Mail Man

I'm a mail addict. I always have been, as long as I've been aware of the concept of postal delivery. When I was a kid, I would spend some summer mornings doing nothing but waiting for the mail truck to drive by.

I had the route memorized, so I knew when I saw the mail truck first emerge onto Crockett how the dance would go. That gleaming white messenger of glory would waltz up and down Truman, twist around Sturdy, trot back and forth along Eisenhower, and then saunter to and fro across Crockett. And when it arrived at 2001 (a mail odyssey) my wait paid off with a rustle through bundles of letters, a flip of the box, a wave of the hand, and a big stack of bills, junk, checks, and the occasional letter.

I always had the faintest hope there would be something for me in there, but a moment of truth was rare. Didn't matter. I loved the fact that people all over the country wanted to send my family stuff for whatever reason. It made me feel important by association. On those days when I would get a birthday card (especially the Baskin Robbins free cone birthday card) I was ecstatic, made all the better since it was most likely my birthday. Oh, and the day when the free mail-in offer from a cereal box came in . . . that was pure ecstasy.

One time, my older sister devised a postal system in our house. She made mailboxes for the doors to everybody's rooms. It was awesome. It lasted about a day, which was extremely disappointing.

Then they invented email. Whoever did so was out to get me. Because there are times when I recreate the childhood obsession. But it's worse because there is no mail truck. There's no typical time of day when email shows up. I'll just go to my email browser and click "Check Mail" over and over and over and over as I stare at the screen to see if anything's coming. I'm not expecting anything in particular. I don't even mind spam. At least someone cares.

I could explore the issue deeper, launch an internal investigation into the reason behind my need for validation by courier . . . but I gotta go check my email. (If you've got a theory, though, feel free to comment . . . I'll receive it by email, which might take the edge off the cutting truth.)

Must See?

The Office came back anew tonight, and it was superbly funny, in parts. That show has the uncanny ability to throw me into fits of laughter and then suddenly make me feel very uncomfortable. Tonight, it actually started with the promo (which popped up when the DVR kicked in as Addison and I were watching the Cubs win). About two seconds in I had to avert Addison's eyes and tell him, "That's not the kind of show you should be watching." Then I thought, But it's your dad's favorite show. And then I turned, looked into the camera, and kind of smirked a little. But the show itself was . . . I don't know, it was a bit much. Usually when it ends I don't know what to think. So, I guess it was as good as usual.

Then came Scrubs, and it had one of the funniest openings to any form of entertainment from any culture of any era. It had J.D. and Turk throwing water balloons from the hospital roof onto the heads of interns, moving in formation to resemble Space Invaders. Need I go on?

Somewhere in there I caught a glimpse of the ousted Idol contestant and was just a little bit shocked. I won't spoil it.

[insert segue between two completely unrelated thoughts]

I also decided that when the person you love does little things you don't like, those can turn into the things you're absolutely crazy about. When Heather and I eat chips and salsa at a restaurant, we both dip out of the same salsa bowl. When we have it at home, she spoons hers out onto the plate. That really bugs me, but I love it so much I want to cry. I don't know why, but I feel like we're Moonlighting in reverse. You know, David and Maddie started out driving each other crazy with all their differences (but everyone knew they totally wanted each other). Then they hooked up, and it ruined the show because they couldn't fight any more. With us, we hardly ever argued about anything until we got married. Now, we have all those tiny little arguments over silly things that only confirm we're completely meant for each other. It's really hot.

No Mommies Allowed

That's an X. A red X that Addison scrawled on a piece of paper and taped onto his door. It is quite possibly my favorite artwork of Addison's.

It isn't the best X ever made. It's not even the best X Addison's ever made. The one he made directly on the door just five minutes prior to this one was pristine. And if I hadn't been asked to take the Mr. Clean miracle sponge to it, the original X would have been my favorite. There is, of course, a story behind it.

A couple weeks ago, Addison attended a birthday party that featured an indoor scavenger hunt. The mother giving the party had quite astutely hung small makeshift signs emblazoned with red X's on the doors of rooms in which nothing was to be scavenged. Addison liked the idea. So he copied it.

One night last week, Addison had one of his small disputes with Heather. The kind where Addison wants something, Heather doesn't want him to have it, and Addison calls the ACLU. It happened right about the time I was taking my turn in the putting-Addison-to-bed ritual. When Heather left, Addison was still a bit . . . insane with rage, so he said, "I don't want Mommy in my room ever again." That would show her to deny him candy at 8:30 at night. The moment demanded a certain stoic silence, but that was spoiled by my giggles when Addison added, "I'm gonna put a red X on my door." I got it. It was funny. It cracked me up that he had analyzed this tidbit of house-visit etiquette and synthesized it into the foreign policy of his domain. Then it passed.

The next day, right before lunch, he just got up from his seat at the table, grabbed a red marker (sneakily enough, I should add), came back a few seconds later (at this point I noticed the marker), and said, "I want to show Mommy what I did." You know what he did. You know I erased it. You know we helped him hang a proper, less destructive sign. The only blank left to be filled in is the conversation.

Addison: No girls allowed.

Me: Not even your friend Allie? Or Emma? Or cousin Maddie? Or Macintyre? Or Mackenzie?

Addison: (thoughtful pause) No, they can come in.

Me: So it's just, "No mommies allowed" then?

Addison: Yeah.

And he never once tried to enforce it. But he does go in there and close the door, and we pretty much leave him alone, unless it gets too loud . . . or too quiet.

Food

I'm so bummed that my camera's auto-focus wouldn't work tonight . . . but I wasn't about to waste too much time with it. It was all I could do to postpone eating this strawberry shortcake Heather made. I wanted to share it with you . . . that's a lie. I wanted to show you what it looked like. I really had no desire to share it with anybody. I ate it all, and it was dang freakin' good.

On a related note, David Archuleta is such a goober. I mean, he can sing . . . but he's a goober. I can't take him seriously at all anymore. He constantly bears the look of a kid resisting a tickle torture. I mean, I'll give him credit, he's not giving in. He's really good at not laughing. Barely a giggle tonight. But I swear, someone's tickling that boy.

P.S. Heather's making fun of me for titling this post "Food." Now I can't change it, even though it is completely lame. Now it's ironically awesome. And yes, Jason Castro is still the long lost lovechild of John Travolta and Minnie Driver. And my TV is a little fuzzy, but I seriously hope that what David Cook had scrawled on his palm was "Give Me a Break."

Sasha, Chaka. Chaka, Sasha.

Chaka Khan and Sasha Kaun have to get together for some kind of photo op. In the meantime, here they are together at last. Honestly, I don't know how announcers say Sasha Kaun's name at all without breaking into "I'm Every Woman."

For the record, Chaka Khan's name is much funner to say. I'm not at all familiar with her music, but the songs I have heard all seem to involve her singing her own name. If I had that name, I'd sing it, too. The first time I can remember even hearing of her existence was, I believe, during a Grammy's in the 80s. Prince might have been there, too. I can't remember too many details, but I can never forget hearing her name repeated over and over rhythmically, hypnotically, "CHA-ka KHAN, chakaKHAN, chakaKHAN. CHA-ka KHAN, chakaKHAN, chakaKHAN." I may not have heard of her before that, but I believe all six kids performed various renditions at multiple venues over the days, weeks, months, and even years that followed. In the off chance I find it on YouTube*, I'll post a link. But for now, your imagination will have to do the work.

Anyway, she probably has the most onomatopoetic name in the world (with Jack Kerouac and Jacques Chirac close behind). Now I've got to find a song that goes with this post . . . I'll go with a musical reference** to the team I thought had the best chance to win the tournament.

*You must follow this link if you have a single funky bone in your body. And you gotta love the Grammy's for having John Denver introduce this performance.
**I really wanted to go with "That's How I Got to Memphis," by Solomon Burke, but can't seem to make it work. Too bad. It's a great song.

Sunday Dress

Addison decided Sunday was a day to dress up. Some people feel the need to rush home from church on Sundays to switch into their football-watching clothes. Not Addison. He wanted to merge the two worlds. Actually, he wanted to clip a tie onto his Cubs jersey, but that one was in the wash. The dude is stylin', that's all there is to it.

I Peeked

I just found out what I'm getting for my birthday, and I'm not at all disappointed.

The Speed Racer movie is coming out May 9, the very day I turn not too old to love Speed Racer. I don't know quite how it happened, but I have completely fallen off the cliff of movie awareness. I hardly ever see movies. I used to see everything. It's a troubling development, but when I finally do get to see a movie, my grief over being out of touch dissipates somewhat. I can't name the last four-star movie I've seen.

Who cares, I'm getting off the general track of glee. I'm seeing Speed Racer. It was made by the Matrix brothers . . . I really don't expect it to be the Matrix. I really don't care if it's any good. I'm seeing it. Happy birthday to me. Here's a kickin' trailer:

Hope and Doubt

When you're a Cub fan, strange things happen to you. Bipolar things. Like, you start believing that anything can happen. That "anything" could be a World Series championship. Or it could be total devastation. And even thought it's always total devastation, you still believe it could be anything. The loftiest hope and the most stubborn doubt can be mere moments removed from each other.

At the beginning of every season, I temper my expectations by swearing off any hopes that the Cubs can win this year. I then imagine what my reaction will be when they do win it all. And I do it every game. Cubs down by 5 runs with two outs in the ninth? I doubt with certainty that they'll win. Three walks later, I'm convinced with all the hope I can handle that they'll win. Then they lose, and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I am at once assured that doubt is the way to go as my hope longs for another bay of optimism in which it can drop anchor and eagerly float.

Cubs winning? I envision every possible losing scenario. If they win, I'm elated. Never doubted it for a second. If they lose, I knew it was coming. Hope and doubt happily coexist in my brain, heart, soul, and left foot.

But this isn't baseball. This is life. I quit my job, and now I'm relying on God to provide opportunities, sustain my skills, and overcome my tragic weaknesses consistently enough to put food on the table . . . and keep said table in a house upon which foreclosure does not fall. And I have all the confident hope in the world that this is going to go great. But doubt still likes to play on my swingset.

It's kind of amazing. Pretty much every time I sit down to write something, I doubt that I can do it. And I've written a lot of stuff. Yet, I also have this strange feeling that it might turn out pretty good. There's no in-between feeling at all. I doubt myself. I believe in myself. It's the same kind of rush I get from watching the Cubs. When things go well, I am all adrenaline. When they go bad, I'm not at all surprised. I'm devastated. I'm sure there's a reason. I'm hopeful for next time.

I say all this, because so far . . . everything's going great. Really. It's all good. As a Cub fan, I know better than to believe it will stay this way. And despite whatever this rambling might indicate, I'm actually giddy. I gid. But it feels weird. At least the Cubs keep losing. If I forget to doubt, I don't know what that'll do to me.

Maybe It's Time to Change Again

Nothing major. But one thing that evolved out of commuting every day and waking up really early was an insane habit of staying up as long as humanly possible.

It had nothing to do with where I worked*, it was just . . . I knew when I went to sleep, my mind would be turned off until it was time to leave again. And leaving was something I couldn't bear to do. Staying awake into the wee hours of the morning was my way of hanging on to my time at home. I didn't make the most of the time. I didn't seize the moment. It was just procrastination of the inevitable.

And so far this week, I've found that even though I love waking up in the morning while the sun is up. I love the fact that I'm not sneaking away from my family while they sleep. But habits don't break easy with me. So I'm shooting for earlier. I'm making a commitment right now to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

Dang, it's after 10:30, and I'm kind of into this episode of Scrubs. Oh well. Next week, I'm totally going to change.

*most of the time

Or maybe I should just write up a new post.

Perfect Storm

On my last day at work, I felt younger but still stressed.

Actually, it was an overwhelming onslaught of mixed blessings. It was my last day at Moody . . . but it was crazy busy. It was Opening Day, and the Cubs' new right fielder Kose-kay Fooka-dough-may erased a three-run deficit with a "welcome to Chicago, baby" homer in the ninth . . . only to see the Cubs pen blow it in the tenth. The day was sandwiched in between releases from the Counting Crows and R.E.M. . . . but neither album was all that great. Still, it wouldn't be life it was all great.

And now I have two days of freelancing in the books, and it's been much busier than I thought. There's been no working in my pajamas. No golf. No written-off business lunches. I'm just working. In normal daytime clothes. At home. Where I eat lunch. Without a lunch hour.

But there's also no driving. My family is there. And today, when the Cubs came on, I didn't check the score every now and then. I turned on the game and I watched it. And that's the beauty of baseball. Watching the game actually enhances your concentration on other things. Since the game ended, I can't get anything done. But during the game itself I was a fountain of ideas.

And that's the beauty of being self-employed. Your boss is very understanding about the peculiarities of your work habits.

Overheard . . . this kid should have his own blog.

Addison stumbled down the stairs tonight. He was fine, but he played it up real good. I went down to check on him and asked what happened.

"I hurt my foot."

"What happened?"

"I hurt my foot."

"How?"

"I fell down the stairs. Call 911."

Overheard . . . The Meaning of Life

Addison is starting to get all profound on us. As we were driving by the funeral home this weekend, he says, "Is that the die place?"

Heather: "That's the funeral home and the cemetery. That's where we buried Grandpa Jim. But do you know where he is?"

Addison: "Jesus' house."

And then this morning, the first morning of my freelance-only career, I asked Addison if I was at work at Moody. He replied hesitantly, "No. Where are you going to work?"

Me: "Here."

Addison: "You're going to work at home? This is gonna be fun."

And a few minutes later, he looked at me with his arms wide open and said, "Daddy, believe in your life. I am here." I'm not even sure what that means, but I was inspired.

This is gonna be fun.

Glass Whoopin'

I spent my afternoon vacuuming glass out of my grass. I'll let you fill in your own blanks with embarrassing rhyming alternatives. As it is, the task was an absolute dream. Seriously, nothing says "winner" quite like broken glass in your front yard.

The really sad thing is that it's been there for quite awhile now. If you're from the area and remember that super-windy storm way back . . . I don't know, in the '90s, maybe, you may also recall that the weather has been relatively crappy ever since. Well, in the storm, the wind blew our front storm door open and shattered the top glass panel. A lot of the glass got caught between the screen and the bottom glass panel, creating a vicious little booby trap. The rest of the glass got scattered into the snow-covered lawn.

Ever since, the weather, our lawn, and my schedule have not cooperated at all . . . until today. The era of humiliation is over. The screen has been cut. The glass has been carefully removed from the door. The door has been removed. And, sweet glory, the glass has been vacuumed out of the grass, which was finally dry enough to be properly sucked clean of shards large and small.

But I'm going to miss that glass and the special feeling it gave me, the feeling that I lived in a convenience store that was recently robbed. Our house doesn't look like a crime scene anymore, and it's all so very boring.

GAP

The Going Away Party was a blast. My fantabulous cohorts treated me to a LOST-themed sendoff, complete with Dharma tags on everything, a ticket for my flight, lots of iTunes credits, Edwardo's pizza, island paraphernalia, Mint Meltaways and other heavenly desserts, a book of goodbye notes, and tons of memories in bottles featuring Flashbacks (memories) and Flash Forwards (predictions). It really was so much fun and so touching the way people went to so much trouble for little old me.

One of the coolest things was the book they put together for me, because it featured everyone's animal. I believe that everyone has an animal they resemble. I usually can tell pretty quickly from looking at a person what their animal is. Some people's wild kingdom alter egos are easier to recognize than others, but everybody's got one. At some point, I'll post a more developed explanation of the process. It's kind of a fun thing, although people can get a little too carried away with it. But for the most part, people at the office embrace their animals . . . that doesn't sound quite right, but I think you get the idea.

Anyway, it was an unforgettable experience, and I'm so grateful to have worked with such fascinating and caring people.

Diction Addiction

My other new blog is live, which is more than I can say for me. I hope you enjoy it. Actually, for your sake, I hope you're not at all interested. If you are . . . welcome to the ward.

Caught

My co-workers are hilarious. They have been planning various things for my going-away party on Friday, and they are doing their best to cloak it in as much secrecy as possible. I'm flattered by the notion they're doing anything, so I made a decision right away to respect the secrecy. I'm making no effort to discover what they're planning. I won't even try to imagine what may happen. But to retain some semblance of secrecy, I practically had to wipe my memory.

People have been huddling in small groups with poorly fabricated nonchalance. If I had been paying attention and keeping track, in the past week alone, I would have witnessed 26 not-so-secret secret meetings, caught 147 furtive glances, laughed at 5 dramatic caught-red-handed reactions, and overheard two accidental public disclosures of would-be private projects.

But I'm not keeping track. At all. It's just so much fun, and so flattering to see people work so hard at trying to show me a good time and honor/embarrass me (for me, those two actions are inseparable).

I'm gonna miss these people. But . . . I'm still leaving.

Thursday, Friday, Monday

I have three days left at Moody. That's crazy. I am still absolutely excited about what's in store, and I couldn't help but laugh after I decided to play Ray LaMontagne's "Three More Days" on my iTunes. Obviously, the "three more days" part was fitting, but the whole song was perfect. It was just funny how one song could be so perfect for one moment and then . . . never again. At 7:00 AM tomorrow, I'll need a new song for the day. But for now, I'm enjoying this:

Please Advise

I decided to add a new blog today. Actually, I decided today to create two new blogs. The decision was made today, but only one blog was made today. The second one is going to be for word nerds and grammar nazis. (Note: if you found this page on a search for how to be a Nazi, I'm so not sorry to disappoint you.)

But this one is about advice I would give to people famous, infamous, and unfamous. The first installment is my advice to Hillary. Anyway, the blog is called "Dear Me - Advice Nobody Asked For," and you can find it at http://advicenobodyaskedfor.blogspot.com. You can also find anything else anywhere else. But that's neither here nor there. On second thought, it is both here and there. Okay, I'm done.

Overheard . . . Rattling Hum

So Addison hums now. A lot. He usually hums at meals, and it is not often pleasant. The boy's got a nice singing voice, but when he hums . . . well, I don't want to be rude, but it drives Heather and me crazy. Colin likes it.

During the course of most activities, I really don't mind it. It's just at the table during a meal when it really grates on us. I think he hums then because it's the easiest way to carry a tune uninterrupted while eating. I don't think he's even conscious of it most of the time. But one day, it drove me way beyond the point of frustration and straight into the teeth of the cliffs of insanity.

So I tell him, "Addison, please stop humming."

More humming.

"Addison, stop humming, please!"

More humming.

"Dude, no more humming!"

He stares at me. Then hums some more.

"Addison, if you don't stop humming right now, I'm going to . . ."

"Dad, I don't know what humming is."

I've never gone from crazed frustrated anger to refreshing whimsical laughter quite so fast in all my life.

Easter?

Easter is a weird holiday. Some serious religious dudes a long time ago decided the resurrection of Christ should be celebrated on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Vernal Equinox. Okay. At some point bunnies got involved. A pastel-chicken-egg toting bunny. Then the eggs and assorted candy gets hidden. So little kids find the stuff, and then we get dressed up. Then there's ham. Or lamb. And finally, they show Charlton Heston crossing the Red Sea on TV.

I don't know. That's weird to me. But it's fun, and I like it. I like the random (and yeah, I know, there's a pagan story behind everything . . . that doesn't make it any less random) celebrations involved in Easter, including the name itself that tells us nothing at all about what the holiday is supposed to be about.

And I really like the fact that Easter is a celebration of something a dead guy did . . . while He was dead. I know that sounds irreverent, but I say it to emphasize the awe and respect Jesus deserves for the power of His resurrection. He was dead. And then He wasn't. And there was no one to come along and lay a healing hand on Him. A dead man, of His own will and power (two things most dead men don't have), stopped being dead. That is scary. I think the random celebrations just might spring out of our inability to come to terms with the power of the resurrection.

Yes, there is hope. Yes, there is joy. But a dead person coming back to life on His own is straight-up crazy frightening to think about. So we just plain do not think about it. We celebrate it. We acknowledge that it happened. But we don't dwell on the idea of what happened too much. Not really. If we did, we wouldn't adorn ourselves in pastels. Heck, we wouldn't wear our nicest clothes, because the thought of what happened should make us mess ourselves.

I won't bemoan the fact that we've become familiar with the craziness of that moment. It's okay. We can't handle it. So . . . we invent mythical bunnies. It's a classic post-shock coping mechanism. And when virgins give birth, we invent obese benevolent elves. That's okay. Really. It's better to just believe and move on then to attempt to understand and/or fathom. We are not psychologically equipped to handle the truth of God's power. I'll give a nod right now to the reality that God is omnipotent, Jesus is scary powerful (literally, frightening . . . He scared His friends half to death on multiple occasions . . . for crying out loud, walking on water was not even in the top two coolest things He ever did . . . that's messed up insane powerful) and I marvel instead at how cute my kids are. Not that I can fathom that either (God sure knows how to make a cute kid), but at least it's not entirely unnerving.

Vacation

I think it's time to schedule a vacation. I went through a month of change. I'm in a month of transition. And I'm discovering that no matter what milestones you reach or metamorpheses you undergo, the carousel of day-to-day life doesn't stop on it's own. There will always be something going on, some distraction, some obsession to inject a little unwanted stress into your day.

I've never been much of a vacation guy, because I'm usually pretty low-key on my own. But these days, I'm feeling the weight of stress that has built up over . . . I don't know, five years or so. It's time for a release. It's time to be somewhere that isn't here. It's time . . . for baseball.

I'm also not much of a planner, and a good vacation - I think - takes planning. I mean, they don't just happen. If you want to put life on hold for a moment, you've got to do it yourself. You've got to construct a personal bubble inpenetrable by all other matters of life. You have to go somewhere you won't be bothered. You've got to stay away from Internet connections. You absolutely must forget to bring your cell phone. The word vacation comes from the Greek vakatos, which means "leave me alone." And to be left alone can be hard work.

So I think sometime in the next couple of months, there will be a vacation. There will probably be baseball involved. So I ask you all this question (please vote and comment, especially if your vote is for other):

What city with a baseball team should the Kellogg family visit this spring?

Wordless Wednesday: UPDATE

I've never done a Wordless Wednesday before . . . obviously I'm not very good at them. But I did feel like these pictures revealed a resemblance I'd never seen before. Judge for yourself.

UPDATE: I should probably let you know that the photos are of Addison (#2 and #4) and his late Grandpa Jim (#1 and #3). I will try to post some more photos of others in the family (yes, including me) at a comparable age.

Overheard . . . Lately

Here are some random Addison quotes from the past week or so:

(To Colin) "Stop organizing! Stop analyzing!"

"Let's have Mommy make a cake. She's marvelous."

(On why he wasn't a fan of Bee Movie) "It's too sting-y."

"Can Jesus fly?"

A lot of people have been asking if Addison understands about Grandpa Jim. I really don't know. He accepts the basics pretty readily. He knows death is final . . . but not. He knows Grandpa is in heaven, even though his body was right there in the funeral home. He did ask if the funeral home was, in fact, heaven. He knows that Jesus is in heaven, but he wonders about the logistics of how one might be transported there, hence the flying question. He wonders when we will go there.

Ultimately, I don't know how much more any of us understand the concept than Addison does. If we really understood death, Hamlet would have been a much shorter play, and Addison's questions would be much easier to answer.

But I do know he's paying attention. When it was my turn to speak at the funeral, I talked about the fact that almost everyone who knew Jim called him . . . Jim. Not Mr. Howard or Sir . . . just Jim. Then I mentioned that his daughters did call him "Dad," his grandkids called him "Grandpa" or "Papa," and Colin called him "Aawhaaargh." Addison was present when I was talking, but I assumed he wasn't listening.

Then today he asked me, "Dad, what does Colin call Grandpa Jim?"

"Aawhaaargh," I replied. Addison busted out laughing. He listened. He actually listened. I told a joke, and he got it. I think he got it. He laughed, and he remembered. A lot of people told me I did a good job, and I appreciate that . . . but it's very possible they were just being polite. Public speaking and I don't always get along. But Addison remembered one line, and he asked me to repeat it over and over again, laughing every time. That was the most genuine compliment I could have asked for.

I don't know how much he understands . . . but that kid sure is a lot of fun.

Madness

I don't know the best way to transition. I know the last few days have been a whirlwind. I know that no one uses the term whirlwind in anything other than a metaphorical context. I know that I've pretty much lost the capacity for emotional expression at the moment. So I'm just going to stick with what I know.

I know March Madness.

Now, don't get that statement confused with the notion that I know what I'm doing when it comes to selecting the outcomes of the labyrinthine luckfest that is the NCAA tournament brackets. I don't think anybody really knows what they're doing.

What I know is that I love predicting things. I love the short lived feeling that my gut has some ethereal connection to the goings on of the future. And I love the fact that the NCAA tournament produces 63 (64 if you count the silly play-in game) opportunities to put my prognosticatory abilities to the test. I also love the fact that people with no interest whatsoever in sports will agree to fill out brackets for the chance to make sports gurus look like imbeciles. I love the tracking. The checking. The crossing out. The green winning names and the red strikethrough disappointment that decorate my online brackets as the tourney progresses.

These are the familiar things that make the end of March so beautiful. Some may credit the beginning of spring with the upswing in people's attitudes, but I know better. March Madness makes the world happy. And then, as is the custom of the sporting world, the NCAA Championship Game is held on opening day of the baseball season, completing a segue of ecstasy rivaled only by the 1-2-3 punch delivered by movie previews, dancing cartoon movie snack food, and the feature presentation.

There's a feeling in the air . . . it is the beginning of all that is beautiful. The month of March officially begins on Thursday. And I'm twitterpated.

Please Stop

There are a lot of things at this point that can set off the water works around here. Anything that reminds us of Jim will do it. Pictures. Song lyrics. Memories. You name it. But I think the surefire way to choke anyone up (including me) is just to do something really nice.

That's one thing I'll never understand about being a person. Things that should make you happy and smile and say, "Sweet, thanks!" instead make it hard to swallow, hard to breathe, and hard to stop your eyes from leaking. Free food? Sobs. Let us watch your kids? Boo to the hoo. See Addison in a suit? Tears galore. If someone really does something crazy like call you, say "I love you," say something nice about you, or . . . pass the salt, you just might lose it.

So this is a public service announcement. Please, stop being nice. No more kind words. No more gestures of goodwill. No more thoughtful comments. No more prayer. You're killing us with this stuff!

And by that I mean, thanks a lot. For real. There are so many emotions, and for some reason they all produce tears. I don't think I'll ever understand that phenomenon . . . the whole happiness breeds weepiness thing. Because honestly, the things that really carve me up the most aren't the bad things. It's the nice things, the good memories, the traits we loved most about Jim . . . those are tear factories. I don't know why. If I came up with a plausible theory, the ecstasy of the discovery would probably just make me cry, too.

Anyway, Heather and I really appreciate everyone's kind words and prayers and assorted kindnesses. I can't thank you enough.

Tuesdays with Jim

A few months ago, Heather's dad (Jim) mentioned to Heather that he'd like me to write a book about his life. I thought it was a great idea, so we agreed to do a series of interviews to cover . . . everything. From his earliest memory to his ten-year battle with cancer.

Last night, that battle ended. Jim won. He's in heaven, pain-free, and the cancer is fading to nothing. But the rest of us left here are taking turns blubbering, remembering, laughing, and quietly coping. I just finished my blubbering shift, but I wanted to comment on one of the great gifts of my life.

That handful of evening interviews with Jim were amazing. He relived a little bit of troublemaking on the South Side of Chicago. He journeyed back to summers with his grandparents in Michigan where he met his first crush, a teenage girl ten years his senior. And he returned to his days as an altar boy, where his primary responsibility was sneaking wine with one of his buddies.

Every childhood story was sewn together by the single common thread of drinking. It was like alcohol was his best friend, the only one who never left his side. And I got to hear about it. I had the privilege of hearing his reflections on alcoholism at its worst, his saving grace in his wife Judy, his private revelation from God calling him out of that life and into a new life with Him.

He told me about his father, a man's man, a cop turned mechanic, who could do just about anything around the house or under the hood of a car. And I could see how Jim emulated the things he admired most. But he also told me about Orville, his spiritual father who showed him what it meant to follow Christ, to be a good father and husband. Again, Jim imitated those things he loved, and it made him a great man.

Then I got the cancer stories. He told the recorder (not me . . . when he gave details about his cancer, he most definitely spoke to the recorder to keep his emotions in check) more than I had ever known about his struggle. Conversations with doctors, his fears, and the unexpected grace that came from God and the people who surrounded Jim. It humbled me and emboldened me at the same time.

Here was someone who had the opportunity on this earth to reflect on his entire life and see the unmistakable hand of God in broad strokes and pin points. And as he did, with a candid honesty toward his own faults, he had no regrets. And he talked as if it was only the beginning. And there I was to take it all in. I saw his life, as well as my own, as a story. Not just some "one day at a time" meandering. Everyone's life has a conflict, but without the courage to change, it has no plot.

Jim showed me the plot of his life, the story of how God gave him victory over alcohol, over cancer, and over the sin that drives us away from Him and from each other. It was an incredible privilege that changed me forever. I didn't even realize it was changing me, but it did.

So, Jim, if you're reading this . . . thank you. (Also, if you can pull a few strings up there, is one World Series too much to ask?) I love you, Jim.

Life

If you're anywhere near a church in the next couple of weeks, sometime in this Easter season you'll hear a sermon or a lesson or some occasional speech describing in vivid detail how terrible the crucifixion was. You'll get a reference to the images in The Passion of the Christ. You'll get the hardware catalog rundown of all the devices of torture, all the dimensions of nails and thorns, and all the weight and force equivalents that tell you exactly how hard each weapon is swung and what impact it has on a human body. Then the terms will get scientific. You'll get the doctor's point of view that crucifixion is clinically proven to be very, very bad.

It is the preacher's one excuse for delivering a rated R sermon, and it is designed to shock, to mentally pummel, to disturb. The intent behind delivering such a message is to bludgeon us to the point of appreciation for what Jesus went through on the cross.

But if you've seen someone dying, you don't need the gore to appreciate what Jesus did. When you watch someone who takes in breath as if swallowing sand . . . you don't need any extra details. Death is awful enough in itself. It is a curse. It is humiliating. It is terrible.

And Jesus took it. He died. We have hope after death because He went through that terrible indignity and suffering. We have life because He endured death and all the other stuff that led to it.

That is humbling enough. I know, He went through the worst death imaginable. But . . . all death is bad. It's all bad. And He is so good.

Thank God.

Top Ten Additional Songs To Sing Along In The Car With (Even If I Can't Hit All the Notes)

10. "Carolina in My Mind," James Taylor
9. "Friends in Low Places," Garth Brooks
8. "Rock and Roll," Led Zeppelin
7. "I Go Blind," Hootie and the Blowfish
6. "Yellow Ledbetter," Pearl Jam
5. "Landslide," Fleetwood Mac
4. "Santeria," Sublime (although I like to substitute the lyrics, "I'm not Edgar Renteria. I don't like to play baseball . . ."
3. "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me," Elton John
2."Cult of Personality," Living Colour
1. "Need You Tonight," INXS

With these lists, there are no jokes. These songs come on in the car, watch out, I'm singin'. And no, I don't care if I hit the notes. I'm singin'. And I love it. I don't pretend I'm on American Idol. I don't care if my voice goes to pot. I only slightly mind if someone pulls up next to me in traffic. (And I could probably do 100 of these lists.)

Rock on.

Pardon My French

My son is learning French from a rat. We got him a Ratatouille Leap Pad book/cartridge, and on Sunday I first noticed it had a little "French lesson" page that teaches a few common phrases. Being fluent in French (and by "fluent" I mean I've forgotten almost everything I ever learned) I knew the ones Addison was learning and could help him with pronunciation and a few extra phrases related to the ones he was learning. You know, he learns good morning (bon matin), I feed him goodnight (bon nuit). I'm probably butchering it already.

Anyway, we've done some foreign language stuff with Addison before, and he likes it . . . but it has always been memorizing foreign language words for the heck of it. He never showed any interest in actually using the words or expressions to convey what he really wanted to say. But this time was different.

When the rat told him to say, "Je t'aime," he said it, he understood it, and then he put down the Leap Pad, walked over to me, gave me a hug and said, "Je t'aime."

"Je t'aime, aussi."

Then tonight as I was putting to bed, he started asking how to say different things. Just random expressions. Then I told him, "Je t'aime." He gave me a kiss and said, "Je t'aime, too." And then he asked me how to say, "goodbye." "Au revoir," I told him. "Ollivalor," he said. We worked on it for a few rounds, but . . . it's so hard to pick up the intricacies of the French language on an electronic toy, but Addison's pretty sure he heard it right.

I told him we better stick with bon nuit.

Missing the Blah Blah Blahs

I've got 14 days of work remaining before I leave my current job and start this new adventure called "paying for your own insurance." And I'm pleased to tell you I'm not having second thoughts. Every moment that passes is a reminder that I'm doing the right thing.

But it is not the easy thing. And beside all the financial worries that accompany a move like this (and the self-doubt that never ever goes away), the hardest thing about leaving the place I work is saying goodbye to everybody there. Let me take you through the typical day, and you'll see how good I've had it in the people department.

I start the day with the carpool, which includes my dad. That's pretty special, despite the fact that I snore the whole way there. We walk across the plaza together like we own the place. We don't own it. But . . . well, yeah, we kinda do.

When I get to my department, there's no one else there, normally. People straggle in as the day goes on, and I try to greet everybody at one point or another. I talk a lot. A surprisingly huge part of my day is spent in unplanned (but not entirely coincidental) conversations. I try to cheer people up. It's a sort of challenge. I don't always succeed, but . . . it's kind of an extension of my job.

When you write - no matter what you're writing - you're always writing to a real person. You're trying to connect, to make them glad they just read what you wrote. So . . . that's kinda what I try to do all day long, just in person and without a pen. It's not wasting time, it's practice.

And it's fun. It makes meetings fun. It makes lunch fun. It makes playing wallyball fun (and yes, I still owe you a post about the greatest indoor sport of all time). It makes coffee taste better, it makes walks through the cold feel a little warmer, and it makes long, nasty drives back home through Chicagoland traffic seem entirely endurable.

I'll miss that. Now, I'll totally enjoy doing the same thing with my family. But still . . . I've done it at Moody for so long, and everyone I've wasted the day away with has given me so much of themselves . . . I'll miss that. But I'm still leaving.

Creepy Crawler

No, Colin isn't creepy, but he is creeping. I guess that's what you call it when he's motoring around on the ground without doing the conventional "hands and knees" crawl maneuver. I don't know that he has any desire to ever actually crawl the old-school way. He likes this military style thing he's got going, and so do I. It's a little slower than the other way, and it produces this dragging, scratching sound that makes him really easy to track.



He's also totally talking. And by "totally" I mean he has finally convinced me that the sounds coming out of his mouth are words. Today when I got him up from his nap, he said, "Hi, Dada." And yes, he capitalized Dada which proved instantly he was referring to me and not just to some generic polysyllabic entity. He can also say, "I did it," "So help me," "Bubble," "Thank you," "Mama," and "For crying out loud, Addison, do not grab him by the head, now go to your room!" I assumed that came from Heather, but then the phone rang and it was she calling from her cell on the way home from the store. So I figured it was time I kept a closer eye on the boys . . . and a closer watch on my cold medicine intake. But I digress.



Anyway, these pics are from one of Colin's recent exploits into the saucer portion of his excersaucer. It was an impressive climb for him, as his particular brand of locomotion doesn't lend itself to uneven terrain. And there's another pic from when Addison put sunglasses on him.



Ain't we lucky we got 'em, good times.

Top Ten Songs to Sing Along with in the Car (even if I can't hit all the notes)

10. “Picture,” Kid Rock, Sheryl Crow
9. “Been Caught Stealing,” Jane’s Addiction
8. “Cracklin’ Rosie,” Neil Diamond
7. “Bright Lights,” Matchbox 20
6. “Man in the Mirror,” Michael Jackson
5. “A Long December,” Counting Crows
4. “Desperado,” Eagles
3. “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine),” R.E.M.
2. “Midnight Train to Georgia,” Gladys Knight and the Pips
1. “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby,” Counting Crows

Could Someone Please Remind Me?

I promised Addison a donut. I told him . . . Sunday? I think, that if he let me clip his toenails, I'd take him to Dunkin' Donuts the last day. (Yes, I did just use toenails and donuts in the same sentence.) But then, I didn't deliver. That is officially unforgivable. He hasn't brought it up, but that shouldn't matter. He shouldn't have to. You tell someone they've got a donut coming, you bring on the donut. You tell your son a donut is coming his way and fail to bring on the donut, you're a Dunkin' Donut Deadbeat Dad.

The donut, like a wedding ring, is a symbol of unending love. But it's also the symbol for zero, which is how I feel.

Here's the thing . . . Addison doesn't just love donuts, he loves going to Dunkin' Donuts. He loves sitting in the Dunkin' Donuts and eating the donut and getting up twice to get napkins and telling the lady behind the counter thanks for the donut after he's done eating. And he loves sitting across the table from me while he's eating the donut.

And he is dead scared of getting his toenails clipped.

So I've been busy and tired and sick and I forgot. I deserve nothing less than public chastisement. Feel free to rain it down on me. Bring on the insults. Every one will be a reminder that I've got a date tomorrow.

Way Cooler Water Cooler

Blogging is the new water cooler. To tell the truth, I didn't realize there ever were water coolers . . . or that they are called water coolers, but they were, and they are. Where was I? Oh, yeah, water coolers.

Even when there's no one at the water cooler and you're not thirsty, water coolers are the place to stop for entertainment not at all related to what you're supposed to be doing. When you're alone at the water cooler, you dispense water until air bubbles come up. That's always fun . . . like a cross-section view of a fart. When someone else shows up, you talk about weekends. It usually starts, "Doing anything fun this weekend?" or "Do anything fun this weekend?" (This makes Tuesdays really suck, because it's entirely too late to ask about someones weekend without showing you didn't care enough to ask yesterday, but it's way too early to make fun weekend plans.) The universal implication in the question is, "Seriously, if it's not fun, don't tell me." Most people ignore the implication and go ahead and share mundane weekend plans if that's all they have.

Once a third person enters Water Cooler zone, it's no longer safe to discuss weekend plans because of the possibility that two of the three have already partaken or planned to engage in fun plans that don't include the third person. This is unforgivable, so the third person will introduce his or herself and immediately start a new topic of discussion: television shows and/or sporting events. For some reason, television show discussion works best in threes.

The addition of a fourth person automatically divides the group into two pairs, at which point one pair discusses personal matters they've been waiting for an opportunity to cover while the other pair (usually the last two people to arrive at the water cooler) covers weekends or work . . . if it happens to be Tuesday or Wednesday. Water Cooler talker number 5 is never there for water. They are just lonely and jealous of the other four. Their arrival sparks a brand new topic: crappy things that have happened recently.

It has to be something that is regarded by all the members as a bad thing (person #2 getting screwed out of a promotion won't come up if person #4 got the position). Personal illnesses are popular. Bad weather. (Not snow. Person #3 likes snow, and everyone else knows better than to get him started.) Layoffs. Tragedies. No topic is too sad, because the group is at critical mass and it needs to break up. When the discussion turns somber, everyone nods their heads in faux deep thought. Of course, there is virtually no difference between the FDT head nod and the PAAUJ (politely acknowledging an unfunny joke) head nod--one or the other is inevitable. The head nod and a visit from the boss are the only things that can dependably break up the Water Cooler gathering.

Anyway, my point is that blogging is the Internet Water Cooler. But it's better, because none of these rules apply. You never have to talk about your weekend unless it's awesome. There is no limit to how many can gather. You can be as open or impersonal as you like. You can talk about television shows, but you can do so while watching said television shows. You still feel like you're catching up with the people you like, and the potential distraction from doing anything meaningful is obvious. There are no FDT head nods unless the person whose blog you're reading is in the room. And when you desperately want the conversation to be over, you can just click away instead of trying to invent new body language expressions for "How can you not let the conversation die after three prolonged sessions of head nods?!"

You're gone now, aren't you? Okay. Bye. I'll see you. Have a . . . great . . . weekend.

tAInted

Before I get a chance to hear what the judges say, I'm gonna make this short and sweet . . . and shocking to myself.

I loved Daniel Noriega tonight. He totally belongs in the '80s. I just loved it. Darn. I wasn't quick enough to type this before Paula made a "bright light" comment.

Okay, and I just heard Simon guarantee the kid's place in the final 12.

ROTFL . . . L

That last L is for "Literally." Addison actually makes Colin roll on the floor, laughing. It is hysterical. Honestly, the activity those boys do together most often is laugh, and it seems like the fulfillment of their very existence. The thing about these pictures is that they were taken during what I swear was a fifteen-minute giggle marathon that I heard as far away in the house as I can possibly get from that spot. When I finally arose to see what could possibly be so funny, I found Addison's material to be extremely simple.
Once again I swear to you, the only thing Addison did to provoke Colin (and himself) into cascading peals of turn-your-brain-off laughter was to say this one line in various intonations and funny faces: "Hello down there!" It started with Addison sitting in Colin's high chair, Colin doing his little two-fisted hammer crawl to see what was going on, and Addison looking down at him and saying, "Hellooooo down theeeere!" Laughter explosion. Then Addison held his nose and said it Chipmunk style, "Hello down there!" Even more hilarious, apparently. Each exclamation of "Hello down there!" was separated by a good 30 seconds to a minute of high-powered, hernia-threatening belly chuckles. Once Addison could catch his breath again, he'd go to that well one more time . . . and it never ran dry.
Eventually, Heather decided that Colin would have to eat lunch, but not before burning an Iron-Man load of calories through laughter that continued pretty much until the first spoonful of mashed mixed veggies came at Colin's face. At that point, a good hearty "Hello down there" might have been the end of Colin. It was a good thing, no doubt, that the hilarity stopped. But man, oh man, that was hilarious.

And honestly I think Addison has it right. He is obsessed with making people laugh. I'd like to think he got that from me, but it has to go deeper than that. Little kids recognize as obvious things that adults manage to forget somewhere along the way. I think Addison sees very clearly that laughing is good. Of the things life offers, laughter is one of the most precious, but it can be sneaky and evasive. If you ever have the opportunity to laugh, go for it. Whatever worry might be occupying your mind, it will come back. But laughter fades away . . . or it causes you to choke on pureed produce.

WAYITM?

My friend has a tradition of asking the question, "What are you into this month?" Actually, it's a series of questions, so I'll get right to flattering her with imitation by answering them myself.

The Thing I've Been Working On The Most
Change. I had a Groundhog's Day revelation that I desperately needed to break out of my "every day is the same" lifestyle. So I've spent the entire month trying to make at least one change a day. Some of them lasted. Some of them stuck for no more than a day or two. Some days nothing changed. But in the end, it was a fantastic exercise.

TV Show I Used To Love But Now Hate And Refuse To Ever Watch Again
We used to be huge Survivor fans (the show, not the band). But for the past few go-rounds, we haven't watched an episode. It's not that I hated it, I just hated what my Thursdays had become.

TV Show I Sometimes Hate But Really Like This Year
Desperate Housewives. It's kind of moot post-strike, but I liked what they were doing with this season. Felicity Huffman and Dana Delany are serious actors, and I'll tune in to watch them share the screen any time it happens.

The CD I Can't Stop Listening To
Raising Sand, the surprisingly natural collaboration of Robert Plant and Alison Krauss, and produced by T-Bone Burnett. But I think every album recorded in the last 8 years has been produced by T-Bone. Still, it's really good, and this song is one of my favorites.

My Favorite Blog Entry This Month
I guess it would have to be my last one, because it was the biggest change of all.

Blog I Am Always Visiting
Michael and Leah (and Cole) really crack me up and make me think and all the other things I look for in a blog. Plus, the Web address starts with mlb, which subconsciously makes me think I'm about to read about baseball. http://www.mlbarefamily.blogspot.com/

What I'm Most Looking Forward To Next Month
My last day. And March Madness. But mostly my last day. And meeting my friend's new baby, whenever her first day comes around.

Enough Change for One Month

I started this month talking about Groundhog's Day and how I'm not big into change. I'm a big routine person. And after trying to make a change every day, I'm still a routine person. I mean, come on, I had to turn change-making into a routine in order to be able to do it.

But one of the big no-change areas in my life was my job. I've had the same one for almost ten years . . . and I'm not going to make it all the way to ten. I saved the biggest change for the very end of the month, and it will force me to make quite a few changes from here on out.

Yesterday, I handed in my resignation. My last day is March 31. At that point, my official occupation will be "freelance writer," which is equal parts scary, exciting, and satisfying. There are more adjectives, but those are the main ones. Just typing this gives me an adrenaline rush.

But, as adrenaline doesn't pay the bills, I have work to do. Seriously, what this came down to was whether I was going to trust God or not. Deciding to trust Him, that's the big change. Heather and I agree . . . we'll never regret it.

Fresh Prince of Beldare

Addison has now memorized the entire intro (well, the abbreviated intro they played in every episode after the pilot) to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He's memorized it phonetically, so there are plenty of words he's lost on. Like calling him the Fresh Prince of Beldare and instead of saying, "shooting some b-ball," he says, "shooting some people." I'll consider posting Addison's rendition when he's not unintentionally threatening violence against the community. For now, I'll share the full, rarely seen version from Mr. Smith. Just close your eyes and imagine a four-year-old white boy getting a few words wrong here and there. Oh . . . and I made a big change today, but I'll keep it a surprise for now.

It's Over-Myer

I wasn't going to do American Idol commentary, but I just had to say goodbye to one of the female competitors that I liked going into the competition phase. Amanda Overmyer . . . she can't possibly come back another week. (Quick aside, there's no way Alaina knows what the term Dark Horse means.) Amanda just absolutely slaughtered "Wayward Son," and it's too bad, because it dawned on me who she reminds me of: D. J. from Full House, only with attitude and a comic-book hairdo. Oh well.

And a tip to any of the Idol contestants who read this blog: don't sing your favorite song. Okay? The songs you sing along with in the car are NOT the songs you should sing on stage. "It's always been one of my favorite songs," is not an excuse for phoning in a lame performance.

I'll wrap it up with this: my next change . . . is gonna be a big one. A few days' worth.

Musical Ripoffs . . . Mayer vs. Cooke

John Mayer slowed it down a little bit, but check it out . . . total ripoff. Or spinoff. But, as I've said before, ripoff is so scintillating and scandalous, it's yummy.

Truth vs. Reality

There's a big difference between truth and reality. Sometimes, it makes all the difference in the world. Actually, the world is all the difference.

Today, I heard someone talking about college students--in a positive light--having an invigorated sense of vision and passion yet to be doused by the reality of life outside the shelter of a dorm room. It was the positivity that caught my attention, because it was a successful person speaking. This was someone who had realized some of his dreams, so he didn't dismiss the naive dreams of kids with no clue about reality.

It was at this point that I saw the difference between truth and reality. Truth is extrauniversal, not confined to the boundaries of our experience. But in our lives, something becomes real when you can experience it--see it, touch it, taste it, whatever. When your senses can take it in, it's reality. When all you can do is imagine it (or have faith that it exists) it's not real . . . but that don't mean it ain't true.

A lot of truth has no basis in reality. Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not real. I think courage is the ability to make truth a reality, or at least hang in there until it materializes on its own. I've got some dreams that I've been waiting to come true. But now, I think they're already true. I just need them to become reality for them to be worth anything. Or maybe, the possibility will be enough to keep me going.

So, why Voltron? Because I added to the sidebar an automated news generator that pulls up stories containing the word of your choice. I chose Voltron because A) that show freakin' rocks, and B) I thought it would be funny. As it turns out, C) there really is Voltron news. So here's my invitation to go check out all the happenings in the world of lion robots.

IATLAYAS and DD and IVVVV

Addison stood up on his chair at lunchtime yesterday and said, "I am the Lord, and you are Satan."

He was pointing at me, his faced clench into the most adorable expression of wrath I've ever seen. I really didn't know what to say . . . I was really just doing my best not to laugh. I mean, was I supposed to lay down the law here and now that in the world of make believe, you are not allowed to pretend to be Jesus. The only acceptable times to assume that role is in manger scenes and Passion plays. This was neither, so the obvious thing to do was to nip this behavior in the bud.

"Sit down, Lord," I heard myself say. Okay, this had gone too far. And then, it went farther. Addison went into old school WWF mode.

"Watcha gonna do, Satan? Are you gonna destroy me? Or are you gonna give up?"

"Well, I guess I'll give up. What's the point, really?"

"No, you're gonna destroy me."

Okay, so the theology was beyond messed up at this point, so Mommy stepped in between the Lord and Satan to offer this word of counsel: "No, Jesus is all powerful, so Satan can't destroy Him."

"Oh." Thoughtful, four-year-old pause. "You know who can destroy Jesus? Bad guys."

We eventually straightened Addison out, assuring him that Jesus could not be defeated by anyone or anything and that pretending to be Him for play was probably not the best idea, nor was calling his father, "Satan." He still gave me one more Hoganesque, "Watcha gonna do, Satan?"

***
Heather (and Addison) swear that Colin is saying, "Da-Da." Frankly, I don't see it. Or I don't hear it. I don't buy it. No one is suggesting he's actually calling me Da-Da, but I don't even hear the sounds. I hear awooyaga. And olyowaa. But not Da-Da. Why I'm not playing along, I don't know. I'd kill for a Da-Da. Maybe I'm just not ready for another kid to grow up. Nothing to fear . . . he's not yet eight months old, but still . . .

***
Tonight as Addison was going for his ritualistic bedtime cereal snack, he said, "I'm vo, vo, vo, voracious." God bless Pinky Dinky Doo's Great Big Word Machine.

Little Cub

(UPDATE: If you were wondering, here's an update on Liev.)

After we named Colin (and I think an hour or two went by after he was born before we finally decided on one) we later discovered that one of the meaning of his name is "Little Cub." So it came as no surprise to me yesterday when the donning of an oversized Cubs hat caused him to burst into fits of hysteria. By the time I got the camera, it had downgraded to a mild case of smilius goofus. By the way, the hat Colin is wearing in these pictures is adjusted to fit Addison perfectly.

Colin's happiness aside, he probably won't be joining us on May 1 when Heather, Addison, and I head to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs take on Prince Fielder and his vegetarian Brewers. We bought tickets for just one game when they went on sale Friday . . . I'd like to think we could attend more games than just the one, but the Cubs' recent rash of success (financially; baseball, not so much) has ticket prices just a bit high. It doesn't help that you wind up paying about 5 bucks per tickets in convenience. Getting the shaft, so convenient. The real hilarious thing is that the ticket sellers recommend you use the uber-convenient "print the dang tickets yourself" option, which will cost you $2.50. Yes, they invite you to print out the tickets you bought on your own printer, on your own printer, with your own ink . . . and pay them two and a half bucks. I opted for the no extra extra charge for just having them print out the tickets and mail them to me. Go figure.

And here's a random tidbit from the Oscar red carpet festivities. When Cameron Diaz was talking about . . . something incredibly important, I'm sure, Addison asked, "Is that Mommy?" I hadn't heard that one before.

Oh, and I've seen just a smattering of the Oscars so far, and it's so good the writers are back so the presenters have something freshly awkward and unfunny to recite. Yay!

New Site of the Week - White People Blog

If you read only one blog today . . . dude, seriously, this one? But if you read only one more blog today, I would highly recommend this blog about Stuff White People Like. It is hilarious. Every post triggers at least one of two reactions: 1. Ha! White people are so ridiculous. 2. My stalker has been blogging.

It really is fine work. The blogs make fun of white people, but they aren't kidding. It's insightful, brilliantly written, cutting, sarcastic . . . everything you'd ever want in a blog, right? If you're a white person, or if you've ever met one, you should check it out. Difficult breakups, expensive sandwiches, the Toyota Prius . . . it's a veritable emporium of mock whiteness.

Today's change: less laziness.

Top Ten Myths the Church Loves to Believe

10. Your personal level of righteousness is directly proportionate to how nicely you are dressed.
9. Punctuality is commanded in the Bible.
8. Heaven will be a democracy.
7. Satan was a musician.
6. Dissent is the same as dissension.
5. There are seven things that please the Lord: the habits of highly effective people.
4. Perfection is possible.
3. Righteousness is impossible.
2. If your theology is correct, it's okay to be a jerk.
1. Comfort is a virtue.

Bonus: Pastors should pee standing up.

Lionheart

I decided a while ago that I wanted to do something special for post #100, which this is. I mean, it is post #100. But it is also special.

I just wanted to invite you, dear reader, to pray on behalf of a little boy who might be in the process of being born right now. His name, I'm told, is Liev (which is the Russian word for lion). Because of complications, he has to be delivered right now, three months early. Obviously it's a shock for the whole family, most of whom live in Ukraine.

Anyway, I said I would pray, and I hope you will too, that God will protect this little guy. Thanks.

UPDATE: Liev was born the good old fashioned way and is doing well. He weighed in at 2 lbs., 10 oz., (1.2 Kg) which they say is actually pretty big for being born that early in the pregnancy. No complications other than the early delivery. He's on a respirator (but is starting to breathe on his own in a "who needs this ridiculous machine" kind of way) and is being fed through a tube (although he is sucking at it, showing he knows full well this is a task he's supposed to be doing by himself). He's still at incubator status, but the family is ecstatic about the prayers Liev has received and the strength he has shown thus far.

Not Nice

I am not a morning person, but I appreciate 5:00. As much as I hate to roll out of bed (and I relive it with multiplicity each day, depending on how many times I go all Rick James on the snooze button) there's something special about those first few moments of the day when I'm the only waking person in the house. It is that window of time when I have convicting thoughts. There is clarity in the morning, and clarity almost always reveals something I've been doing wrong for years. But unlike the regret that creeps in at nighttime, morning clarity has a certain positive spin . . . I think it's equal doses of reality and hope.

Reality is the nerve-shredding buzz of the alarm that gets you out of bed, and hope is the hot shower that convinces you it's worth it to try a little harder.

But this morning's dose of reality was a little stronger than that of the typical day. I realized that most of the nice things I do for others come at absolutely no sacrifice to me. I get accused from time to time of being nice, but the more I thought about it this morning, the more convicted I became that I don't do it enough . . . or at least, I'm not usually very selfless about it.

It's like this. In life you have three different types of activities: things you're supposed to do (responsibilities), things you want to do (desires), and things it would be really nice if you could do for other people (good deeds). I would guess most people's lives are pretty full of responsibilities, and I tend to fill in the rest of the blanks with desires. As for me, when I decide to squeeze in time for good deeds, it's not my desires that take the hit. When I do something nice, it's usually at the expense of responsibilities. Not always, but . . . usually.

So that sucks. And it's pretty obvious what the change for today needs to be. It won't be easy. I think I know where to start. I know, I'm not the only one with this problem. And it could be worse. But, it's gotta get better. I believe it will.

Changing Batteries

The change of the day is pretty simple, and I started it a little while ago. Old batteries are going in a paper bag to be recylced at some point. I confess, I've never been a battery recycler. Now I am. We are. We recycle.

Alright, planet slightly less destroyed, I was shoveling away the lack of global warming this afternoon, and it was hilarious. The snow was as light and cloudy as a dry cappuccino. Seriously, there was a ton of it, but I've expended more energy brushing dandruff off my shoulders. Okay, that's gross and untrue, but you get the picture. I truly have never shoveled snow that was that light before. It was so light, I was spending most of my time just thinking up metaphors just to give me something to do.

When I came in from the mini-exercise, Addison commented, "Daddy, you're really strong! I saw you move a whole pile of snow!" It was true. I did. I was going faster than my neighbors with snowblowers. Heather wondered how I could plow through it so fast. I didn't tell her (until now) that it was ridculously easy. I mean, that's the first lesson in Chick Impressing 101: If the girl you like is dishing out credit, you take it, no matter how little you actually deserve. It's even more important after you're married and she grows accustomed and unphased by your feats of strength. Oh well, it was a fun couple of hours of falsely received glory.

Aaaand . . . so far American Idol has been one big eyeroll for me. I'm ready for the dead weight to be cast off. Why does this show bring out my inner Simon?

Overheard . . . All Day Long

Addison has been cracking me up left and right today, and I wish I could remember everything he has said. I'll go in reverse order and see what I can recall.

"Michael Jordan is a bad guy. Let's get him."

"Look at the size of that Jaminja Turtle!"

"He's dead! No, he's not dead. He's okay. Their shells protect them."

In response to my demands that he abandon his toys and return to the dinner table: "No time to explain!"

"I'm Devin Hester."

"I'm Bernard Berrian. Is he a girl? Does he have funny hair? I'm not Bernard Berrian."

"I'll be Brian Urlacher."

"Robbie Gould? Is he king of the Bears?"

"Nobody can turn into a plate. People don't eat plates."

"My brain wants TV right now."

And he started off the day with, "I love you, Daddy." Yeah, I'll take that.

I Don't Care What Randy Says

"So Happy Together" does not rock. That dude did not make it rock. No. No, no. That's a Golden Grahams song. It's an Ernest Goes to Camp song. It is not a rock song. Not that kind of rock song. I'm not feeling very good about this year's AI batch of boys. Every year they say it's their best pool of talent yet, and every year there is a whole lot of dookie.

Right now, I blame Michael Buble. No, scratch that. It's not his fault people like him. Why any man with testosterone flowing through his veins would choose to emulate Michael Buble is beyond me.

I shouldn't blog while I'm watching American Idol anymore. Not this season, anyway. Dedicating a song to your dead Grandmother? Nah, not on the first show. Play that card later, when people know you. Oh, oh, and why, oh why is Barry Manilow wearing a doo-rag and a fake beard and wig? Or why is the motorcyle rocker guy singing like Barry Manilow? What is this world coming to?

Okay, let's move on before the kid from Freaks and Geeks starts singing. I was going to decide to be punctual today, you know, for a change. But then I decided I would just be enabling people who were too wrapped up in their fast-paced lives. Then I was going to talk about people who were too wrapped up in their fast-paced lives. Then I decided . . . no, don't talk about people. Talk to people about what bothers you, or get over it.

That's my change. I gotta go talk to the Freaks and Geeks kid. I have issues with his performance, but I want to bring them up to him face-to-face.

Just to Clarify

This boy is not a crybaby. Yesterday I said "uncharacteristic" because he is not predisposed to fussing. Far too often his face looks like this, smiling ridiculously.

I say that because I fear Colin is slightly underrepresented thus far on the blog. It's not that he isn't vastly interesting. I'm in love with that kid. He's just not exactly in story mode yet. Pictures do him better justice than words. This one is pretty darn accurate.

Now, Addison continues to crack me up, and to my disbelief he remains motivated by the "eat it or you'll turn into it" trick. The really funny thing is that he doesn't believe me at all. He just likes entertaining the notion that he's narrowly avoiding some sort of culinary metamorphosis. I know if he had a blog, right now he'd be typing, "Dude, I almost turned into a noodle tonight. Close call." Regardless, I can't believe how much I've gotten him to eat with this one trick. Tonight is was a noodle (which is high atop his list of offensive foods) and a cooked carrot (can't remember him ever eating one before). I didn't even have to spoon it to him. He couldn't eat it fast enough. Awesome.

Today's change is very small but that doesn't mean it's not important. It's one of my favorites. I'm changing the way I say caramel. Up until now I had rotated between all the options, defaulting (I think) with CAR-uh-Mell. Turns out, that isn't even one of the five--FIVE--accepted pronunciations in Merriam-Webster's dictionary. There was much debate in the office over how to pronounce the dictionary's given pronunciations. So I've decided on CAR-mull, pronunciation number one. Then it was insinuated that this was a waste of time. I scoffed at the notion, sure that as the resident grammarians we were compelled to be the authorities on such matters. I was quickly proven right.

Not five minutes later we headed down to get some coffee at Moody's righteous java joint, where I overhead the barista repeating back an order, "So a shot of CAR-uh-Mull? Or is it CARE-uh-Mell?"

It's CAR-mull, buddy. But to each his own.

Terrific

Despite an uncharacteristic weekend of naplessness and a night full of crying from Colin, this weekend had its fair share of random delights. Here's a sampling, way too many of them coming from NBA All-Star festivities:

1. Yesterday's dunk contest. Dwight Howard had an array of ridiculous dunks last night, including one that had him catching the ball in midair behind the backboard, ducking his head below the backboard and slamming it home on the other side. He also dressed up like Superman, but his first propless dunk was the best. But for me, the highlight of the night was Gerald Green's blow-out-the-candle dunk.

2. Oh Canada. I love that song. They sang it yesterday and today. It's almost enough to make me move to Canada. Almost.

3. I love sandwiches. The good (or bad, I don't know, really) folks at Esquire have released a coast-to-coast list of the best sandwiches in America. I read through it, and it looks like a mouthwatering road trip. I'm booking it now.

4. Jazz. They've been playing it all weekend since the All-Star Game is in New Orleans. I know the whole thing is lame, but the music has been killer.

5. This morning Addison and I went to Dunkin' Donuts. He paused, mid-donut, and said, "Dad . . . this is terrific." Yes, Son, it is pretty terrific.

6. In a renewal of a previously unpublished change, I'm back to everyday flossing. Woo hoo, I know.

Top Ten Things We All Own But Never Use

10. DVDs. Mostly, we (and by we, I mean society) watch the ones we get from Netflix, Blockbuster, or the library, but we purchase DVDs strictly on a museum basis.
9. That rack that goes in your microwave.
8. China.
7. China cabinets.
6. Tape Decks. The mixed CD will never be as significant as the mixed tape. If you don't have a deck on which to not play your old mixed tapes, the memories aren't nearly as haunting.
5. Smoke detectors. You're supposed to check these how often? I'm running on never.
4. Jet-Dri dishwasher rinse agent. You put this in the first time you buy it. Then maybe refill it biannually.
3. Anything you've ever worn in a wedding.
2. That one wooden spoon with the hole in it.
1. Boggle. I estimate that everyone in the world owns this game, and it gets played a cumulative worldwide average of twice a year.

Change for the day: I had an apple instead of some packaged, corn-syrup-laden snack. Of course, I had already downed some peanut M&M's, but still. I changed my choice of follow-up snack anyway.

Musical Ripoffs . . . Daniel vs. Holiday in Spain

This is one of those that is a long way from ripoff status . . . heavy influence at best, and I'm just taking a guess. But I like the guess. And as Heavy Musical Influences isn't nearly as scintillating as calling it a ripoff, I'm calling it a ripoff. Elton John's "Daniel," to me seems like it may have served as a musical inspiration for the Counting Crows' "Holiday in Spain." For the sake of argument, I'll say that Elton is singing from the one left behind, and Adam is the one doing the leaving. Check it out and tell me what you think. See a link there? For what it's worth, I love both songs, so I hold the Crows to the musical ripoff flames with the highest respect.

Oh, and no real changes today, so, um . . . I'm gay.

- Ellen