Did I Hear A Carrot Being Sliced?

 Our little pup wants in on whatever I'm chopping. As soon as he hears the Henckel blade against the sharpening stone, he's there hoping it's carrots.

 Whether it's lemons

 Lemonade

 

Yellow Peppers 

Red Peppers

   

Limes

 

Parmesan

 

Or green onions, he's there.

Lego A No Go

My ten-year-old leaned over to me half-way through the Lego movie: "I wish I could touch the bottom of the screen and see how much time is left, because I am really bored."

I had to agree.

Though the movie's problem was more than being boring.

The first problem is a kick-ass, fierce, accomplished female character (Wyldstyle) falls for a unremarkable rule-follower (Emmet) with no particularly original ideas other than a bunk-couch. Female character comes understand her subservient position to the special Emmet character—and to adore and venerate him—because she's realizes that, well, men are awesome.

Second problem is when corporations tell us how to be an original, free thinker: purchase their products! And if you don't follow the directions, they have a special admiration for you, you crazy renegade purchaser! Here's a pat on your free-thinking caucasian head, now go on back to Target to buy the deluxe model.

Just to make sure you understand that you can't think for yourself with the aid of a corporate overlord, a Coke commercial precedes the movie. Various folks at creative pinnacle of their lives—which they face with a Coca-Cola in hand. Free-thinkers take creative risks with can of carbonated chemicals at their side.

In Praise of Plan A

Let's begin with a re-cap of my blog post Death to Plan B.

What Plan B says: I got your back, bro. Go for it.
What Plan B means: You're going to fail, loser. Come move back home. You can live in the basement.

Plan B is not necessarily evil. When it is doing its job, that is, supplying a fulfilling and/or lucrative source of income while also providing time and encouragement to pursue your own creative projects, it's lovely. But when Plan B hisses in your ear to stop writing, painting, or researching ancient Nordic magical encantations because your ideas aren't worthy of the time you're giving them, and instead use your energy to give your already robust Plan B even more attention, then we have a problem. In general, the stronger the Plan B, the weaker the Plan A.

Why is this?

Let's take a look at your typical Plan A:
• silly
• impractical
• appeals only to people like you
• does not provide an obvious and/or immediate income-generating path
• makes you giggly, happy, and giddy
• little precedent for it
• none of your friends have done it
• none of your friends want to do it
• your friends have tried it and failed
• books are written on how many millions have failed at it
• looks strange on your resume
• parents are not able to describe it
• creates hopes of fame and grandiosity followed by waves of shame and self-loathing for allowing you to think expansive, wonderful things about yourself
• requires you attend expensive classes, workshops, conferences, and seminars
• tempts you to travel to places you've never been with money you don't have
• demands that you network with people you've never met

Look at your typical Plan B:
• has worked in the past
• capitalizes on your experience
• exists within an established market
• success is measurable
• affirmation arrives regularly, in the form of compliments, gratitude, and cash
• your parents can mostly explain it to their friends

Who wouldn't want Plan B?

Plan A is that great idea you have, like a post-apocalyptic clothing line, or a diaper composter, or glasses that change their prescription as your eyes change, or shoes that let you bounce like Tigger, or Asian/Dragon themed underwear for women (go ahead and steal these ideas, Plan B has already talked me out of them). Fun, exciting stuff that makes people go: "Cool! Too bad it's totally impossible for people like us."

I'm writing a novel. I've been writing it for eight years. The first chapter won an award. A NYC literary agency read the entire manuscript and said it's not finished. It has some traction out there in the world. I have been three months from finishing the novel for the last two years, writing anywhere from 0 minutes a day (sometimes for months at a time) to 6 hours a day (three times total). Things like work and kids and howling doubt get in my way.

During those eight years I have worked at graphic design almost every day. Kids and howling doubt and writing don't get in the way of work. I work hard, sometimes at night, sometimes on weekends. My design has improved immensely in the past eight years because of the energy I've put into it. I never used to refer to myself as an illustrator, except to say oh yeah I'm pretty good in this one cartoon-y style, but then I drew one cartoon-y thing, then another, and now I've fully illustrated two educational card games (coming to stores near you this spring)!

Here are two cards from one of the games.

Are they not the cutest things you've seen in your life? Thanks! I'm an illustrator! We get better at something the more we do it. We become what we do. If we only put the same effort into our day jobs that we put into our personal creative projects, we probably would have been fired. And if we work to please our creative muse as hard as we work to please our colleagues, our projects won't be shoved into corners of time no one else wants (née 11:42pm). We have to nurture those babies and create time and energy and resources for them. Which is why I'm here to tell you: my novel will be complete in three months. Now, I must go write.

Death to Plan B

The single greatest impediment to the success of Plan A is to have a really solid Plan B. 

Plan A by nature is more true, daring, and risky. It comes from the heart, from the gut, from unexpected successes, flashes of insight, moments of pure confidence. But for Plan A to become more than a bubbling in the belly and  real in the world, it must first push through the bullet-proof scrim of Plan B.

Plan B, ever practical and durable, is an extremely good liar. It tells you that you you don't need to give up security to achieve a dream; you can have your cake and eat it, too. That is true, if you like your cake crumbly and dry with no frosting or non-pareils.

Plan B crosses its legs and you looks straight in the eye: if you have a dream like writing, or singing, or performing—can't you work on that at night after your kids have gone to sleep? There's a good two hours of time right there. Imagine what you could accomplish with your exhausted, end-of-the-day brain if you used your night hours. It's your dream, so stop whining that your creativity is more ripe, bursting, and explosive first thing in the morning. That's a cop out, Plan B tells you, plucking a cat hair off its black turtleneck. 

Devote some time to your dream, Plan B continues, of course, but don't forget to put the lion's share of your energy toward that which enervates you. Work hard to stay exactly where you've already been. Cultivate the same solid, secure, goals and sources of approval you achieved ten years ago. Be safe, be assured, put food on the table and money away for taxes. Route the sewer. Replace the roof. You're reaching the age where you also probably need to up your life insurance.

Plan B's on a roll, now. It's a shame you can't take advantage of lower interest rates with your house being too far underwater to refinance and all. Too bad you're working harder to make less money now that half your industry has been outsourced to India. Just become indispensable. Become un-outsourcable. You know what you should do—you should learn Javascript. You'd be really good at coding because you are creative and logical. Who says art has to be limited to writing a novel? Live the creative life and let go of what creativity looks like. If you open your mind, you could be happy and have a good job. A web development firm with three weeks' vacation, a dart board, and free Intelligentsia coffee.

Plan B nestles in your ear, wallowing in its waxy cushion. Books are becoming extinct anyway, at least that's what it read on Yahoo! If you still insist on hitching your harness to the relic of publishing, at least write your novel while your kids are napping. What, your kids don't nap? Give them a twig and twine and tell them to go entertain themselves. That's what we did when we were kids. We spent hours building forts out of old newspapers and used Dixie cups. That's why we're so superior now, and why we give such great advice.

NEXT: A little more about Plan A.

Make Your Own Fake Petit Ecoliers

If you are anything like me (and why wouldn't you be?), you find Le Petit Ecolier the almost perfect cookie. Their buttery cookiness, their chocolately chocolateyness, their scallopy edges, the little schoolboy imprinted right into the chocolate. They're so compact, so tasty, so . . . expensive. At around $4 for a 5.29 oz box (plus the environmental nightmarishness of the plastic container inside the box), they used to be for special occasions only.

It really is a beautiful cookie.

Did I just say used to be? Yeah baby. Because I am going to teach you how to make your own Petit Ecoliers in no time at all for less than half the cost. And this isn't one of the ridiculous Pinterest DIY claims about making something just like something else for just pennies but actually takes about three days, requires buying specialty products (like silver spray paint, glycerin, and stuff like that) from specialty stores, and then looks or feels nothing like the so-called expensive original in the first place and would probably been more environmentally friendly to have gone and bought at Target. 

No, this is the real deal. I find that graham crackers and Nestle's chocolate paired together taste almost exactly as good as a Petit Ecolier. Particularly if you haven't eaten a Petit Ecolier in a long time and have forgotten exactly how perfectly buttery that scalloped cookie tasted. Turn off your memory, get yourself a box of Honey Grahams and a bag of snack size Nestle chocolate bars. Simply break the graham cracker in half, then half again (they are conveniently scored to make this easy.) Sandwich a piece of chocolate between two of the graham cracker quarters, et voila, you have a Petit Ecolier-like experience.

The pseudo versions lacks the visual panache of a Petit Ecolier, but has an appealingly rustic simplicity of its own.

I have not done a side by side taste test of the two cookies, but in my dim memory of my last Petit Ecolier, this little version stacks up pretty well. Feel free to disagree, and I may have to admit I've become one of those Pinterest DIY people. However, you will never catch me spray-painting a doormat silver, scrubbing it down with steel wool, hanging it on the wall, then claiming it looks just like wrought iron.

Alley Walks: The Illustrated Version

A few weeks ago, I discussed my daughter and my new tradition of walking the alleys. What that post lacked was pictures. So here they are. Our alleys are pretty boring, as you shall see, so these walks are a process of finding something magical in practically nothing, an exercise that serves one well throughout life. Just the fact of walking through alleys though, where people generally don't, confers something special and otherworldly on the event, and I love to hear her digressions of thought and the feel of her warm hand slipping casually in and out of mine as she chatters. 

Here is a garage roof on the ground. The new roof is on the garage, you cannot see it.

This huge parking area behind/next to a building appears to be constructed with some thought as it is made from materials that absorb rainwater, rather than sluice it straight toward Chicago's overburdened sewers. But in all our alley walks (3 total), we have never seen a car parked here.

 A rare bit of color.

There is really not much of interest in our alleys. They are prim and sterile. The nice thing about the dearth of interesting is we get real excited about practically anything, including these two toolboxes. We approached timidly, as if they contained bombs.

 But—nothing.

 Lets play: what is this?

 Nice arrangement, but no thanks.

This got us a little excited because we thought it was an impaled animal.

 Aw, that thingymabob is smiling at us.

Now we're talking—a fenced-in vacant lot. She wants IN.

 But there is not much to get in for. Is it so ugly it's beautiful—or just ugly?

 It looks like a beach, Jessie says. I find this strangely beautiful. Unlike the Northern California coast, which is just beautiful beautiful.

 Whoa, a huge pencil and a rock.

OK, she's in. The mere fact of being fenced out made crawling under the fence irresistible.

I feel like I'm visiting her in jail. I hope this isn't a portent.

Super great find—a padlock. Her brother was so taken by this treasure, he insisted on going on an alley walk also.

Things That Push Me Over The Edge

Parenting is a long hard row of stickiness, colds, smells, messes, whining, drama, and chaos—occasional moments of unparalleled joy thrown in to keep the species propagating. I have mostly accepted this. Whatever tasks comprised a busy day before kids I now accomplish before my first cup of coffee. But there are still things that push me over the edge, things that are bewildering and unexpected, that shouldn't be, therefore I cannot get used to.

1. Not being able to get up before the kids. If you are a writer, and you have children, and you thus have trouble finding time to write, writing books browbeat you into getting up before your children and write before they wake. E-Z breezy! Problem solved. Ignorant advice brought to you by the same people who told you sleep-while-your-baby-sleeps! back when you had a newborn and were near-dead with exhaustion. Don't listen to these insidious deceits. No matter how silently I creep down the carpeted steps, how stealthily I situate myself in the remotest part of the house the furthest from their rooms, how silently I press pen to paper, the children WAKE! Bleary-eyed, confused, tired, up hours before their usual time, they trundle down the steps to find out what all the racket is about, and upon finding none, make one.

2. Nothing being more fascinating to the kids than me writing. If my kids have friends over, or giant bunnies arrive bearing candy, or Despicable Me is on TV, their entire beings will be deliriously drawn to these things like moths to a flame—unless I am trying to write. In which case, their bat ears detect the nib of my pen rolling across paper, which must sound to them like a chain saw ripping through a tree, because they come running over to find out what is going on. "I'm writing," I say, words that are the kiss of death to the writing process. They cannot keep themselves from wrapping themselves around me asking what I am writing about and whether I would like suggestions to make the story better. They also like to watch me write, it's like a lava lamp to them. Forget the Pied Piper, just pull out a writing notebook. Children materialize. And they don't go away.

3. Things I can't identify, in places they don't belong. It's one thing to find the broom on the front lawn, or the colander in the bed, or the training potty in my office. These are all things we own and they drift hither and yon throughout the house, aided to various locations by the little people we live with. This I understand. It's when mysterious items appear: a circuit board on the dining room chair, some kind of thermocoupling device in the bathroom sink, the styrofoam packing to what looks like a flying saucer in the cupboard. What are these things? Where did they come from? Are they important? Is the furnace going to explode because this essential gee-gaw is lying on my pillow? Forget asking the kids where the whooziewhatz came from. They've never seen it in their lives.

4. Bags of second-hand clothes appearing like spider eggs around the house. Where did this bag of clothes come from? I ask my partner. She does not know. It just appeared, bursting with clothes of various sizes for various types of weather. Winter coats appear in July, shorts in February. Of course the coat is expensive and high quality and barely worn, a perfect specimen of a winter coat but for the broken zipper. One never wants to toss a bag of clothes, especially an expensive child's North Face full-length down jacket with a broken zipper. Because someone could fix that zipper! Take it to the cleaners. Yes, we will take it to the cleaners, and for the prize of a zipper replacement, we will have an expensive child's North Face full-length down jacket. Trust me, the jacket will never get to the cleaners. The zipper will never be fixed. Nothing short of absolutely essential tasks ever get completed and even those, such as  our roof replacement, sometimes years late.

Alley Walking

Because my 8-year-old daughter is into alley walks, and I: her unreasonable and unyielding mother, will not let her walk the alleys of Chicago alone, I have been going on alley walks lately, usually starting before dusk and ending after dark.

These walks have led to all manner of interesting conversations, including why someone would paint red stripes on their garage gutter, how electricity works, rain run-off on concrete vs. pebbled parking areas, how sewers work, why there are so many mattresses in alleys, and what graffiti means. Also, due to the walking, and the uniquely relaxed nature of alley walking, much stream-of-consciousness thoughts and questions are shared by the little thinker, including:

Jessie: How tall is a yay?
Me: A yay?
Jessie: You know—something is yay high?

and—

Jessie: What would you do if you saw someone walking away from you but it turned out they were really walking toward you?
Me: Um.
Jessie: What would you do?
Me: Yelp.

and—

Jessie: Can we make a deal if we find something cool that's clean, we can keep it?
Me: It depends on what it is.
Jessie: Let's say an iTouch.
Me: You think we're going to find an iTouch in the alley?
Jessie: Thanks for walking with me.

One finds all sorts of interesting things on alley walks, including enormous garages that must have been stables at one point, hidden parking lots, electrical generators, and trees growing out of garages. The smells are surprisingly nice too, including burning wood and flowering trees. I highly recommend alley walks.

Things That Are Popular Now

It's Thursday. You may have a party to attend this weekend. Worried about making conversation? Here are things that are popular right now. Happy chatting!

1. Hexagons

2. Rabbits

3. Anchors

4. Bow ties

5. Hand-lettered type

6. Red velvet cake & its variations (i.e., cupcakes, cheesecake)

7. Pug art

8. Paisley

9. Home made baby wipes

10. Talking about how badly parents are parenting these days

11. Dr. Seuss

12. Faux taxidermy

13. Beards

14. Macaroons

Don't worry... bookmark this post ... because I will keep it updated.

Red Bud Down

I was feeling sad/guilty about digging up the red bud tree I planted too close to another red bud tree. For the past three years they have both grown ferociously, their limbs weaving ever tighter into one another. One of them had to go or both would die.

Hacking away with a saw and shovel, pondering the cruel choices of life, the propulsive expansion of nature, the way our minds create value differences resulting in "weeds" and "beautiful trees," I was approached by my 80-year-old neighbor, ax and chainsaw in hand.

We worked well together. Thwack, thwack, thwack, zzzzzzt, zzzzzt — the red bud was uprooted, slaughtered, and quartered in a fraction of the time I'd allotted; efficiently stashed in a brown lawn bag before I could say: "Sorry for the poor planting job, little guy."

I love neighbors, and neighbors helping each other, and people of different generations coming together. All that created a warm, fuzzy, neighbor glow in my heart, but but but — the tree: so unceremoniously executed.

I'm going to have to perform a little good-bye ceremony to it in the alley tonight.

The moral? Follow the planting directions on the tag.

The Kids Are All Right

After arriving home from a family outing to Rango, I noticed my cell phone was missing. It was a miracle to notice this within an hour of leaving the theater, rather than say, two weeks later, but that is a different post titled “I Hate Cell Phones.” This post is not about hate—it is about hate’s opposite, though I have not yet figured out what that is.

I called the theater to see if I had left the phone there, and a young man I will call Pat answered. I don’t call him Pat to protect his anonymity, but because I can’t remember his name. Pat asked many clarifying questions as to where in the theater I was sitting and what the phone looked like.

“The movie ends at 9:25,” Pat said. “I will go in at 9:28 to look for your phone. You can expect a call back from me—hopefully telling you I have your phone.”

Yeah, right, I thought, like he’ll remember. “Or I could call you at 9:35,” I said.

“You could do that,” Pat said.

Pat called at 9:42. “I am happy to say I have good news. I have your phone in my hand.”

Pat actually seemed to care whether I got my phone.

When my cousin worked at Pottery Barn, customers would send letters to her manager raving about her service. I couldn’t imagine what could be so great about service that you’d be compelled to write a letter. But somehow, on a snowy February night, a 19-year-old had my back while I wasn’t expecting it or thinking I needed it, and it was such a relief.

I don’t know how to describe Pat’s manner: it wasn’t kindness, exactly, though that was there. It wasn’t politeness, or even helpfulness, though those were there also. It was more like humanity. Goodwill. He was naturally engaged, interested, open. I wondered what his parents were like, and whether they were proud to have such a lovely son. I hope they are proud of themselves.

And I hope my children and I grow up to be this altruistic.

Wikipedia: Altruism can be distinguished from feelings of loyalty and duty. Altruism focuses on a motivation to help others or a want to do good without reward

This post for Susan. If she can write a long thoughtful post, so can I.

Ice Breakers

I love this product. It is a gum experience not matched since Freshen Up, The Gum That Goes Squirt. First Ice Breakers Ice Cubes (that seems to be the name) are shaped in cubes, which from a put it in your mouth sensation perspective, is oddly satisfying. Second, the cubes are coated in some gritty something or the other, also an oddly satisfying grit to the tooth sensation. And the little blue dots, it's almost like chewing toothpaste. If you love mint, this stuff goes straight up your nose, so it also serves as an antihistamine. Ice Breaker Ice Cubes taste great, reminding me of Germany for a reason I can't place. The consistency must be experienced to be understood—how you might expect Silly Putty to feel in your mouth if Silly Putty were a chewing gum.

Say Cheese

Yesterday, because I was not wearing my glasses, I bought a hunk of camembert at the grocery store thinking it was brie. I didn't realize this until lunchtime today. Luckily, I've always lived by the motto: When life gives you camembert, eat it.

Plus who can forget the line in Wallace and Gromit where Wallace takes a bit of the moon and says "Hmm? Camembert?"

But what is camembert, and what is the difference between brie and camembert? Wikipedia says they're each from a different part of France, plus camembert has less fat. Yum! All the flavor, with less flat. It may be time to try Wensleydale.

Sundaze

For the debate about who is happier—couples with kids (CWIKs) or couples without kids (CWOKs)—I undertook unscientific research at the zoo this afternoon by observing 1.) strolling couples unencumbered by children, shoulders jostling as they gazed into each other's smiling eyes, taut stomachs, casual weekend wear still fashionable and 2.) couples shoving toddler-laden strollers, bags under eyes, twenty extra pounds at their hips over which ill-fitting shorts hung shapelessly, staring blankly toward unknown motes on opposite horizons. The CWOKs had it! Definitely looked happier than the CWIKs.

But with a thumbs up to their easy happy luxurious unfettered Sunday, did the CWOKs get to play Guess-The-Animal-That-Crawled-Onto-Our-Lawn-This-Morning-And-Died with their 2 and 7-year-old?

 

"It's a mouse," said my daughter.

"No, it's a puppy," she corrected herself.

"How do you know it's dead?" she demanded.

"Oh, it's alive. It's an animal that doesn't need to breathe," she concluded.

Despite it all, today was one of those brilliant blue late summer days where the sun cuts a golden swath, rendering everything in its path magical, fleeting—including caged animals, rested couples, and tired parents (none of which appear in the picture below, you'll have to take my word for it).

Cycling Through

While our children ran up and down the aisles shrieking with joy, I asked the salesperson at the appliance superstore which of the three silver dishwashers she showed us was the most durable. She said:

"Durability is not a consideration with these dishwashers. They all last 5-15 years. You want to pick the dishwasher with the features that match your lifestyle."

She thinned her eyes at me then, on that word lifestyle.

What was she implying—we gays have some kinky way we like to wash our dishes that require special dishwashers? I was thrown back to Memorial Day weekend several years ago, when after someone spray-painted Queer House on our garbage cans, two gigantic detectives sat in our living room trying to figure out their motive. Apparently, stupidity and bigotry were not options.
"Do you have enemies?" one detective asked.
"No."
No enemies. They shook their heads. Puzzling.
"Do you guys make out on your way from your car to your front door?" the other asked, with not a hint of irony.

Now here I was in the appliance store, my lifestyle in question again.
"What do you mean by lifestyle?" I said.
"For instance, this one has the silverware rack in the door. This one does not. Which feature you prefer depends on your lifestyle."
It does?
"What other features are there?"
"Noise. You may want a quieter one, depending on your lifestyle."

She wafted away to allow us to ponder our lifestyle.
"I don't get this lifestyle thing."
"I do," my partner said. "Let's say we lived in a mansion on the North Shore and we wanted a quiet dishwasher with a short dry cycle to match our luxurious lifestyle."
Don't the maids run the dishwashers in mansions, I thought, but decided to let it go, remembering the sloshing, groaning noises our now dead dishwasher made, as if Charybdis were in there trying to escape.

"So no matter which one we select," I said to the salesperson on her return, "it will last as long as any other one?"
"Pretty much."
"We'll take the cheapest one, then."

There was my lifestyle.

Overanalytic

At my gym, wedged between a stream of Pink and Kelly Clarkson are little advertisements for the gym's add-ons, one being working with a trainer. "What gets measured, gets improved," says Mr. Bland-o blandly. I've wondered whether this is true. In high school physics they taught us you can't measure something without changing that thing. They were teaching us about the improbability of measuring, not the value.

In that spirit, I disabled the Google Analytics on this blog. I bet you noticed how much faster it loads now, didn't you? I spent two years using GA to divine the undivinable, which was basically—how can I get rich as a writer and how much am I loved? I've haven't remotely answered either question.

For a week I thought I was particularly popular in Washington, D.C., from whence I received an unprecedented spate of hits. After I received the cease and desist email from D.C. lawyers telling me to no longer refer my Chicago Area Wildlife Society in an abbreviated manner which might create confusion between my estimable wildlife society and their client's estimable wildlife society, my hits from D.C. also ceased.

After I quit Facebook in late May, my blog posts became longer and more personal with less links to outside sites. My stats took a 25% jump. They love me! I thought. All along, that's what people wanted, to hear from me. But of course. My confidence ballooned until I decided to take a look at this weird golbnet.com site that was sending me all sorts of traffic. It's a junky little page that looks like it was created by a third-grader. Google research told me these folks set up proxy ad sites around the world to "visit" blogs. An analytics spam, if you will, so stat-hungry bloggers like myself will go to their sites to see who they are. When I counted the hits from URLs with golb in them, guess what: 25% of my traffic starting late May.

That was it. I was done determining my value from a squiggly little graph. I used to blame my kids for  lack of any time to myself, but as I'm sloughing off my social network addictions one by one, I'm afraid it might not have been them, it might be me. The last two nights I've spent time with them, made a dent in the pretty good but not amazing novel I'm reading, gotten a my own writing done, and even gotten in my favorite forensic reality shows, and it's still not bedtime.

Did you like this post? I'll never know.

Powerpuff Girls?

Good news: Our two-year-old announced today: "I don't like Tom and Jerry." Yay, the nightmarish episodes of cute little mice burning on backyard grills, cats with their fur sliced off their body, and puppies hoisted in the air with the sharp edge of a sword are over.

Bad News: "I want to watch Caillou." Yes, Caillou is back, that shrill little child who is never told a discouraging word, at least not in a direct way.

In today's episode, I believe titled The Emotional Blackmail of the Homemade Gift, Caillou drops his mother's mug and breaks it. Turns out the mug was made by his grandma at a craft studio.

Reaction in My World: Thank you Caillou for freeing me from that clumsy clay mug! I will never again have to feel obligated to keep and/or drink from it just because it was a handmade gift.

Reaction in Caillou's World: Oh Caillou honey, that was my favorite mug because my mother made it. But don't worry about my loss, it was an accident.

Caillou, sufficiently shamed, admits to his grandma he broke the mug she made.

Reaction in My World: Mugs break.

Reaction In Caillou's World: Why Caillou, we can go the craft studio and make her another one. Let nothing in our world ever change and we will all be fine.

Caillou proceeds to make an even clumsier and more lopsided replacement mug and presents it to his mother.

Reaction in My World: Dang it, Caillou—you freed me from that other mug and now you've saddled me with an even heavier burden, a mug you made. How am I ever supposed to enjoy my coffee when I have to drink it out of lacquered lumps of clay?

The episode ends with the characters singing a song whose message is essentially: the best thing you can do in the world is give people gifts because gifts make people happy.

Reaction in My World: Ha, ha, ho ho ho—that's rich! Gifts make people happy!

At this point I want to tell my son, draped over the ottoman, to never, ever think he has to give me a gift, or love a gift I give him, to prove his love. But I don't as I'm fairly sure the entire meta message of this episode has gone over his head.

"I want juice in a sippy," he says.

Weeds

Bad News: USB cord for camera has not turned up. Weed, fork, and taco blog photos remain trapped in Canon.

Good News: Losing USB cord forced me to do what I've needed to do for a long time: purchase a semi-professional camera.

Better News: My Nikon D90 just arrived.

Bad News: I can't use it yet. No extras at all, including no camera bag or memory card. I am surprised there is even a lens cap.

Good News: Nikon's USB cord works on our old Canon. Now I can write my weeds post, my forks post, and my taco post.

On a related note, I am surrendering to the serial comma. When I was in high school, the last comma in a list was optional. The way it was presented to us, it was more enlightened to leave it out. This was the journalistic style, and journalism was worldly and worldly was . . . now all of a sudden the serial comma is mandatory—everybody's using it—and I'm not going to fight this fight. Serial comma it is.

Weeds: here they are, thigh-high weeds growing behind our garage.


Tacky, I agree—especially when you compare the back of our garage to the back of our neighbor's garage.


We are that neighbor whose weed spores flutter onto your freshly sodded turf. In our defense, it isn't as if the neighbors are out weeding behind their garages all day while we're inside kicking the dog. It's that we are one of the few on our block who do not park in our garage. We were even asked by a neighbor: "Why do you not park in your garage?" My parents never parked in their garage, for starters. Where would we store our lawnmower, child transportation devices and stacks of drywall if there were cars in the way, for two? No one else gets weeds because four heavy wheels roll over their wannabe weeds many times a day, stunting their precious growth.

Plus, I have better Sisyphean pursuits than weeding the alley. Other thankless chores I could do 1). take our four bags of aluminum cans to recycling center (thanks City of Chicago for your non-recycling) 2.) mop dining room floor 3.) file bills 4.) weed actual lawn 5.) grocery shop 6.) you get the picture.

But weed the alley I did, with this result:

Much better, but better than what? It's still a dirty alley behind a decaying garage. It doesn't look good in or of itself. Nobody is going to drive by and admire our dirty weed-free concrete. It only looks better than it did.

Postscript: Now I am stalked across the Internet by ads for the D90.

Next: forks.