a valley, surrounded on all sides by the rolling Ozark Hills. Across the street from my Mom’s is a house. Behind that house is another house. Behind that second house is a large field that hosts a construction company of some sort, littered with dump trucks and piles of gravel. Beyond the gravel field, is the creek that gives the little town her name. And beyond the water raises the green slope that houses the bald patch. Over the years since, the mysterious patch has lost its geometric shape, but in 1994, it was a perfectly square patch of grass on a hillside that was otherwise uniform with trees. At the top and center of this patch was a massive evergreen, bigger than any other tree on the hill. The Elder Tree we called it as if this tree spirit had lay claim to this small parcel of land and none of the younger trees dared encroach. We felt it important to visit the Elder Tree on this auspicious occasion.

After finding the driest place to cross the creek, we meandered back and forth across the face of the hillside, tracking imaginary switchbacks through the thick Ozark underbrush to minimize the slope of our moonlit climb. We chatted about song ideas that Laska was working on and story ideas I was working on as we made our way through the shadows toward the general area we thought we’d find the clearing.

The moon was nothing but a sliver, but the sudden opening of the trees made the clearing seen fully lit after our time under the tree canopy. The expansion of our vision made the space feel as holy up close as it had looked from a distance. The Elder Tree towered over us to our left and the ground fell away to the tiny lights of the tiny town to our right. Above us, the stars spread in every direction through the clear sky. The ground was rocky and not nearly as plush as it had appeared from our yard, but we wiggled around a bit until we found relatively comfortable spots to recline.

We absorbed our surroundings for a while before Laska produced his metal pipe and for the first time…I didn’t just pass it. We lay there, passing the pipe back and forth, talking about college. I had been accepted to what was then called Northeast Missouri State in Kirksville and he would be heading to Culver Stockton, a small school on the Mississippi River. With only about an hour and half separating the two schools, we discussed how great it would be to be able to zip over and see each other as often as possible…a simple plan that was only enacted once for some reason.

Intoxication of any sort is difficult to describe. A sensation in your toe can be quickly categorized, but sensation in the organ you use to analyze sensation can be much more difficult. You don’t even notice it’s happening until you catch your mind in a thought process that just wouldn’t happen otherwise. It’s like falling asleep. A dream-like pattern slips into an otherwise normal thought and you’re suddenly aware that you are drifting away. In addition, it affects each person differently and can change depending on your mood. I would spend the next several years of my life trying to come up with metaphors and descriptors to properly capture the feeling of being stoned…but after all these years, I’m still not really able. But generally, I would describe the feeling as a falling away. As if my conscious and subconscious had temporarily switched places. I was a step removed from my senses, shrunken away into the recesses of my mind just a little. Wrapped up with processes that normally go undetected, noticing little details that normally go unnoticed, dreaming while awake.

We laughed.

Eventually, Laska announced that he was hungry, but I didn’t want to move because scenery was too perfect. I couldn’t absorb the stars fast enough or stare long enough. “Can’t we just stay here?”

“Don’t you want to eat something?”

“Sure, but to get that, I’d have to give up these stars.”

“Well, that’s life. I mean…you never know, the walk down could be even better than this.”

This struck me as infinitely deep…a perfect allegory for my fears of departing for college. We pushed ourselves up, said a polite “thank you” to the Elder Tree and headed back into the darkened canopy.

Whatever care we had shown while making our ascent was abandoned for the trek down. Switchbacks be damned, we strolled straight down toward the creek. I’ll admit the trip is mostly a blur to me, but I have snippets of leaning against trees and sliding on loose leaves, aware but unconcerned that my behavior would rightly be called “reckless.” I recall resting against the truck of a thick tree and being unsure whether or not I was imagining the slimy feeling against my hands. I pushed away to get a better view and my mind reeled, unable to make sense of the pulsing vision I was seeing. The bark was covered with slugs. No, not some drug-induced vision, but real, ooze-on-my-hands slugs. We stood for a moment or two as we attempted to invent a reason so many slugs would cluster on one tree, but eventually abandoned the questioning to continue our mission to find food.

At the bottom, we splashed our way through the creek, no longer concerned about staying dry.

We laughed.

Mom was away that night, out on the town with her friend, Pam. We put on Belly’s new Star album and made some snacks before returning to the living room to watch MTV. They were showing some sort of documentary on Curt Cobain, but we were having a horrible time making sense of what they were talking about. We just sat in silence, off in our own little worlds, staring at the screen and eating our Pop-Tarts.

“Wait,” I said. “Did they just say he died?”

“No, he’s probably just on tour or something,” replied Laska.

We sat quietly for another stretch.

“I…I’m pretty sure they put up one of those…those…date range things. Like he died.”

“No, they….” Laska froze. Kurt Loder was there on the screen, telling us to call a depression hotline if the news was too upsetting.

I think I may have said something akin to, “Oh, man.” Words may well have failed me even under the best of circumstances…but they were especially unforthcoming in my current state.

We turned off Belly and swapped the cd for In Utero.

So we sat there, Laska and I, eating Pop-Tarts, and then popcorn, and drinking Mountain Dew; discussing Cobain while the speakers crooned about Pennyroyal Tea.

The term surreal gets tossed around a lot. Quite often on this very site, as a matter of fact. But it really is the only word I know to describe that night. The only word I know to encompass both the stunning beauty and the bewildering news. The brightness of the stars and the darkness of the loss of "the spokeman of our generation."

I long ago packed up my bong and now opt to keep my subconscious mind right where it is. But, I wouldn’t trade that experience or the countless experiences that would follow for anything. Someday, when Norah is old enough to ask, I’ll have to decide how best to deal with such stories.

Compared to that…in-laws and church groups seem a breeze.

The One and Only Norah Lu

2007-08-16T13:11:00.001-05:00

When Moonshot and I agreed on the name Norah for our daughter, one of the things we liked about it was that it was not common…but not strange. It harkens back to two grandmothers named Norma (one on my side and one on Moonshot’s) and also to my Great Aunt Eleanor. It seemed perfect.

For a middle name, Moonshot liked Louise for no reason other than it sounded nice and would allow her to call the little one Norah Lou. I suggested a small change to Norah Lucille since that was my grandmother’s name and Moonshot agreed. It was perfect. My Grandma went by Lu, so shortening the name to Norah Lu in common speech was actually even more of a tribute. Later it became even better because Lu could also stand for Lutine…my webby nickname for my daughter that worked perfectly with the Gren aspect of my own nickname. Simply glorious all around.

But I discovered something last week. It turns out we accidentally stumbled upon a rather unique name. Seems it’s surprisingly rare to shorten a middle name to “Lu.” Everyone wants “Lou.” Do a quick Google search for Norah Lu and you’ll find nothing but references to this site in the top hits. Eventually you’ll find someone with the last name of Lu…but that’s different.

I had no idea. But neither do I regret it. Perhaps my Grandma was odd in her choice of diminutives, but it always seemed perfectly normal to me. And if it’s true that we’ve granted a one-of-a-kind name for our daughter…perhaps that’s a fitting gift from Grandma Lu since Norah Lu, like her namesake, is a one-of-a-kind girl.

The Reverend Moksha Gren

2007-08-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

I couldn’t help giggling internally just a bit when I said, “by the power vested in me by the State of Iowa…” Such a lofty phrase…such an implication of authority. Somehow, I think the blurry jpeg print-out of an ordination certificate that rested in the back of my three-ring binder was slightly less awe-inspiring than the State of Iowa had in mind when they contemplated vesting power in the hands of ministers. They most likely would have been even less impressed had they known that I was outrageously tired due to a late night/early morning bachelor party that a “minister” had no business attending. And they may well have done their best to revoked this mysterious “power” had they known how badly I wanted to read the line as “And so…by the power of Greyskull…”

And when, exactly was this power vested to me? After I clicked “submit,” entering my name into the database at the Universal Life Church? Or was it transferred unto me only once my printer had finished producing my certificate? Whichever it was, the end result was the same, apparently. Power had been vested in me and I was wielding it with impunity over the weekend.

Now, don’t get me wrong…the powered I wielded was put to an absolutely beautiful purpose. But I still felt odd referencing this power as if the piece of paper really made me special in any way. To me…the real authority granted in this instance came when Taltap and Elsa asked me to officiate their wedding. It was their day and they invited me into it. That was the special moment. That was when I became empowered to perform wondrous magic.

Leave it to a bureaucracy to miss the fragile beauty of the scene while it focuses on the paperwork.

Not entirely coincidently, this concept of subtle moments was the theme of my sermon. And make no mistake…it was a sermon. When my college roommate/ Moonshot’s brother-in-law performed our wedding, he approached the speech with casual grace. He told the story of how we lovebirds had met and what role he had in the events. It was funny and personal and all around perfect for our day. I, on the other hand, found that I have some deep and poorly understood desire to stand before a crowd and wax philosophically about the deep truths of life. I suppose this should shock no one who knows me or who has ever seen me turn a simple question like “which remote do I use to turn on your tv?” into a 20 minute lecture on signal amplification and hub-based audio networking.

Anyway…I sermonized. A transcript of the speech can be found here, if you are so inclined. But the real wonder of the day was that when it was all over…Taltap and Elsa were husband and wife.

It was a very small ceremony…twenty people or so. And six of those people were under the arbor as part of the wedding. The day was hot enough to joke about and wish for lighter clothes than tuxedos, but not unbearable. The kind of hot that makes for good stories in later years. The ceremony itself was strategically short, designed to get folks back into the AC as quickly as possible. But, it was worth being outside...for the setting was astounding. Taltap’s parents hosted the event in their backyard, and "elaborately designed" does not even begin to describe this yard. And mind you, this is not some normal yard all dolled up just for the wedding. This yard is their hobby. Rivers and bridges and waterfalls in every direction. A little house rested in the back corner for Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and a manufactured cave sat beside it for the dwarves to mine. I jokingly told Taltap’s dad all that was missing from the yard was a garden train. At which point he showed me where the train was going to be installed next year. Later that evening, during the reception, children ran joyously over the bridge to reach Snow White’s house. They delighted in turning the faux fireplace on and off and sitting at the miniature table. It was a truly stunning locale.

In the end, everything went smoothly on this, my first public appearance as the Reverend Moksha Gren. People kept telling me how wonderful it all was, as if I had really done much in the scheme of things. There was love before, there was love after...I just got up there and gabbed about it. But, the only two people whose opinion on my performance really matter seemed quite pleased with how it went down. And though I’ll still shake my head every time I think about the baffling “power” that was vested in me through the Internet, I continue to be honored to have played a role in the marriage of two of my closest friends.

UPDATE: For those of you "in the know" about the "The Gren Was Here" prank as discussed on both Simon and Amy's site. The letter-posting culprit is the wonderful lady on the far right in the second picture. I owe her a big thanks.

Wordless Wednesday #17

2007-08-14T22:24:00.000-05:00

Click any image to make these gardens grow.

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Wordless Wednesday #16

2007-08-07T21:56:00.000-05:00

Click image for monetary inflation

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A Resounding PLOP (and other assorted snippets)

2007-08-06T14:54:00.000-05:00

St. Louis is Melting

We don’t get to play outside much these days. You see…it’s hot. It’s so hot they had to shut down at least one local road to fix buckling asphalt. It’s so hot cooling stations have been set up throughout the city to help folks without access to air conditioning. Basically, it’s too hot to do anything other than look out the window and marvel at how hot it is on the other side of the glass. During the winter months, I think of my Canadian readership with something akin to pity. Today…I would gladly teleport myself northward. Or perhaps I’d teleport them here so I could watch them stagger under the oppressive humidity. Both have their perks.

At the Sound of the Grunt…Run Away!!

I am thankful that my daughter grunts when she poos. This may seem an odd thing to offer thanks for…but I truly do cherish this trait. For one, it offers endless amusement to my wife and I. But more significantly, it kept us from having to rebathe Little Lutine last night.

Norah manically scooted about in the tub, chasing her bobbing toys while splashing great sprays of water onto both her watching parents. She giggles. She screams. And then grows very serious. She hunkers down. She grunts. I spring to action and hoist her from the water as quickly as I can. My reward is a resounding “PLOP” a mere instant after her little feet cleared the water line. Success!! Moonshot howled with laughter and Little Miss, for her part, looked about with confusion, unsure what all the fuss was about. Sure…we had to clean the tub and the toys, but we didn’t have to do it with super speed while distracting a naked baby so that we could resanitize our child.

Thanks for the warning, Norah.

Up, Up and Away

It seems Norah is to become a climber. It was probably inevitable with her father being somewhat of an irrational monkey who looks at the world as his own personal jungle gym. So, while it comes as no shock to find Norah pulling and clawing her way unaided onto the couch…it still fills us with dread. Her reach just keeps gaining height and we have to keep getting more and more clever to keep things out of her reach. But material destruction aside…I’m more than a bit concerned that we’re talking about a child who has yet to learn that head first is not the proper way to exit her parent’s bed. Onto this fearless child has now been bestowed the ability to climb.

I’m considering taking up praying.

So Many Pictures

As good as her word, Stephanie delivered a cd full of pictures from Norah’s birthday party. They are wonderful and beautiful…and overwhelming in their sheer volume. I will try to have them up soon…but between these and the shots Moonshot’s folks left with us…I’ve got some wading to do.

I did manage to post the July pictures up to but not including the party and I’m noticing a trend. She’s getting harder to photograph. She just doesn’t hold still anymore. Once upon a time, you should make a funny noise and capture a cherubic face. Today she runs from one toy to the next and makes it increasingly difficult to capture the cuteness we see on a daily basis. If I’m able to master this…I may have a career waiting for me in sports photography.

Wordless Wednesday #15

2007-08-01T06:10:00.000-05:00

Click the image...and it's almost like you're there.

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One Already?!

2007-07-30T15:44:00.000-05:00

Somehow, as if by magic…my daughter has turned a year old. As I type this, it seems impossible that the astounding moment when I first held her was a year ago. It seems too vivid in my mind to have been so long ago. Ask me again in five minutes and I’ll tell you that it seems impossible that our home was childless a mere 12 months ago. I am amazed at the lightning speed of time and simultaneously at the seemingly contradictory infinity that has somehow fit itself in these recent 365.

And this, I am learning, is a consistent theme in parenting. The ability to make peace with contradiction. I have spent a good deal of time this last year wishing I could get away for some personal time while simultaneously not wanting to miss a thing she does. My excitement to see her master new skills is almost equally matched by my desire for her to slow down so I can absorb as much as I can of each moment. She is infuriating and inexpressibly lovable. She is disgusting and overwhelming cute. She saps your energy and refuels you in the same instant.

I do not pretend to understand it.

We realized recently that although we are still just getting our feet wet with this whole parenting thing, was are, as of her first birthday, 5.56% of the way finished raising her to independence. Sure, it’s still a small percentage…but much larger than seems possible. Eighteen years seemed so huge when I was eighteen. Now, although it’s still a bit of a stretch, I can measure that time…and it’s alarming.

Anyway, family and friends piled into the Grenstead over the weekend to celebrate the Little Lutine’s astounding achievement of surviving under my and Moonshot’s care for a full year. Norah had a blast and seemed to handle the sensory overload of the event better than I would have expected. I plan on writing a more full description of the event soon, once I’ve dug through the photos that should accompany the story. I didn’t take many pictures, myself…mired as I was in vital hostly duties like spinning in place trying to decide where I needed to be. I snapped a few prior to the party and a few after…but the bulk of the get-together was lost in a haze of photo forgetfulness. Luckily, fellow blogger Stephanie from over at Breakfast at Stephanie’s was there to point her trusty Nikon at all the things I was missing. She tells me she took a minimum of 200 pictures and I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of said files. And though I would never wish poor Stephanie to regret serving as the party photographer…a few friendly comments posted over at her site might just get some photos up at the Impish Gren a bit faster ;)

Thanks to everyone who came, everyone who sent cards and gifts, and everyone who sent birthday wishes in some electronic format or another. Norah’s pretty self-centered right now and is therefore unlikely to say thank you for it all. But know that her Daddy was deeply moved by all the fuss being made over his darling, one-year-old (!) girl.

Wordless Wednesday #14

2007-07-24T21:51:00.001-05:00

Click Images to Behemothize

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Weekend Recap

2007-07-23T15:11:00.000-05:00

The house is eerily quiet as I type this. My daughter is asleep, my wife is hundreds of miles away and my Mom left a few hours ago. I am, for these few hours, a functional bachelor, a man with no outside influence. I could do anything at all with my time. Live up the wild life and let the invigorating taste of freedom go to my head. But instead, I find myself sitting here at the computer trying to recap this, my first run as solo parent and looking forward to Moonshot’s return. And not just because she’ll be bringing a copy of Harry Potter7. No…I actually miss her.

Thursday “Morning”

My alarm went off at 4 am on Thursday morning. I’d like to explain this occurrence away as a malfunction…but the truth is that I set it for this ungodly hour. Moonshot was to be at the airport by 5 so a plane could whisk her away to Minneapolis for three full days of what was described to our friend Elsa as “help with the wedding planning” but which would truly culminate in a surprise bridal shower. I can say that now since the event should be happening as I type this.

We stumbled our blurry-eyed way through last minute packing, strapped a bewildered Norah into her car seat and made our way for Lambert International. Our local NPR station had yet to begin their daily broadcast, so the British accents from the BBC only served to remind us just how early it really was. If it’s before Morning Edition, then by definition it’s still night.

We realized on our drive that we could easily and quickly tally the number of times since we moved into together that we have been apart for any stretch of time. Once, I went to a family wedding in Reno. Later, when I went to Little Rock on business for four days, she took the opportunity to zip up to Iowa to spend some quality time with her folks. And last year I went to Memphis with my brother and several of his heavy-drinking friends. That’s it. We should probably make it a point to spend more time apart, foster a greater sense of independence in the marriage and such…but the sad fact is that even after so much constant contact…we still enjoy each others company most of the time. It just never occurs to us to demand that the other get on a plane and get the hell away from us for a while.

We dropped Moonshot at the American Airlines terminal and returned home. Norah, for her part, sat wide-eyed in the back seat the entire trip. I kept glancing at her and trying to convince her eyes to become droopy. However, there was absolutely no sign of the sleepiness that must have been evident on her father’s face. She seemed animated upon returning home, as if she fully intended to stay awake and start her morning routine. Panic started to well in my chest. After about fifteen minutes of convincing, however, she decided to do the right thing and let daddy go back to sleep.

Thursday

I took Thursday off work and did my best to follow the daily schedule set out by Moonshot. Generally, I think I did pretty well. I kept Norah clean, fed, and relatively happy. I ran some errands (pick up repaired hedge trimmer, take Moonshot’s car to carwash, buy Star wars stamps for Canadian SW fans who can’t buy them for himself) was able to socialize a bit out at Duke’s house and also made time to take Norah up to the newly opened Cabela’s near our house to look at their huge aquarium with Superfly and Mr. Chubbers. My timing was slightly thrown off, however when a veritable waterfall appeared in the skies over St Louis. Parking lots became instant lakes, complete with wave action from the cars pushing their way through the liquid resistance. Norah was curious but unafraid about the drenching, but the extra time spent due to the downpour meant MoMa arrived at the house before I returned. She came up just so I could go to work on Friday…you’d think the least a properly appreciative son could have done was be there to welcome her.

Friday

Friday was a surprisingly normal day. Just a change in casting, really. I woke, showered, and fed Norah. Then, instead of waking Moonshot...I woke MoMa. Instead of eating breakfast with Moonshot, I dined with MoMa. I packed a lunch and left for the day and aside from a few more calls home to make sure everything was going well, it could have been any Friday. And since that was sort of the purpose behind MoMa coming up, I’ll call it a smashing success.

Saturday

Saturday found us at the Little Gym with MoMa grinning ear to ear as her granddaughter ran about the child-filled room, hands in the air, emitting shrieks of pure toddler joy. (Norah was shrieking…not MoMa, mind you.) Later in the day we went shopping for Norah’s upcoming birthday, because the trunk load full of goodies MoMa shoveled into Norah’s room Thursday night wasn’t enough.

After supplying my daughter with another bundle of clothes and toys, MoMa drove away into the sunset.

Sunday

It’s now Monday as I write this. You see, I didn’t quite finish the story above on Saturday night. I got tired and started thinking how great it would be to just lay down in bed and watch some TV. Maybe do a few Sudoku and just decompress. I told myself sweet little lies like, “Oh, you’ll finish this post in the morning,” but I never really believed it.

The bed did feel wonderful, though.

At any rate, Sunday came early as Norah’s protests sounded through the monitor at a little before 6. Not crushingly early, true…but 6 full Snoozes worth of sleep are not lost joyfully. We rose, ate and played with the suddenly abundant toys strewn about the house. We watched the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and waited until 10 or so to make our way back to the airport to pick up Moonshot.

Norah loved the airport. She likes most open spaces where she is free to roam. And I want to take a moment here to express how odd Moonshot and I both find just how odd everyone else seems to find our free-roaming child. It’s not as if we just let her go…but as often as possible, we let her walk about and we walk beside her and tell her about the things she’s seeing. At the post office on Thursday, she carefully pulled things off the shelf, looked them over, and replaced them (usually). As we waited for the car to be washed…she did the same in the attached convenience store. And at the airport, I let her stomp around; exploring baggage carts, benches and displays behind glass. In each of these places, people smiled at Norah but looked genuinely concerned about her range of motion. It’s true; most one year olds I’ve seen out in public are either held or strapped into a stroller. But Moonshot and I are subscribing to the “let her explore her world” approach to parenting. She tends to put things back on the shelves after she’s done looking at them because we’ve shown her and let her practice. I’m not saying it’s the only or even really the best way to parent…but thinking back to the airport, I can’t help but be a bit amazed that it’s so rare as to seem disconcerting to onlookers.

But that’s not what I was talking about. I was talking about Moonshot’s return. And return she did; happy and unscathed. Well...mostly unscathed. She’s been nursing some pretty nasty mosquito bites from those Minnesota mutants they have up there. Norah seemed happy to she her mommy in a typically distracted sort of way and I, for my part, was genuinely happy to see my wife. Moonshot seemed happy to see both of us and would have been happy to see her luggage…but two out of three ain’t bad, eh? Apparently her luggage had failed to make the plane switch in Chicago.

“Where’s the Potter book?” I asked in terror.

“It’s in my carry-on, don’t worry.”

A sigh of relief, “Have you finished it yet?”

“No, I got motion sick on the plane so I’ve barely started.”

Gasp. See, my entire theory here was that she’d be done with it by the time she stepped off that plane. She reads like a book a day and I was comforted through that long and Potterless Saturday with the reassuring thought of its Sunday arrival. However, a bookmark stuck at page 135 was somewhat less promising.

We had a wonderful afternoon and evening. She read while I trimmed the hedges with the newly repaired trimmers. I read while put she Norah to bed and again after Moonshot went to sleep. We even found some time to just sit and chat…but not about Harry Potter. She has forbid it. Apparently she has so much confidence in my ability to read her that she doesn’t even want to discus the story as far as I’ve read for fear of giving something away. Which is, of course, an irresistible temptation for me to continually bring it up. Yup…it was nice to have her back ;)

I fell asleep with the book in my hands.

About a half hour later, the phone rang. Seems a guy with Moonshot’s luggage was cruising our neighborhood in a lost sort of way, looking for our house. I stumbled downstairs in my robe, accepted the luggage and returned to bed. I tried again on Potter. By this point I was only about 40 pages behind my wife and I had big dreams of catching her so that we could compare theories over breakfast. Alas…my comfy bed proved too much fore me. I again fell asleep with the book in hand. Sometime around 3, I awoke and finished the current chapter before turning out the light and accepting defeat.

Monday

The office is eerily quiet as I type this. I’m finishing my Subway veggie sandwich and trying not to coat my keyboard in sweet onion sauce. The Grenstead has resumes its normal rhythm, which feels nice after a fun but hectic solo flight. Tonight will find Jet and I killing time while Moonshot teaches piano lessons. Hmmm….unless I could sucker him into watching Norah while I work on Harry Potter ;)

Hey, This Ain’t Wordless!!

2007-07-18T06:19:00.000-05:00

It’s Wednesday morning and I am totally unprepared for Wordless Wednesday. I suppose I could sneak over and take a picture of my sleeping wife…but that would only be funny until she checked the blog later today. No, I think I’ll just fess up to way I’ve let you down this week. And I could try to explain why I’ve done nothing all week, failing to give my poor little website the love and nourishment it so richly deserves. But no…I think rather that I will focus exclusively on last night. Actually looking at my life patterns of procrastination would be too depressing this early in the morning.

See, usually I scurry about on Tuesday night, digging through any pictures I’ve taken over the week and if that fails digging through the archives. Last night, however, I watched a movie with my wife. And I’ll stand by that decision. For one, I like spending time with my wife and am very rarely going to feel guilty about it. Secondly, she’ll be leaving tomorrow morning for a four-day Minneapolis trip. She’s going up to help our friend Elsa with wedding preparations and Norah and I will be left to our own devises. Well…sorta. MoMa is coming up Thursday night so I can go to work on Friday. But other than that…totally on our own.

So, I mulled it over last night as she waved the little red Netflix package and look d at me expectantly and opted to ignore the website for a little longer. So you’ll have no pictures to judge.

What? Stop looking at me like that. You’ll be ok, there are hundreds of folks out there who are even now hoping you’ll visit their site and write a clever little comment under their picture, why do you need mine?

Fine! They’re not art shots, but they make me smile. I give you Superfly and Mr. Chubbers from Mr. Chubbers second birthday party.

Click images for an even bigger mess

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Ask the Gren

2007-07-17T12:22:00.000-05:00

I do my best to report on the events in my life that I think will interest the folks who read here. However, this is your chance to tell me directly what stories you want to me to tell.

Are you curious about some aspect of who I am?
Did I leave out some pertinent detail about Norah?
Are you curious about something I alluded to in passing?

Just ask. Simply post your question or suggestion as a comment on this page, and I'll see what I can do. I may even respond in a timely fashion.

I’m not going to guarantee I’ll answer every question with a post. If it’s just a quick one, I may just answer it here as a comment. Or if I just don’t’ want to answer it…I won’t. I’ll do my best, however, to respond in some way to questions posted here.

Previously Answered Questions:

And Be There When I Feed the Tree - An answer to Mark's question about pot
Holey Man - An answer to Simon's question about nose rings
Who Wants a Hedgehog Thingy for Their Night Stand? - An answer to Mouse's question about books

Wordless Wednesday #12

2007-07-11T07:16:00.000-05:00

Click images for impressive expansion.

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I Thought It Was Just Me

2007-07-10T14:18:00.000-05:00

Two times in the last 24 hours, the question of what it common behavior and what isn’t has come up for me. I’m not talking about truly twisted behavior or anything…just those little things you do during your day that you never think to bring up, so you never know if everyone does it or if it’s just you.

Feel The Force Flow Through the Door

Exiting Walgreens last night with Jet during some errands ran while Moonshot taught piano lessons, Jet asked, “So, when you go through an automatic door, do you ever wave your hand like you’re using the Force to open it?”

“Of course,” I laughed. “Moonshot makes fun of me…but I figure it’s pretty common.”

Jet chuckled. “That’s what I thought too, but I brought it up during a stand-up show the other night and everybody looked at me like I was an idiot.”

“Maybe they just didn’t want to admit it.”

“I thought of that,” he continued, “I was like, ‘Come on, guys, you know you do it when you don’t think anybody’s looking,’ and they just kept staring. Even the other comedians…real geeks, were shaking their heads.”

So, now I’m curious. Could it be that my brother and I are rare in this quirk. Surely the geek-laden readership of Impish Gren can relate to this behavior. I mean…if not Star Wars…Harry Potter? Do you make the swish noise like a Star Trek door? Anything?

Time Warp

It sometimes amazes me how skilled the human brain is at pushing astounding details to the background once they have become commonplace. We live in mind-boggling times, with almost magical devices and tools at our disposals. And we tend to just muddle through and relegate all this wonder to the sidelines.

Today on the Straight Dope Message Boards, someone brought up their habit of pretending to have conversations with historical figures…explaining the world around us to this illusionary person. I thought, “I do that too!!” and was amazed at the number of responses this conversation garnered. Then I recalled that Cheeseburger Brown had written something about this on his old blog and I ran over there to refresh my memory. Not only had he written about this habit…he did so exactly 2-years ago to the day. (What is it about July 10th that causes this sort of thinking?)

Anyway, since none of my readers took part in either of these other discussions, I wanted to bring it up here. Do you do anything similar?

I tend to do this while driving. I just pretend someone…often Newton, Ben Franklin, or some other historical figure of which NPR has recently made me think, is in the passenger seat. I try to imagine what about the scenery would snag their attention first and try to explain it as best as I can. This invariably leads to breaking things down to their basic parts since it’s tough to talk about an iPod without a lot of other details. Electricity, digital data storage, speakers, modern musical trends, and on and on. It’s cathartic to look at some small aspect of my day with new eyes and really ask why.

When I’m at home, the game takes a different form. I pretend that some common item has magically transported itself back in time. I ask myself what would someone from 1980 think about this item? 1950? 1900? How far back in time would my wristwatch have to go before someone said, “What the Hell?” My cell phone? My shoes? My toothbrush? Magazines and Norah’s picture books are excellent for this game. How far back in time would this picture need to go before someone recognized it as being from the future? And once they realized it was from the future…what could they deduce from it? How ‘bout this one? or this one? Literally...just about any random picture. I look at car design, fashion trends, building materials. What would be familiar? What would be unrecognizable?

One commenter on Straight Dope mentions that he plays the visitor from the past game with his daughter. Has her explain things to Thomas Jefferson as portrayed by dad. I’m filing that away for future use with Norah.

Anyway, do you do anything similar? Variations on the themes? Or are you just shaking your head…astounded at the eccentricities of this gren?

Tag! You're Sick!!

2007-07-05T15:35:00.000-05:00

It’s been an exciting game of pass the bug here at the Grenstead for the last few weeks. It was slightly annoying but still in the realm of amusing when the first illness made its way through our usually impenetrable immune systems. However, our sense of humor about this issue has diminished now that a new pathogen has begun its rounds a mere two days after the house had resumed its typical state of health and wellness.

Our microscopic friends first took up residence in our home a day or two before our friend Elsa arrived for a weeklong stay. Typically, our hospitality is a bit better than the snot-covered reception Elsa received, but we comforted ourselves with the knowledge that Elsa herself stepped off the plane with a minor cold of her own. All was fair, we reasoned.

Elsa was in town to make good on a wonderful birthday gift she had given to Moonshot back in May. It was a coupon for sanity. It granted Moonshot help around the house, a girl’s night out, a date night with me, and a few other such things. Basically, she came to shower my wonderful wife with attention and aid. That was the plan anyway. And to some degree, the plan was a success. We did, in fact, achieve each of the wondrous feats promised by the coupon. We strolled about the Botanical Gardens, Moonshot and I had dinner out and a nice stroll through Old Town St. Charles, and the girls made it to the theater to see Evenings. The time in between such feats, however, was predominately spent resting, moaning, and recouping for the next feat on the agenda.

The first illness made its presence known in me. Sore throat, general sense of blaaah. The kind of sick that you wish was just a little less horrible so you could function better, or just a little bit worse so you could feel justified in curling up in bed. It did neither. It stubbornly hovered in that functional but miserable area for a few days before jumping ship to my wife and daughter. I would return from work to find Moonshot and Elsa sprawled on the couch dabbing their noses and Norah sitting with a blank expression…a slug-like trial of snot escaping her nostril.

I was upset for my wife that the timing was so horrible…decreasing the enjoyment of her birthday present and all. However, I couldn’t help but feel that Elsa’s presence had been, in some ways, well timed. We actually made it through a week with a sick child and were willing to file it under “slightly annoying.” That alone proves Elsa’s impact on events.

Elsa went home on Monday, the first day that everyone felt pretty close to being themselves. We were given one day of mucus-free living before a second wave of invasion dragged us back into painful throats and chapped noses. Norah sleeps poorly, snoring and waking to cough. This lack of sleep leads to general grumpiness that must be dealt with by parents who are themselves battling the round-robin outbreak and not much in the mood to listen to a little girl shriek and blow snot bubbles just because we took away the remote control.

Currently…I’m remaining relatively untouched by this bonus round…but I figure I’ll get hit just as Norah and Moonshot recover. It adds a nice layer of symmetry to the whole endeavor

Wordless Wednesday #11

2007-07-04T00:08:00.000-05:00

Click the picture for a better look at this innapropriately placed Funland.

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And Happy 4th of July!!

Commenter Appreciation: Simon (Wordless Wednesday #10)

2007-06-29T09:09:00.000-05:00

Ah, Simon...my Northern friend with an enlarged vocabulary. I met him through Cheeseburger Brown's comment section and thought to myself "Wow, that guy's a geek." Later I realized that he's disturbingly like me...which probably tells you more about me than it does about Simon.

He runs a thoroughly entertaining blog called Simian Farmer where he shows off both his wit and his adorable kids.

I thought about posting an appreciation to Simon with some sort of Star Wars theme. Nah...too obvious. Instead it occurred to me that few things make Simon happier than making inappropriate captions to other people's pictures. And so, with that in mind, I dug into my archives to find a picture that would serve as open season for Captain Caption.

Also, it bugs him when I post my Wordless Wednesdays on Tuesday night. So here, Simon...it's Friday morning and I'm still calling this one a WW. And it's not even wordless!! Deal with it ;)

Note: Everyone is encouraged to have some caption fun with this one. I'll chime in later today to explain the origin of this gem.

Wordless Wednesday #9

2007-06-26T21:50:00.000-05:00

Click for a bigger drink

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Commenter Appreciation: Mike

2007-06-25T16:22:00.000-05:00

Mike is a relatively new commenter round these parts, but it's great to have him on board and it's always fun to see what he's doing over on his blog. I met Mike through Anna who I met through Mark who I already appreciated last Thursday. It’s a testimate to the connectivity of the Internet that through my blog friend in Texas I found a photoblogger in London who had a blog in her blog roll called “Ozark Photos.” I said to myself, “Hey…I grew up in the Ozarks!” and the resulting history has been stamped in the comment sections of both of our sites.

Mike likes front porches. He likes talking about front porches. He likes sitting on front porches. But, most significantly for his blog, he likes photographing front porches. And so the last time I was up at my in-laws Iowa farmhouse, it was with Mike in mind that I trekked outside before breakfast (before Breakfast, Mike!!) just to take the following shots.

Click to enlarge photos and check out Mike's photos at Ozark Photos.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

2007-06-22T00:19:00.000-05:00

Commenter Appreciation: Mark

2007-06-21T07:07:00.000-05:00

Over the next few days or so, I plan on publishing little blog post cards dedicated to some of the wonderful folks I’ve met out here. I’m enjoying getting to know each of you and know that this site is a better place for your comments.

Mark has, for the past nine months or so, become obsessed with a cup that has been lodged in a drain on his way to work. We’ve all waited with breathe held as he has somehow spun the tale of an unmoving piece of trash named Blue Straw into a gripping tale through a series of Cupdates.

Wordless Wednesday #8

2007-06-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

Click to release the picture's full vastness.

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The Mysterious Logic of Norah Lu

2007-06-19T14:09:00.000-05:00

In keeping with her heritage, my daughter has developed quite a few bizarre eccentricities. And I, being the bizarrely eccentric father, am more than proud to show off these behavioral ticks with just as much enthusiasm as I do her more traditional achievements.

Behind the Head

Objects of affection are awarded a special place behind Norah’s head. I’m not sure whether this is fun because it stretches her arms or whether she has modified my instinct to put funny things on her head. One way or the other, the fact remains that a treasured toy will be hefted up and lowered behind her noggin only to be hefted and lowered to the front. This process is repeated until it looses interest at which point she locks it against her back and toddles off.

Hide the Toys

Objects of affection are also better appreciated through their absence apparently. Little Lutine delights in placing a toy just inside her room and then slowly closing the door on it. It’s like David Blaine for the under-one set. It just disappears!!

Similarly, she seems compelled to throw her toys over baby gates. Through the course of the day, Norah will deposit a variety of toys and books, and shoes, and remote controls, and assorted other objects over the either of the two gates she has access to. She does not appear to enjoy this. There is no giggling involved nor even smiling. She strolls to the barrier, quite seriously deposits her cargo on the far side, and the marches away without a glance backward.

In this picture, you can see that a book, a plastic shovel, and a stuffed Pooh ring have been safely stored in the fireplace.

Face Dunking

I’m told that children Norah’s age may be afraid of the water. Or, at the very least, afraid of getting their face under the water. Norah, on the other hand, has an obsession with submerging her face. She’s been working on it for some time and has only arrived at her current level of strangeness in stages. First, she would lean over in her bathtub to dab her forehead against the water. We assumed early on that she was trying to drink the water, but it soon became clear that the face to water contact was the goal. Slowly, she started smashing her face into the water with greater vigor. She would raise her head, water pouring off her little face as she grinned proudly at Moonshot and me. “Did you see that?” she seemed to be saying. We told her she was very brave…and she’d promptly do it again.

Lately, she’s upped the ante just a bit. Instead of bending down from a sitting position, she will roll over onto her belly so that her dunking is more complete. She now holds the dunk for longer and longer times…apparently trying to learn to hold her breath. Granted, she’s not very good at holding her breath since this game now routinely leads to her jerking her head up suddenly and coughing for a few seconds before charging straight back for another attempt. I’ll admit it’s a bit eerie and unnerving to watch. While she’s clearly having a good time…I’m a nervous wreck outside tub, mentally reviewing the steps for baby CPR. I want to let her explore, so I just keep thinking she’ll either scare herself away from the game or grow bored with it. But so far, neither has happened. So I just keep a close eye and shake my head in disbelief.

I have no doubt that as she grows, her list of oddities will increase, but these are my current favorites. I just wish I knew what was going on in that baby brain of hers.

Wordless Wednesday #7

2007-06-13T00:01:00.000-05:00

Bigness ensues upon image click

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Norah, Cale, and Abby

2007-06-08T14:50:00.000-05:00

An Overdue Norah Update

I realized a few days ago that it’s been a while since I’ve given an official update on Norah’s progress into toddlerhood. I’ve been having such fun posting caption-resistant photos every Wednesday and waxing melodramatically about slimy drainage tunnels, that I’ve forgotten that without my willingness to turn the focus away from myself for a few moments…you, my faithful readers, are unable to enjoy the subtle changes that make up day-to-day life with Little Lutine.

The primary change since last we spoke of it is that she’s dramatically increased the speed with which she can reach forbidden objects by rejecting the crawling method of locomotion and charging into walking. She took her first steps about a month ago. Then, in typical Norah fashion, she proceeded to ignore her new ability for about a week or so (just to play it cool) before standing up and toddling across the room. These days…she crawls infrequently and falls to her butt quite often. In fact, the most precise gauge of Norah’s mood these days is her reaction to falling. Giggle or utter lack of concern is the normal response and indicates she is in her typical high-spirited frame of mind. Whining or a few seconds of pouting tells us she’s getting tired or hungry. And rarely, we see a full on meltdown…and this usually means it’s well past her bedtime or that she’s not been napping well.

She’s fascinated with boxes and containers these days. Taking things out of or putting things into boxes is pure joy. We find her toys stacked haphazardly in the basket that holds Arlo’s dog toys. Or stuffed into decorative vases. Or dropped over the gate that leads to our attic bedroom. Or pretty much anywhere else she notices a toy will fit.

She has no words yet, but she has a few signs she will occasionally use. Anything that runs around on four legs gets a slap to her thigh (doggie). And a sudden lack of cereal on her tray will occasionally warrant the tips of all her fingers being bounced together (more). Waving is thrilling and she has been known to wave to the television if a character says “goodbye.” Clapping has also become an exciting past time, but it is usually in response to some one else clapping. Last night, however, she seemed to applaud herself upon rescuing her reindeer puppet from the bottom of the clothes hamper.

She’s slimmed down. Her newly active lifestyle has severely reduced the number of chins she sports. In the last month, she’s gained quite a bit of height and held her weight steady…a sure sign of a more svelte Norah.

She’s become obsessed with stuffed animals. As she makes her ways around the house, she often has a plush friend tucked under her arm. And she giggles more when we animate the animals for her in play. I can only assume that she’s made the connection that the abstract shapes form rough approximations of faces. This clearly delights her.

She’s finally going to sleep easily. After a bit of practice and learning on both sides we can, on the vast majority of nights, bathe her, read her a story, sit with her fir just a minute or two with the light off, lay her (still awake) in her crib, and walk away. It is a glorious, glorious feeling every time it happens. I walk away and pause, still expecting to hear angry wails…but none come. She calmly watches me go as she rolls over to sleep with her little butt in the air.

In short, she’s growing up wonderfully. And though I frequently forget to bring everyone up to speed on her development, the changes from the front lines are just astounding. Almost every day brings some small growth and I’m just in awe watching the process.

The Twins Come Home

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before (and in retrospect, I’m not sure why), but my cousin Caleb and his wife, Summer, have been expecting twins. Long-time readers will remember Caleb as the guy after which Norah was almost named. The twins finally arrived about two weeks ago, a girl and a boy…Abby and Cale. They were held at the hospital for a while since they were born just a bit early (totally normal for twins), but I just got word this morning that both of the newborns have made the trip home where they can snuggle in with their big brother, Austin.

And while this might not be the most exciting bit of story telling for those of you who don’t know Caleb and his family… I’m quite excited about it all and wanted to do my part to spread what I consider to be wonderful news.

Welcome aboard, Cale and Abby!

Wordless Wednesday #6

2007-06-06T05:03:00.000-05:00

(Click to Bigify)

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An Afternoon McGuyverism

2007-06-05T16:50:00.000-05:00

There’s very little in this world that I love more than a good McGuyverism. Not quotes from the show, mind you. I never watched the show. I’m talking about jury-riggin’…a little good, old-fashioned Ozark ingenuity, as my Dad would have called it. I enjoy the three-toothpicks-and-a-tube-of-toothpaste type challenges and like to think I’m a good one to have on your side when creative use of the tools at hand is required.

Trixalot, my network admin, says I get a particular look in my eye before I dart off to the warehouse to grab some long forgotten piece of junk that could be used in whatever current crisis we’re facing. And he would know. In the six years we’ve worked together, he’s seen me tackle many of these types of problems.

When moving into our current office, Trixalot and I were charged with crafting a new home for our servers. I got five six-and-a-half-foot tall, enclosed server racks at a storage locker auction for $25 total and then set about trying to figure out the cooling. This involved ducting the air from a window AC unit across the room into the case using cardboard, duct tape, and dryer vent hose. It was a monstrosity to behold, but from it we were able to learn the best placement for an AC unit to vent into the server rack. Plus it was a load of fun to make.

And today I got to have just a bit of McGuyver fun.

We’ve been having trouble with our AC here at work lately. Out came Mike, the HVAC guy, to climb on our roof and inspect each of our four rooftop units. About ten minutes later, one of my upstairs co-workers rushed into my downstairs office with a tale of “water everywhere.” Now, I know how these things tend to get exaggerated, so I calmly asked where and how much. She merely responded, “it’s coming from the ceiling…it’s everywhere!” before zipping back out in a panic.

I walked up the stairs and was actually surprised how much of a mess there was. Certainly not “water everywhere” but there was a pretty steady stream dripping and spraying from a return air vent. Tiny trash cans from various desks had been collected and strewn haphazardly in the general vicinity of the spray, but there was no way to really catch everything because it was dripping randomly from about a four by four area and splattering through the vent screen.

I ran outside and shot up the HVAC guy’s ladder and let him know what was happening. He sort of nodded said, “Yup…that would be happening. AC was frozen up and it’s defrosting. I’d say get some trash cans.”

“How much ice are we talking about?” I asked.

He gestured into the belly of the unit and I squatted for a better angle. A huge block of ice filled the six-foot long enclosure. I sighed and returned to the seen of the mess, grabbing Trixalot from his server room office as I went. We removed the ceiling tiles first to keep them from getting too damaged. Then we took the screen off the vent, hoping to mitigate the splash/spray effect. But neither really changed the amount of splatter hitting the carpet. And then I’m told I got that particular look in my eye.

I rushed to the warehouse with Trixalot in tow. Tucked away on a high shelf, forgotten since the days of our eBay drop-off service, was a dispenser once used for foam packing peanuts. A large, roughly funnel shaped device, I was hopeful we could use it to channel the water into one central can. Add in some string to attach it to the rafters and suddenly, we had a salvaged floor.

I tell this story not because it was the most clever thing I’ve ever done, nor even a particularly difficult jury-rig. Rather, it’s just that being ripped away from writing an instruction manual to our store managers on procedures for reporting and deleting trade lines from our customers’ credit reports to manically construct an impromptu water catcher made me smile. As I write this, my dress slacks are dirty from dust and mucky water. I probably stink just a little from sprinting up and down ladders in a dress shirt not designed for breathability in an office with defective AC. And I’m only now, at 3 sitting down to eat my lunch. But, I’m smiling anyway. Because there’s very little in this world that I love more than a good McGuyverism.

What's He Building in There?

2007-05-31T14:16:00.000-05:00

As mentioned previously, the Gren Clan traveled to Minneapolis over the extended Memorial Day weekend to spend some time with our pals Taltap and Elsa. We dropped the Little Lutine off with the grandparents in Iowa and then continued northward the next day.

The weekend was wonderful. We watched some Pirates, drank some scotch, shivered through a Minnesota Thunder game, and Taltap and I wandered about pretending to know what we were doing with our cameras while the ladies shopped for a wedding dress. Some of these photos will probably be displayed here before too long so as to be subjected to rightly deserved public mockery.

But that’s not what I’m here to talk about today.

See, we headed north from Moonshot’s folks’ place on Highway 218 and needed to jog slightly west to the parallel I-35 that would take us all the way to our destination. There are several ways to do this westward jog, but we opted to go with the trusty Highway 3 out of Waverly. Moonshot went to college there and it seems as good a landmark to signal a turn as any. Plus, it has the added advantage of taking us through the small town of Hampton…home town of the legendary Kum and Go chain of convenience stores that offered so many hours of juvenile wordplay during my own college years.

Anyway, on this particular trip, I noticed a…thing? Still under construction, the odd tower was massive. Even the enormous crane atop the structure looked like a toy in comparison. I stared for a few long moments…trying to figure out what it could be. Some new version of a silo? Some military tower of some sort? By the time the construction slipped behind a tree line, I realized I was totally confused and dying to know what it could be. I pulled the car over and hiked back along the highway to capture an image of it, hoping Taltap might offer some wisdom. Since no wisdom was found there…I’m turning to the imaginations of my webby friends.

What do ya figure this thing could be?
(click image for detail)

Wordless Wednesday #5

2007-05-30T00:01:00.000-05:00

(Click image to gigantasize)
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Culvert Ops II: Under Warehouses

2007-05-24T15:41:00.000-05:00

“You know,” he said, his voice echoing off the flat concrete surfaces encasing us, “You are probably the strangest person I’ve ever worked with.”

I laugh and continue to line up a photo in the darkness. As I held my breath to take the long exposured shot, I wondered what’s so strange about venturing into a dank drainage tunnel during your lunch hour to kneel in two inches of water and one inch of algae just to capture a few pictures. “Well,” I concluded silently by the time the camera shutter closed, “what’s strange about that is probably that I don’t find it strange at all.”

As promised in the original Culvert Ops post, my network admin, who I shall refer to as Trixalot, and I returned to the cavernous tunnel. I had no idea where it could lead and was dying to explore. And a few of you have recently expressed your lingering curiosity as well…so it was clearly time to do some urban spelunking.

As we walked down the angled concrete culvert toward the dark opening, I swear I felt thirteen again. I found myself laughing as my feet slipped into the water and caught myself ducking slightly to avoid being seen by the various employees of the warehouses on either side of the ditch. Sadly, I was not as ninja-like as I thought.

“Whatcha doing?” asked a voice from my right, just 20 feet from the entrance.

“Um…taking some pictures,” I answered vaguely while waving my camera in his general direction. I was hoping that would satisfy the man with the cigarette long enough for us to escape into the darkness.

“Well I can see that,” he responded…not accepting my brush off.

“Just want to get a few pictures of the inside of that tunnel.” I just kept on marching. Not to be antisocial…but I didn’t want to risk a conversation that might wind its way toward “I don’t think you should be going in there.”

“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Guess you gotta be creative to get interesting pictures.”

I agreed with an “uh-huh” and didn’t explain that the camera was mostly for my web readers. I’d have been going into that tunnel one way or the other. I mean…it’s a hole in the ground…how can you not be curious where it leads?

As we entered the damp space, the temperature dropped instantly and the cool humidity clung to my skin. The sounds of dripping water and chirping birds surrounded us in a web of echoes. I didn’t look back to see if Smoke Break Guy was still watching.

About thirty feet in we found an access chute leading up to a manhole cover. I guess the service folks who occasionally go down there don’t like using the front door for some reason. A steady drip from the surface above made photographing up the chute a bit messy…but the otherwise flat walls gave me little else to point the camera at so I kept at it.

The occasional bird zipped past our heads, most likely protecting nest that we were never able to locate. There were countless little pipes leading into the tunnel from the sides. I suppose there could have been nests in some of them…but I hope not. I can only assume the pipes are occasionally gushing water…which wouldn’t be quite the environment Mamma Bird was expecting when she built her nest.

One especially large side pipe emptied into the system. It was plenty big enough to crawl through, but I thought better of it since I couldn’t see anything down there that might give me hope of it opening into a larger space. But don’t think I wasn’t tempted.

For my first few pictures, I tried to keep myself as dry as possible. I squatted instead of kneeling. I avoided brushing against the damp walls. However, I quickly realized the long exposure times required for such lighting needed more than my unsteady hand. I wished for a tripod but had only a monopod to lend stability. I started leaning hard against the walls and kneeling directly into the water.

Trixalot waited behind me, shining the flashlights about in a search for rats, snakes or any other living things that could threaten to crawl or chew on us, but nothing attacked.

Our progress was slow as I attempted shot after shot, but eventually the slow curve of the tunnel took us away from the glow of daylight behind us. Sadly, almost as quickly as the light faded behind, light became visible ahead. It seemed the tunnel simply formed a long S-curve to cut between the warehouses above and probably dumped out behind them.

Another curve brought full daylight streaming in and soon we stood triumphantly at the other side. Concrete behind us…wooded creek before us. It wasn’t the exciting destination I had been hoping for…but then again, I’m not exactly sure what more I could have hoped for.

We turned around and slogged our way back through the tunnel. By the time we reached the original open-air culvert, my shoes were too wet to hold traction on the concrete slope. I almost wished Smoke Break Guy were there to wonder again at my sanity as I waded through the center of the sometimes foot and a half deep drainage. Trixalot…having forgotten to bring shorts for the excursion, opted to climb out of the culvert rather than follow me.

We had successfully charted the water’s path through the tunnel. Trixalot said that was sufficient for his daily adventure and headed back to the office. I figured I was already soaked and in full exploration mode, so I opted to see what waited upstream from our office. Only forty feet or so down, the concrete disappeared…replaced by creek bed, tangled vines, and stagnant pools of mucky water that I had no interest in wading through even in my pre-funkified condition. I pushed as far as I was comfortable, unable to climb without risking the camera and was able to snap one good shot of an abandoned bridge through the twisted foliage. It was overgrown and forgotten and I have no idea why it was abandoned nor why it was even built in the first place. But it made for a mysterious conclusion to my journey.

I returned to my office, changed back into my dress slacks and sat my wet clothes outside the warehouse to bake in the sun before taking a business call. As I chatted with Experian’s tech support group about a glitch on their website, I considered Trixalot’s claim. I don’t know where I fit on the continuum of workplace weirdness…but I was pretty sure the friendly IT guy I was talking to had not just returned from an underground lunchtime photo shoot.

(All photos can be clicked for larger versions)

Hooky, Holy Man, and a Hole in the Ground

2007-05-24T07:32:00.000-05:00

Playing Hooky

Last week was beautiful here in St. Louis. Cooler weather settled in and windows across the city long closed to conserve conditioned air suddenly opened again. Each morning, those last few moments of sleep were rendered glorious by a cool breeze and songbirds.

Norah and I took some evening walks, but over all…I just didn’t feel I was getting out there and appreciating the blissful weather. Sitting in my windowless office seemed a pitiful way to repay the atmosphere for its kindness.

Friday arrived and Moonshot and I made plans to have lunch together. The plan was simple: get picked up at work, ride to a nearby restaurant, eat, get dropped of at work…continue day as normal. However, while eating her Taco Salad, Moonshot told me that she had been very tempted to bring a change of clothes for me so she could try to talk me into going to the zoo for the afternoon. She had , however, convinced herself that I would refuse to leave work. And normally, she probably would have been right…but as mentioned…it was just a beautiful day and I owed it to the Universe to get out and appreciate all the meteorological goodness going on.

So we finished our Mexican food and headed on down to the zoo. Now, I may have mentioned this before, but I love the St Louis Zoo. Not only is it one of the best zoos in the country…it’s free. Walk in, stroll around, walk out…costs ya nada. My hats off to the fine folks of my fair city for continuing to support this fine establishment. Anyway, we spent an hour or two hiking about looking at various animals that were extra active…seems even they were not immune to the joys of cool weather. And even though our impromptu trip meant I was the only person there in dress slacks and had no camera to capture the sights…I was enjoying my time with my wife and daughter too much to care. Ok…that’s not true. I cared about the lack of camera…and may well have mentioned it a few dozen times during our wanderings. But my point remains valid.

The last time we trekked to our zoo was about three months ago when Elsa and Taltap visited. On that trip, Norah showed very little interest in the animals and chose to either play with a toy in her stroller or sleep. This time she was alive with curiosity. Elephants astounded her. Penguins delighted her. The horn of a black rhino held her rapt gaze for long minutes and the sight of hippos entering and leaving their water was like magic to her developing mind. She giggled and stared was able to convince us she needed a stuffed penguin of her very own. She hugged it and squealed merrily for the rest of the trip.

I returned to work to finish out the last hour and a half of the day, so I didn’t even have to feel too guilty about taking an extra long lunch. Ah…if only every day could be zoo day.

The Power of Norah’s Cuteness and a Holy Gren

There is much joy in the House of the Gren these days. Our good friends Taltap and Elsa are getting married. You may not realize how significant this statement is since you don’t know our friends, but they’ve been together for 11 years and have made no moves toward wedlock. Taltap didn’t agree with it for philosophical reasons and Elsa was content. However, Elsa’s one stipulation was that if they decided to have children…they would have to be married first.

So…here we are. Two of our closest friends who said they wouldn’t get married unless kids were on the way shortly have spent time with our daughter and quickly opted to tie the knot. Now, they haven’t laid the blame for this development at the feet of Norah’s cuteness yet…but as a horribly biased father, I can’t see how the two are unrelated.

Moonshot has been asked to serve as matron-of-honor in the backyard garden ceremony set for mid-August. Norah has been invited to stand with her Mommy and both the Gren ladies are quite excited about it. And me? Yes, even this lowly gren has a role to play in the beautiful day our friends have planned. I get to pronounce them man and wife.

See…when Moonshot and I got married in 2004, we opted to have my old college roommate / Moonshot’s brother-in-law, FreddyJ, perform the ceremony. He got ordained online through the Universal Life Church and it was a truly wonderful aspect of our wedding. Clearly, Taltap and Elsa liked the idea as well and now karma has reared its head to foist this responsibility on me.

Don’t get me wrong…I’m honored and thrilled and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. At the same time…it’s a bit intimidating. I’m hoping I can live up to the task.

What's truly strange about this is that I thought it was rather unique that the minister and the matron-of-honor in our wedding were married. However, this exact relationship will be played out again...by the very same original bride and groom that started the trend. So, Taltap, next time Elsa is asked to be matron-of-honor...just go ahead and explain that you'll need to perform the ceremony. It's clearly some sort of newfangled wedding meme and you'll probably get seven years bad luck if you don't pass it on.

This weekend will find Moonshot and I in Minneapolis visiting these very same soon-to-be-newlyweds. I can only imagine that a great deal of the conversation will revolve around planning for the quickly-approaching date. The ladies plan on going dress shopping and we gentlemen plan to roam the city while we wait…cameras in hand, killing time and practicing our photo hobbies. As an extra bonus, this leisure time was Elsa’s idea…so our city-roaming free time has been pre-approved.

And the Little Lutine? Well…she’s having her first sleepover. Gramma Panache and Grandpa Husker will be watching her over the weekend. It’s one of the major reasons we’ve been working so hard to train her to go to sleep without our constant rocking/soothing. Partially for our own peace of mind and partially for Moonshot’s folks’ sanity.

I’ll keep you posted on all these developments. In the meantime, however…congratulations to Taltap and Elsa. I just can’t express how happy I am for them.

Culvert Ops: Update

During lunch on Wednesday, my network admin and I completed the journey promised earlier. I haven’t written anything, nor taken a close look at the pictures from the trip…but I just wanted to let those of you who have been biting your nails in anticipation for the conclusion that Culvert Ops II is in post-production as we speak.

Sincerely,

The Reverend Moksha Gren

Wordless Wednesday #4

2007-05-23T12:04:00.000-05:00

(Click for hugeness)

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The Battle of Bedtime

2007-05-16T17:35:00.000-05:00

“Not yet,” I think. “Don’t….”

Tired baby wails float through the monitor and I can’t help but smile.

“No patience,” I comment to my wife.

She takes a sip of her wine and nods. “If there’s one thing a baby will teach you…it’s patience.”

“Sssshhhhh,” resumes the quiet sounds of Uncle Jet shoooshing his niece.

I snuggle deeper into the sofa cushions and imagine my poor brother in the darkness… fumbling through his first time putting Norah to sleep and I can’t help but be amazed at how much baby data I have learned in the last nine and a half months.

I used to shake my head in confusion as parents described the subtle differences between their child’s hungry cry and dirty diaper cry. My head hurt trying to wrap my mind around the multitude of minute signals they were constantly picking up on in order to ensure a non-screaming infant. I found it hard to believe I could commit so much to memory.

And yet, as I sit on the couch listening to my brother, I know that there was a time not so long ago when I was as clueless.

I commend Jet for his willingness to venture into this task. He comes over every Monday night to watch Heroes with us. Usually he sits out on the couch with whichever parent is not locked away with Norah, and then later offers to watch Norah any time we’d like some time away. A generous offer, and completely sincere…but unrealistic given that he has never changed a diaper nor coaxed a screaming child to sleep. So, we would occasionally offer for him to come over and watch Norah while we were here.

“We’ll just act like we’re not around and you can practice,” we’d offer.

“Yeah, we should do that,” he’d agree…but somehow this just never seemed to be how he wanted to spend a spare evenings.

So, this night, as we took Norah from her bath, Moonshot asked Jet if he’d like to take a turn putting Norah to bed. He agreed without hesitation.

I tried to give a few tips here and there before we abandoned them, but too many details would just overwhelm him. And really, there’s just no way to describe the relevant information anyway. There are no simple words to explain the way her muscles relax, giving you the go ahead to move her from your arms to the crib. There’s no good way to instruct someone on the thousands of tiny tricks associated with transferring a barely sleeping child onto a mattress. And the nuances of opening and reclosing the squeaky nursery door or which floorboards creak the loudest are difficult at best to convey. One must suffer through trial and error with the ever-looming penalty of angry screaming as a motivating factor to internalize these lessons.

And so I can do nothing but smile at my lovely wife, sip my wine, and cross my fingers for my brother as he ventures into the trenches for the first time.

Several more false starts are broadcast across the speaker and finally we hear the click-screech of the door as he makes his escape. Norah complains and I can hear her rolling over, but luck is with young Jet…she is tired enough to let the noise go unpunished.

He emerges with a haggard look on his face. I recognize that face. He accepts a glass of wine even though he doesn’t like wine. He says it’s because he is planning a trip to the wineries over the Memorial Day weekend with a wonderful Arkansan girl who is coming up to visit him and he feels he needs to learn to enjoy the drink…but I suspect that the battle of wills with Norah has something to do with his eager grip on the wine glass. I recognize that grip.

We start the show but I can’t help feeling like a battle-weary Sergeant. My weapons are stuffed animals and a gentle stroke of the forehead. I am well-trained in the art of the binky-decoy maneuver and have been desensitized to the sharp pain of nostril pinching. And have learned it all in nine and a half months.

We savor our wine.

I feel we’ve earned it.

Wordless Wednesday #3

2007-05-16T06:01:00.000-05:00

(Click to enlarge)

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Culvert Ops

2007-05-11T13:14:00.000-05:00

I like to pace when I talk on the phone. Even at work if it’s a cell phone call that doesn’t directly require a computer screen, odds are I’m moving from room to room. Add in the possibility of good weather and the odds are even higher that I’ll be making circles around the building as I gesture uselessly to the person on the other end of the conversation.

Wednesday was a particularly beautiful day here in St Louis. I called my Aunt Gimpy to wish her health and wellness prior to her surgery the following day. I made my circle around the building and then, not wanting to retrace my steps, took off for the small line of trees that divides our parking lot from the folks across the way. Tucked away amidst these trees is a concrete drainage culvert that whisks away the rain water. It’s not a scenic brook, but it’s the closest thing I have at my disposal. So, I went down there to continue my pacing as my Aunt filled me in on the increasing levels of confusion and apparent incompetence at the hospital. The trees smelled like greenery and the water sounded soothing and if I closed my eyes I could almost forget that I was surrounded by an industrial park.

The only problem with my pacing spot was that due to the sloped sides of the culvert, I was given a relatively small area in which to make my conversational laps. So, in order to increase my range and also to satisfy my natural curiosity, I started following the water. At first I tried to walk on the concrete sides in a straight line, but this hurt my ankles due to the incline. I improvised a zigzag pattern in which I would jump the water, arch a parabola up and down the other side and repeat the process on the original bank. It was less strenuous than it sounds since the angled concrete encouraged this sort of arch and the “jump” was really just a glorified step. All in all I was pretty pleased with my solution to the problem. I was having an adventure, getting some exercise, and talking to my aunt all at the same time.

Around a few bends in the culvert, I came to a point where the water disappeared under the road and into a tunnel. As I approached, I fully expected the water to shoot under the upcoming road and then shoot back out to open air. I would simply continue my water-following trek on the other side. However, it soon became clear that there was no light visible down the tunnel. In fact, on the side of the road was a parking lot and large building. The tunnel’s destination was a mystery.

Now, I should admit at this point that tunnels stir something magical in my soul. As one who started caving with my Dad around the age of five or so, there is something overwhelmingly inviting about a mysterious hole in the ground. Sure, I’d rather it be naturally formed…but a six-foot by six-foot square passage leading into the earth almost just as cool.

I crossed the road and meandered my way behind the building, hoping to find where the tunnel exited. No luck. The grade seemed to have changed, so the odds of the water making an escape from the darkness was rather slim.

As I continued chatting with Aunt Gimpy, I began a mental list. I’d need a flashlight, wading boots, a change of clothes, and a camera (you know…for Wordless Wednesday just in case there’s something cool back there).

I then used the sidewalks to return to my office for the rest of my conversation.

Anyway, I barged in on my network admin today to see if I could borrow his camera. I knew I wanted to write this post and figured pictures would aid the story telling. He agreed and opted to tag along for the photo shoot. Now he’s just as excited as I am about the tunnel. We don’t really expect to find anything outrageously exciting… but come on…could you resist this?

Also, Aunt Gimpy came through her surgery just fine. She now has a shiny new pacemaker to show off. And as a gadget guy…I look forward to seeing it.

Wordless Wednesday #2

2007-05-09T08:58:00.000-05:00

See other Wordless Wednesday Participants at www.wordlesswednesday.com

Liquid

2007-05-07T14:14:00.000-05:00

For a variety of reasons, last week was a trying one here in St Charles…and I blame liquid in every case.

Liquid From My Daughter’s Mouth

I awoke Monday morning, showered and then lifted Norah from her crib to supply her breakfast bottle. She downed about half of the eight ounces offered and promptly expelled each of the consumed ounces right back at me. After a quick sopping up and removal of soaked items of clothing, she was happy and seemed interested in the remaining 4 ounces in the bottle. So I let her have it. She finished and then crawled over to her toy shelf where she again spewed all fluid from her poor stomach. Within seconds, she was a smiling child sitting in a pool of white.

Luckily, we already had an appointment with the doctor in the afternoon for her nine-month check-up. So, as I went off to work for the morning, Moonshot continued her attempts to trick Norah’s body into accepting nourishment of any kind. She happily consumed…then just as happily rejected. Norah’s first illness was, while disgusting, being handled with remarkable pleasantry.

The doctor said that she had seen many cases of this virus making the rounds. We would spend a few days with the fluid shooting from the mouth…then we would spend a few days with the fluid shooting from the other end. We were to pay special attention to hydration and were given several methods for testing Norah’s moisture content. We were also to be wary of the latter half of this disease since it was during that process that it could spread. Hand washing and disinfecting was to be a priority if we had any chance of escaping the same fate as our daughter.

I didn’t have high hopes. Don’t get me wrong…we’re pretty clean people. But I have what I feel is a fairly realistic appreciation for just how much poo is in my environment. Sure, we’re not medieval city dwellers wallowing in our own filth, but the clean, sterile environment that we like to pretend we inhabit…is a fairy tale. I stood in the doctor’s office thinking about the episode of the Mythbusters in which they attempted to see if a toothbrush kept in the bathroom would get fecal matter on it. At the end of the experiment the answer was, of course, yes. But more so, even the control group kept “safely” in the kitchen was contaminated. It’s everywhere. And for the next few days in our home…it would be virus-laden as well.

Tuesday continued with little or no food making its way into Norah. Her multiple chins disappeared and we had to tighten the safety belts on her high chair in order to secure this suddenly skinny child. But her spirits, aside from an occasional moment of self-pity expressed in squirmy moans, remained high.

Liquid From My Daughter's Rear

It was on Wednesday that the evil virus put its escape plan into action. By enflaming Norah’s intestines, it ensured that she would be unable to filter out the fluid used in the digestion process, thus creating its own soupy escape pod that was far more likely to come in contact with another victim. Clever little virus.

We took this as a personal attack.

And so it was that our home became a battlefield. The virus launched volley after volley of mortar rounds…explosions of such volume they made me jump on more than one occasion. Outfits were lost in the struggle, cut off Norah rather than risk pulling them over her head. Bath time because perilous business: Lather, Rinse, Contaminate, Evacuate, Scrub, Refill, Repeat. Our hands became pruny brillo pads from excessive washing. And our brave, little daughter lost her smile amidst the brutal fighting.

Slowly, her appetite returned and the diapers returned to normal. By Sunday, we had our Little Lutine back. She’s crawling happily and eating almost as much as she did pre-illness. Her little immune system has overcome its first major skirmish and she should be proud of how it handled itself. And, as I type this on Monday…neither Moonshot nor I have shown signs that the virus made the leap. I blame 1 part awesome immune systems, 1 part strategic cleanliness, and 1 part blind luck.

No Liquid in the Faucet

On Friday morning, Moonshot called me at work. “They wouldn’t shut off our water for being a couple days late, would they?” We ran out of checks last week and pushed a few bills further than we should have while we waited for a new box to arrive. I told her I was pretty sure they wouldn’t. I had her check the basement just to make sure there was no lake down there that could explain our empty pipes. When the basement proved dry, we called the water folks and discovered that the road construction over on Elm Street had hit a water main and that they hoped to have water back on later in the day.

“How,” my wife asked, “am I supposed to clean up diarrhea with no water?”

Jugs of frozen water were pulled from the freezer and general preparations were made to deal with sanitization sans faucet. Luckily, the water was returned by noon or so and the issue faded into the background as simply another brick in the wall of a frustrating week.

Liquid From the Sky

To better set the mood for the mental weight we labored under last week, it feels significant to mention we didn’t see the sun through all of this. Clouds rolled in on Monday and stayed until Saturday. Drizzle and downpours alternated all week and downed our already damped spirits. Tuesday even found some small bit of that rain in the unfinished half of our basement…soaking into our Halloween decorations and reminding me that I was supposed to clean the gutters last month.

Quarantined due to sickness, we were denied even the sunlight that could have streamed through the windows to cheer us. So we sat in the house and nursed Norah. I, at least, was offered the daily escape of work, but my wife was granted no such pardon. So each night I would offer to let Moonshot go out…anywhere…but my exhausted wife would decline, opting instead to just prop her feet up and relax for a while. By Friday, she had not left the house all week. She couldn’t take Norah among people due to the clever virus. She couldn’t take her normal walks nor even sit out on the back patio due to rain. On Friday evening, her birthday, she finally cracked. In a storm of loud, foot-stomping, door-slamming frustration she left to get some groceries and pick up a meal from a restaurant. I, for my part, did my best to comfort the still sick Norah while pondering how I could be failing so completely to deliver a happy birthday to my wife. Moonshot returned in a better mood, embarrassed at her loss of control…I could only answer honestly that I was shocked she held out all week.

Liquid on the heart

Behind the scenes in all of the damp grayness of the week, hovers my Aunt Gimpy’s health. I’ve mentioned on this site before that her body is in rough shape and it seems like it just keeps getting worse. I’ll not go into her entire medical history, but they are currently having grave difficulties with her heart and the massive amounts of fluids that have accumulated there. I, and the rest of my family, have our ears turned toward Kansas City awaiting news. Encouraging thoughts are welcome.

Evaporation

In short, there was much ado about liquid last week and we could have happily done without every one of the issues listed above. But aside from my Aunt, it seems we’ve come out on the other side of it. The sun is shining, a healthy and happy Norah smiled and waved to me as I left for work. And Moonshot ended up having a good weekend. We were even able to go play some Bunco on Saturday night with the O’Fallon Crew.

Hmm, I’m trying to find a way to end this post with an insightful comment about liquid-based problems and evaporation or maybe something poetic about the water cycle, but all I can think of is Little Orphan Annie. And I’m not closing with a musical number. Since my lunch break is over…it doesn’t look like I’ll get my clever wrap-up. Ah well…you, my fine reader, deserve better than a bad water analogy anyway.

Here’s hoping a dry week.

Happy Birthday, Moonshot!!

2007-05-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

Wordless Wednesday

2007-05-02T00:09:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, Grandma Panache!!

2007-04-27T10:03:00.000-05:00

A Good Weekend for Humanity

2007-04-24T05:47:00.000-05:00

This weekend was a good one for humanity. And by that I mean I’m happy about people today. That’s not always true, you know. So often, it’s tempting and amusing to sit down and write about petty frustrations...about the silly thing someone said or the rude behavior someone (maybe even me) inflicted on someone else. But, I’m feeling pretty good about people in general today.

I suppose it started on Friday. I had devised an ingenious method for helping my good friend Simon win at the “Hottest Daddy Blogger” contest to which he has been nominated. Sure, it involved cheating and misuse of my company network...but I was up for it. I had fired off an email to my snow-covered friend and explained the mechanisms involved. I gave him my work number so he could call just in case he had any questions, but I didn’t really expect him to call. The plan was simple and we’ve never communicated through any medium other than email and blog posts. However, around 3:30 or so on Friday afternoon, I got an email from that hot blog Daddy. Apparently, he had tried to call to let me know he was declining the use of my brilliant plan. However, he had been unable to reach me since I had given him the wrong number and he had been unable to convince the kind Asian gentleman who answered the phone that a request to speak to Moksha was anything more than a prank call. Now, I’m choosing to believe that Simon, being the upstanding citizen that he is, found that he was morally unable to cheat on such a significant election. How can we trust the collective voice of the people if the Hottest Daddy Blogger award does not honestly reflect the consensus views of the masses? He described his decision as having more to do with his lack of time than with any higher ideals. But, such humility really just makes it all the more clear that the Simian is truly a better man than the Gren.

So anyway, Simon had included his work number in his email. And although he had already told me everything he needed to tell me, I was struck by a desire to pick up the phone. I felt oddly nervous about this for some reason. I mean…I’m aware, in an abstract way, that Simon is a real guy who is fully capable of chatting on the phone. But in practice, he’s just a disembodied string of paragraphs, pictures, and an occasional video…a Turing Machine with tattoos. There was a barrier being threaten as I looked at my office phone.

Further, I don’t tend to follow celebrity gossip. This may seem like a non sequitur, but follow me here. I don’t much care for spotlighted fame, folks who live lives that I have neither the ability nor the desire to imagine myself living. I don’t much care to follow the day-to-day trivialities of Britney or TomKat or anyone else who stares at me from the grocery store checkout lane. However, I am very interested in average folks who live lives that I recognize. Folks like Simon, and Mark, and Cheeseburger Brown. They open windows into their lives and I enjoy peeking in. In an odd way, these are the celebrities of my world. And my imagination gets fixated on them because there is a host of information I can’t really know about them through the controlled medium through which we communicate. And isn’t that part of the allure of the cult of fame? The never-ending dig for details about Justin Timberlake is never-ending because you’re just sifting through tid-bits and will never really be able to reconstruct the person.

So, there was a barrier being threatened by my office phone. Keep in mind, those of you who are currently worried about my sanity, this hesitation lasted all of a couple seconds. I’m just explaining what flashed through my head as I reached for the phone.

At any rate, we talked about smashing whale heads and made fun of each others’ accents. But the substance of the conversation isn’t what I’m here to talk about. I was talking about humanity (remember Alice? This is a song about Alice). When I hung up the phone after about 15 minutes of chatting with the Turing Machine that called itself Simon, I felt good. I was reminded how amazing it is that there is a guy up in Edmonton (a gazillion miles away from me) and we’re able to have a friendship. That’s crazy in a way. To reach into the ethereal substance of the Internet and pull out a living, breathing person with whom you can prop your feet up on your desk and chat about Neil Gaiman while you finish up your left-over pizza.

So, my take on humanity was pretty positive as I swung into the weekend. Saturday found Moonshot and me running errands here and there. I told her that I’d like to get away for a few hours that night to work on my story. I’d been on hiatus for a week or two, licking my wounds after a brutal (but accurate) first draft response from my editor/wife. I’d put all my effort into that last push to complete the rough draft and I just didn’t have it in me until Saturday to return to rewrite the entire middle half. I told Moonshot that I’d like to go down to the Crooked Tree Coffeehouse to write after we put Norah to bed and she thought that was a good idea.
Bottle, bath, story, and then Little Lutine fell asleep in my arms with no fuss. I strapped on my laptop-filled backpack and strolled out into the perfectly crisp night. The sky was clear so I opted to walk the just-over-a-mile to the coffeehouse. I tend to think most clearly while walking and I had to get myself into the mind set of a character. I have no doubt (and have in fact been told this before) that I look like a crazy person while doing this. I gesture and talk to myself quietly. But, it works. By the time I reached the Crooked Tree, I was ready to write. Sadly, though. They were closed.

I noticed a small group of college-aged kids staring at a hand-written note hanging in the door and assumed the worst.

“Ah man,” muttered one of the girls.

A tall, lanky fellow mused, “I supposed we could hit the Starbucks.” He didn’t sound too enthused about it and I couldn’t blame him, personally. Nothing against Starbucks, but it certainly wasn’t the atmosphere I was look for, so I could easily imagine that it wasn’t what he was looking for either.

“There’s a Picasso’s down on Main Street,” I offered.

“Oh yeah, that just opened,” exclaimed one of them. They thanked me and headed for their car.

I started off toward Main. It was only another half-mile or so and I tried to look at it as an opportunity for more story crafting.

“Do you want a ride?” offered the lanky fellow.

I turned back to them and I’ll admit I was shocked. I looked to the other three, expecting to see looks of horror that their friend had just invited a complete stranger into the vehicle with them. But no, they all looked enthusiastic about the kind offer. So, I jumped in. Mike was the driver but I can’t recall the girl in the passenger seat’s name. Nate and Laura were in the back seat with me and they proudly announced that it was their 4-month wedding anniversary. They were students at Lindenwood and we talked about the campus and I told them I was escaping the demands of a nine-month old to work on a short story. As we got out of the car and made our way to the coffee shop, we could hear the sound of a live jazz band.

“Oh no,” said Nate. “Is that gonna disturb your writing?”

“As long as I don’t have to change the band’s diapers, I should be fine,” I replied.

I ordered my coffee and had to take a seat at a table out on the cobblestone sidewalk since the place was packed. The others got their coffees and then meandered on down the sidewalk to check out the rest of the nightlife.

I wrote for a while and then spent some time chatting with the guy at the table next to me. He had his dog with him and I was had to complement the pooch on her ability to sit calmly with all the comings and goings of a Saturday night on Main Street. I was told she was a pound rescue and that made me happy to know. Later, the dog and her owner moved along and the table was filled with three college-aged kids who discussed the films of Sam Raimi for some time. The kids who gave me a ride returned to their car but took the time to swing by and see how the writing was coming along.

“Slowly,” I answered truthfully.

About a half hour later, my battery started to run low on my laptop. I started looking around for an outdoor plug. They have sidewalk events down there all the time and I thought it was at least possible that an outlet could be nearby. One of the Raimi fans noticed me looking. “There always comes that time when you gotta start looking for juice, eh?” Then he got up and helped me look behind the various pillars on the old building.

No luck. So I went inside. It was a bit later and the crowd had thinned a bit. On a small balcony facing the jazz band, I noticed an attractive young woman with an open laptop sitting by a fireplace. The table next to her was open so I made my way through the crowd and sat down at the table and looked around for a plug. She waved quietly to get my attention without disturbing the entranced jazz fans. She reached for my power chord and without saying a word plugged it into her power strip and then returned to her work.

I worked there, listening to the jazz band until the kind staff started cleaning up just before midnight. I dropped some money on the table for the bus crew and as I walked back home, I felt wonderful. Partially, I was pleased to have gotten some good work done. But, mostly I was happy with people. It’s rare to spend that long around folks and not have somebody do something selfish or thoughtless or downright mean. But everyone I came in contact with had been wonderfully friendly. So thanks to everyone who helped that happen.

Thanks to Simon for picking up the phone. Thanks to Moonshot for helping me score some time to escape the house. Thanks to Norah for going to sleep so easily for me Saturday night so I felt less guilty slipping away. Thanks to Mike and his friends for inviting a crazy, gesturing gren into your car and for being the kind of people who could make that crazy gren feel like he belonged in your group. Thanks to the dog-owner both for pleasant conversation and for rescuing such a wonderful dog from the pound. Thanks to the Raimi fans for helping me look for power and to the laptop girl for sharing hers.

Thanks everybody for making this introvert happy to be around you and to call you my community.

The Deflector Sheild is Down!

2007-04-23T13:31:00.000-05:00

“You know,” said my wife Sunday, “I think we can probably remove this now.” She gestured at the blanket that has, for months, protected the hand-woven rug in our living room from the once-frequent regurgitative assault of our daughter. “She hasn’t spit up in…geez…over a month.”

I was reminded of this conversation this morning as I sopped warm, rejected milk from the rug.

My daughter’s devious patience scares me.

Who Was Afraid of Men in Silly Costumes?

2007-04-16T14:08:00.000-05:00

On Saturday morning, Moonshot and Little Lutine let me sleep in just a bit. Not more than a half hour or so, but it felt utterly glorious to stretch out in the bed for a brief moment. I tend to go to bed later than my wife and rise at least an hour before her. An unoccupied mattress is a rare thing.

At any rate when I eventually slid on my robe and stumbled my way down from our converted attic bedroom, I was greeted by a long forgotten by instantly recognizable theme song from the living room.

American Gladiators.

Moonshot shrugged sheepishly. “There was nothing else on.” But I didn’t need any explanation. I’m as big a fan of nostalgic schlock as anyone. Bring on Nitro, I thought as I prepared myself for mind-numbery. But as I stood there, a thought occurred. And that was a bit annoying on a Saturday morning. But, once it had sprung into my head, I had no choice but to chase it down like a white rabbit. And having chased it, I had no choice but to comment to my wife about it…thereby dragging both of us away from our brainless Saturday and into yet another sociological discussion.

It’s what I do.

I remember when American Gladiators first hit television. I can recall critics bashing it, saying it was another step toward the downfall of our society. Anyone who would root for such barbarism, they said, was just like the Romans who screamed for blood at the Coluseum. Now, even at my young age, I knew these folks were going off the deep end with that kind of talk. But I accepted, even as a fan of the show, that it probably appealed to the worst in humanity and represented a bad trend in American culture.

Standing there in my bath robe almost 20 years later…it looked positively adorable. It looked simplistic and silly. I tried to remember a society that would be offended by this level of “brutality.” I tried to recall a me that believed that grown men in flashy costumes shooting tennis balls at each other represented a base and degrading element of our society. I tried to recall what made this so offensive. Goofy….sure. Offensive?

No one was getting voted off the island, ala Survivor. No stripping games to titillate, ala Dog Eat Dog. No blood and barbed wire, ala WWE. No back-stabbing masking as entertainment through camera confessionals encouraging contestants to bad mouth their opponents, ala just about every reality game show out there. Just people trying to best each other in straight-forward and silly physical competition.

With the light of hindsight it seemed almost pure.

I stood there and wondered what sort of entertainment Norah would someday gaze at nostalgically. I felt old.

So, having chased the thought to its age-spotlighting conclusion, I shut off my brain and let Norah climb on me while I remembered how much I had always wanted to play some of those cool Gladiator games.

Suddenly, it felt like Saturday again.

The Least Relaxing Bath….Ever

2007-04-09T15:44:00.000-05:00

Ok…while I can’t actually prove the hyperbole above, I can say that if anyone has a less relaxing bath story to share...I truly look forward to hearing it.

We traveled to MoMa’s house this weekend. We hadn’t been down there for some time and Easter seemed as good an excuse as any to load the child and the dog into ZaZu the Subaru and go wreak some havoc on MoMa’s house of countless grabbable/breakable trinkets.

We were somewhat uneasy about how Norah’s sleeping pattern would play out for the weekend since we’ve been engaged in a battle of wills in our household of late. Norah wakes around 1 or 2 am and screams to be picked up. We decline. We soothe her by standing close and ssshhhhing calmly. But we’ve been waiting her out, letting her scream it out. There has been progress. Lately, she hasn’t been crying so much that she pukes, for instance. But, there’s still lots of screaming involved. And, that’s great in your own home, but somewhat more annoying when you’re a houseguest.

So, as the munchkin’s bedtime approaches on Saturday night, we start getting our game plan together. Her routine calls for a bath right before bedtime and we figure it would help to follow a known pattern even in this unfamiliar place. Problem is…MoMa doesn’t have a normal-sized sub anywhere in her house. She’s got showers and one uber-jacuzzi thing. When last we were there, Norah was small enough that we bathed her in the kitchen sink. Such a trick is laughably impossible now. Ok, we say, she’ll get to use the big tub. No problem.

We start the water running and strip the child. She crawls excitedly to the edge of the bathtub and pulls her naked self up to watch the water fill the tub. It’s a very cute scene that is played out every night at the grenstead. However, this evening there was one difference.

“Whoop! She’s peeing!” calls Moonshot from behind me.

MoMa’s floor is awash in yellow as my indifferent child stares joyfully at the water in the tub. As a man with nearly 31 years of urinary experience, I can say that I would have been impressed to let loose with this deluge. Seeing it come pouring from my minuscule daughter was truly disconcerting. Further, if this is the sort of torrent she is routinely unleashing…allow me to say that I have a new found respect for the absorptive powers of Huggies.

We scurry about and wipe up the floor while MoMa goes to get the Pine-Sol.

Once we get the worst of it, I set the girl in the tub and Moonshot rolls up her jeans so she can wade through to sit on the back edge of the tub in a Norah-Defense position.

Clang!!! Some decorative piece of knick-knackery is bashed to the floor by my wife’s bum. Norah is startled and keeps trying to climb to her Mommy.

“No standing in the tub,” we tell her. It’s a mantra of sorts during her bath time these days. But she doesn’t listen. She keeps trying to stand. Moonshot opts to get the wash routine rolling before the play period…you know…in case the little one gets fussy about not being allowed to stand, we can just remove her. It is just after the soap in Norah’s hair had been worked into a good lather that she tries to stand for the final time. She slips forward, diving her face under the water. Moonshot snatches her up within half a second, but not soon enough to prevent the hysteria.

“Panic!” say Norah’s wide eyes.

“Freak-Out!!!” cries her high-pitched shriek.

And “Hrragflflflf!!!” gurgled the stream of half-digested milk shooting from her mouth to coagulate in the warm water.

“Oh, she sitting in it,” I call helpfully from the sidelines.

“I don’t really know what I can do about that right now!” shots back my wife over the howls of our daughter. “I think we just need to end this,” she says. But we can’t…the child is fully lathered, so Moonshot is frozen, holding the panicked child by the armpits. We’re looking desperately for an escape route, the least traumatizing way to rinse the child in a tub full of swirling vomit.

“Over here,” I offer. “There’s no puke in the water over here!”

We frantically scoop water from the clean half of the tub to rinse the soap from Norah’s head and the lumps of curdled formula from her legs.

I lift Norah out of the tub as Moonshot extracts herself from her perch. It is to this chaotic retreat which MoMa returns with Pine-Sol in hand, eager to watch her darling grand-daughter frolic as promised in the tub.

The up-side was that all this pandemonium and terror seems to have really done the trick with Little Lutine’s sleep. She conked out in Moonshot’s arms within minutes and didn’t make a sound until morning.

So, for any parent out there looking for a way to ensure a good night’s sleep for your child. Moonshot and I whole-heartedly recommends a soothing Jacuzzi bath before bed. Norah, on the other hand, may have other ideas.

April Politicians

2007-04-01T15:39:00.000-05:00

I toyed for some time with making a joke post today. Thought maybe I’d tell everyone that Norah had followed in her mother’s footsteps and uttered “Dammit!” as her first word. But, in the end, I figured it would be too obvious. Instead, I’ll share a bit of April Fool’s absurdity I experienced today.

I am weed eating along the sidewalk and a friendly and intelligent gentleman approaches me. I hut down the machine and he tells me that he is sincerely hoped that I would be voting this Tuesday in the city’s mayoral election. And further than he hope John Gieseke had my vote. Now, I don’t follow local politics as much as I should. Every year I tell myself that this is the year that I start paying attention. This is the year I begin acting like I really understand how much more significant local politics is to my life. But I never do it. Life’s been pretty good round these part, so left with no other input, I suppose I’d vote for Patti York to keep her job. But I hate the idea of just cluelessly voting for the incumbent just because I was too lazy to research the issues. So, I was actually fairly happy to be approached by this friendly and intelligent looking gentleman. I hoped that he could give me some details on which way I should vote.

Me: Oh, thanks. I’m not as up on local politics as I should be. Been meaning to research a bit before Tuesday. What’s Gieseke’s main issue?

Friendly and Intelligent-Look Gentleman: Mayor

Me: What?

F.I.L.G: He’s running for mayor.

Me: Oh, well yeah, I knew that. But what’s he want to accomplish? What are his goals?

F.I.L.G: He’s going to represent the people better than Patti York.

F.I.L.G is smiling pleasantly. Seemingly confident that he’s giving all the right answers to win my vote. I try another tactic.

Me: Ok, what’ something that Patti York did that John Gieseke would have done differently?

F.I.L.G: She didn’t represent the will of the people very well.

Me: Oh. Well, if she’s not doing that then we need to get her out of office.

F.I.L.G, moving on down the sidewalk, pleased that he has won a vote: Exactly. Remember, the election is Tuesday.

So, sure, I still don’t have a particularly good reason to vote for Patti York. But she hasn’t screwed up St Charles too bad…and I’m pretty sure she’s got a better platform than a vague promise to represent my will. Thanks, Friendly and Intelligent-Looking Gentleman, for helping me decide.

Cruisin'

2007-03-30T12:01:00.000-05:00

Weeeeeeeeee!!!!!!

Two Types of Parents / Greener Pastures

2007-03-26T13:19:00.000-05:00

It’s just a shame that the more interesting stuff you have going on in any given time frame…the more difficult it is to find the time to sit down and write about it.

Two Types of Parents

It was about a month and a half ago that the Parents as Teachers lady sat on our living room floor and said, “There are two types of parents. The first group moves all dangerous items out of the baby’s living space. The second group leaves the items there and teaches the baby not to touch them.”

Now I was sitting there, cross-legged with my daughter on my lap thinking, “Well, I’m on the leave it there bus, myself.” I mean…cover the electrical outlets, block the stairs, keep them from killing themselves. But, I’m not going to live in a padded house to keep Norah from conking her head now and again. Besides, said I to myself, a kid has to learn how to navigate the real world. Silly paranoid parents, I thought.

Well, it’s been a month and a half and we are now actually living with a mobile child. The thought experiment has become a scuttling reality and our living room is a very different place. Ya see, I’ll stand by my previous opinion in theory….but I failed to factor in the sheer annoyance that can be generated by a child so clearly determined to injure herself and wreck our home.

After countless floor shuffling sessions, our cd rack has been moved behind the large, unmovable potted plant. It’s a horribly inconvenient place for them…but then, that’s the point, I guess. The potted plant itself has suffered many crushed leaves and would probably have been moved itself if it weren’t for its significant roll as cd and lethal cord blocker. Thanks for your valiant sacrifices, Unmovable Potted Plant. We appreciate it.

The couches that once angled into the living room to encourage conversation have been pushed flush against the wall to discourage electrocution. HGTV would not approve of the layout, but Norah cares naught for feng shui and was far too interested in the power chords and the heavy block of marble on spindly, wobbly legs that once sat behind our couch.

The grate to the fireplace has been transplanted to a safrer home, replaced by a tension pet gate. Not only does it keep her from a) pulling the grate down on her head and b) eating the fake coals….it’s also the height of interior design. Very industrial.

However, we’ve not moved completely into the "remove everything" camp. I think we’ve found a comfortable middle ground in which Norah can maintain a healthy level of bruised-but-not-broken.

For instance, for several days after she learned to pull herself up, Norah seemed determined to head-butt her way through our coffee table. Due to time constraints and an underlying faith in my child’s learning curve, I never found time to make it to Lowes to purchase my baby-proofing kit of water pipe insulation tubes and zip-ties. And I’d like to report that by the time I went to Lowes this weekend…she no longer needed it. She hasn’t hit her head on that thing in about a week. Now…when she learns running, we may need to go back to Plan A.

The only other problem we’re facing now as we chase our little girl from room to room is dog toys. Arlo has long understood the difference between his toys and Norah’s toys. If one of his toys happened to roll up against one of hers, he would ever so slowly and ever so gently retrieve it, careful to let you know at every step that he had no intention of touching the baby toy. Norah, on the other hand, has no such etiquette. Any toy her furry brother is playing with instantly becomes to coolest plaything in the house. And sadly, the dog will drop the toy and let her have it before moping away to bemoan his lot in life. “You’re faster than her,” we explain to him. “Just keep away from her. You don’t have to share.” But alas…he is a martyr at heart and only too willing to submit to the cruel injustice of it all. We keep telling Norah, “Don’t touch.” But, she just finds it an interesting prelude to her touching something.

So, of the two types of parents…we’re saddling the fence between the two these days. We let her roam and explore and aren’t too afraid of some bumps and bruises along the way. But I’ll admit that we had underestimated the destructive force of an 8-month-old.

Greener Pastures

It’s official…Spring is here. No, I’m not talking about the calendar. I’m talking about the fact that I had to mow our yard and finally rake all those half-decayed leaves that I’d been avoiding since Fall. The flowers are blooming, green things are sprouting everywhere and the fans have been pulled up from the basement. The windows are open which means the midnight practice session of the band across the street now seem much louder. But it also means a wonderful breeze across the bed and bird song to wake to. It’s very difficult to get out of bed these days. Just…too…comfy.

Instead of hiding upstairs during Moonshot’s piano lesions, I’ve been taking walks with Norah and Arlo on Monday and Wednesday nights. I have to remember not to leave my lunch cooler on the sun room floor lest the ants find it. And Norah has been tickled to be allowed to scurry about the house in just a diaper.

We’re all big fans of spring at Casa de Gren. Hope you're enjoying it whereever you are.

Where Would You Hide?

2007-03-13T12:01:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, I had a play room in the basement where I kept my Star Wars toys. It was directly beside the steps and on the other side of the wall was a wasted little bit of space under the stairs. Luckily, the walls in this room were fake wood paneling that had cracked, leaving a tent flap of sorts that would grant me access to this secret space.

For some reason, Dad thought that looked tacky and set about fixing it. However, Dad always had a soft spot for secret rooms and hidden passages, so he completely understood the magical appeal of the space behind the wall.

So, he framed in a bookshelf. Nicely trimmed border, nothing out of the ordinary. But, if you pulled on the shelves, you’d discover that the whole thing sat on hidden wheels and that there were handles on the back of the bookshelf that would allow you to pull the “door” closed behind you. He gave me a pull-chain light back there and I hung posters. It was my secret room. I’d sit down there and imagine that if the Russians ever did invade…I’d hide in my special place and they wouldn’t ever find me.

That sort of thinking was fine for a 2nd grader. However, I think that little room affected me. Ya see, on a fairly regular basis, I look around a building and think, “If I had to hide in this building…where would I hide?” I no longer think that the Russians are coming. Nor do I think a clever hiding spot would save me if they did. But my imagination still rushes to this question as a fun diversion.

When I was in high school I worked at the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. They bought out the old United Super but, the locals just couldn’t accept the goofy name. We tried to explain that it was a pretty big chain down south…but they just couldn’t deal with it and the store shut down. But that’s not my point. My point is that in the back area, they had this big box smasher. Six feet wide, four feet deep and about seven feet tall, pistons on the top would shove a massive, flat plate down into the box bin. But, I noticed that above the flat smasher plate was open…no top and no moving parts. So at sixteen I would often contemplate hiding there if terrorists or criminals of any sort were to invade the Piggly Wiggly. I figured the only way they would find me is if they used the machine. If the smasher plate were lowered…I would slowly drop righting into view. But, I was fairly confident that the terrorists were unlikely to want to smash any boxes. I was, however, aware than vicious enough terrorists might want to use the box smasher to kill a few of my co-workers. In that case I was screwed…but overall, I liked my odds.

At my current job, there are two large pillars in the large open area on the upper floor…maybe five feet by three feet. One of them houses an electrical panel and other such equipment. However, the other one seems to have been added just to visually balance out the room. I’ve used it to run some CAT-5 cable from the first floor switch room to the plenum above, so I know that it is (aside from my wires) empty. If the bad guys take over this building and I can’t, for some odd reason, escape through one of the many handy exits...I’m jumping on a table, shimmying my way into the plenum and down into that pillar. I figure I’m still in danger of random gun fire…but no one would really think to look there.

So, villians of some sort are about to invade your work. They’ve surrounded the place and would see you if you made an exit. We’ll disregard the fact that your co-workers would see you hiding and probably rat you out. We'll imagine that you’re working late or something and are there by yourself. Where would you hide? Some of you may have your answer ready. Others may want to take a little stroll around your place of business and start asking, “Could I fit in there?” and “If I were a bad guy…would I look in there?”

PS - It appears that today marks this blog's 365th day in existence. I've been jabbering on for a full year and people still seem to think I've got something worthwhile to say. Go figure.

Tale of a Lucky Idiot

2007-03-11T22:11:00.000-05:00

I’d just like to take a moment to thank my neighborhood for being such a safe place to live. It’s an older section of town and there is some low rent housing about four or five blocks down the road, but overall, I feel very safe here. And I think it’s very important that I live in a place that harbors me no ill will since I am clearly incapable of protecting myself.

Only an hour ago, my family and I returned from a visit to Kansas City. We left yesterday morning and have therefore been gone for just under two days. We arrived to find our front door open. No, not unlocked. Wide open. The spring-closed storm door was shut to keep the cats in…but the actual door was open to the world.

“Come on in!” it said to the teenagers in the neighborhood. “Have a wild party. Puke in the corner and spray paint the walls.”

“Me stereo system, su stereo system,” it said to anyone passing by who happened to be in the market for electronics at the rock bottom price of FREE!

“Make yourself at home,” it said to any homeless crazy folks who were looking for a warm bed and a closet to crap in.

Fortunately, my neighborhood is safer than I am. So, I’d like to thank everyone around these parts for ignoring the invitation my open door was shouting to any an all passers-by.

And furthermore…I’d also like to thank the neighborhood for ignoring this issue last time I did the same, exact thing a couple years ago.

Man, I’m an idiot.

Ain’t No One Gonna Break My Stride

2007-03-09T13:30:00.000-06:00

guest post by Norah

It’s been a busy week for me. I’ve been working on several new tricks for the past month or so, but have been trying my best to keep my development secret from Mommy and Daddy. They seem to so enjoy my status as a helpless infant that it would just break my little heart to make them start with the whole “oh, she’s growing up so fast” business. So, I find it’s best to keep them guessing.

However, last weekend the folks left me so they could go off and do grown-up things at a Bed and Breakfast…which is odd since I know we have both beds and breakfast food right here at our house. Anyway, MoMa came up to stay with me. Apparently word got out about the massive party I had been planning and they felt I needed supervision. But we had a good time, MoMa and me. I had fun waking her up in the middle of the night and then acting like I didn’t know why she was upset. That game never gets old.

When Mommy and Daddy came home, they seemed like they were in such good moods that I figured it was probably time to start wowing them with all my progress. And since they’ve been so impressed, I’d to take a few moments and wow you as well.

1) Gots me some chompers!

Yup, I’ve got two little teeth poking out of my lower jaw. I play with them a lot, bite my upper gums, run my tongue across them, that sort of thing. I’m still not quite sure why I need them, since all my food is pretty mushy, but it does make it fun to chomp on my toys. Chomp, Chomp!

2) Now I’ve got something to stand for.

Just to be different, just to shirk the system and take the challenges at my own pace, I decided to do this one completely out of order. I’ve been sitting pretty well for months. And I’ve been able to pull myself up to my feet for a couple weeks. But on Tuesday of this week, I freaked poor Mommy out by simply standing up in the middle of the room. Nothing to hold onto. I just propped myself into an A shape and pushed myself up. Mommy and I stared at each other for about five seconds or so before I toppled over. We laughed and laughed. I did it again a bit later just to prove it wasn’t a fluke, and then decided to put that trick on the shelf and I haven’t done it since. I like to make my parents brag about my accomplishments…and then stop doing things just so all their friends think they might just be lying.

3) Knee-Based Locomotion

Having proven that I am fully capable of standing on my own two-feet, I was then willing to consider more traditional methods of baby mobility. I therefore set my mind to the challenge of the crawl. My major problem with this form of travel has been my feet. I lean forward from a sitting position to get crawling, but my foot would always get caught on my other leg…preventing me from forward motion. I could move around, but it was a complex maneuver in which I would lean forward, pivot and then push myself back into a sitting position about one foot closer to my goal. Repeat maneuver until the goal had been reached. It was effective…but tedious. However, by using the A-frame method that led to such success in the standing feat, I have overcome this hurdle and have become a child on the go. I did it once for Daddy on Wednesday night while Mommy taught piano. But, I refused to do it again so that Mommy would be tempted to dismiss Daddy’s claim. Then, just this morning, I did it again and Mommy said, “Moksha, come here! She’s crawling.” And Daddy said, “Yeah…that’s exactly what she did the other night.” But he still hugged me and acted all excited about it again. And then they argued over what date to put in my baby book since Mommy still didn’t seem convinced Daddy knew what he was talking about.

Grown-ups are so funny.

4) Movin’ On Up

Having mastered the art of standing and the art of forward motion, I’m now working on merging the two into what my research says is called “cruising.” Right after Mommy wrote down Wednesday as my first crawl, I pulled myself up to the couch and cruised a few steps to reach for a pillow. Just a tease for the old folks. Then I dropped to my knees and scooted away to get a dog toy.

Over all, I’m pretty pleased with my week. My teeth kinda hurt and that wakes me up in the night. But that’s ok. Since I can move around so much now, I don’t even try to go back to sleep. I just roam around the crib and scream for Mommy and Daddy. Rolling and crawling and pulling yourself up on the crib bars are all wonderful ways to keep yourself from accidentally falling asleep.

I would, in fact, count this week as just about perfectly done on my part except for one thing. I may have overplayed my cards. As I was crawling off into the dining room, I overheard Mommy say to Daddy, “Oh….she’s growing up so fast.”