Deep Thought II

It's been decades since I've done a somersault.

Adopt this fence

Oh, and there's a dog in there, too. Her name is Fiffer. Pronounced like Pfieffer.
I don't know where Gina and Amanda are, but they've been gone the last two weeks, so I still don't know anyone, I'm still filling water bowls, still unable to answer questions about puppies in the back because there's no info on the kennels, and now the few (4!) pictures they have up on their website include three dogs that have already been adopted, which is lucky since they're all from this sad perspective from the people side of the kennel. Lugnuts.
Storm was being adopted as I walked in. The Rotty's doing better, gaining strength, less gastrointestinally affected, still loves a twelve-minute pet-down. Walked a beautiful collie named Laura and a duffel bag of a malamute named Asia. Sheba was a little stand-offish, and seemed to have rolled in mud. Or at least I hope it was mud.
Before I left, I went back to Room B to hear the Cat Chorus of Hollywood Squares, as I scritched up, left, right, and down in the stacks of cat kennels. One was actually named "Mo Beautiful." Mo Matted, mo like.

Starring Ed Harris

Had a great briefing today from an Undersecretary of the United Nations about a recent mission in Liberia; he discussed our nation's history with that fractious West African nation, how it came into existence, how Mr. Firestone made a killing (and saved our bacon in WWII) having planted rubber tree plants there when Japan invaded the British and French rubber plantations in Malaysia and IndoChina, how Liberia made the Guinness Book of World Records for corruption in the 1930s when the president was elected with 232,000 votes when only 15,000 people were registered, and how the country has become so delapidatious that it doesn't even register on some global charts of poverty.
Our Thursday lectures are the best part of my AFIT experience, when academics takes a back seat to professional development and leadership perspectives. Makes it feel like Air Command and Staff College, which is what this program is aspiring to be anyway.

The good news is that we learned who this year's speakers are going to be for the Wright Brothers Lecture Series in June the week before graduation. Like last year (see June 10 2005 entry), it's going to be a two-day gathering of legends from World War II, Vietnam (POW Col George "Bud" Day, whose son I worked with in Turkey, coincidentally), the Space Program (Gene Krantz, the Mission Director at NASA for years, but famously during the Apollo XIII mission), and more recent leadership (recently retired AF Chief of Staff Gen John Jumper, which is appropriate, since it was his idea to send more people to AFIT to get their degrees).

I was so stoked I volunteered to be on the WBLS committee, though on the "communications" panel doing Audio/Visual, advertising stuff, rather than Protocol or Escort duty, since I'm so shy.

Deep Thought

I'm betting it's been years since Shaquille O'Neal has been comfortable in a public toilet stall.

Chubbibubby

It's annoying that a baby's only responsibility is to sit there and get fat.

Well, Ryan's doing a bang-up job; at his three-month check-up this morning, he weighed in at 11lbs 6oz, up nearly three pounds from December. I commented that his mother is going to have biceps like coffee cans by summer time.

Everything else checked out, too; the doctor is pleased with our boy's progress into manhood. He should be playing the bagpipes before Arbor Day.

I've Been Through the Dayton on a Dog with No Name

Thursday's visit to the Humane Society was frustrating; the problem is I have the one in Colorado Springs to compare it to, and I don't think anything will ever match up. There, the volunteers (seemingly hundreds of them) were made to feel a part of the team. They got nametags and smocks and, I don't know, what's that thing called, oh yes: training. I've been going here for over six months, and I still only know two people's names, and they weren't there on Thursday, so I just grabbed a leash and started walking dogs. (The head honcho does usually say hello and seems genuinely pleased that I'm there -- not that he's ever introduced himself.) But the kennels were a mess, I had to give fill four empty dog bowls with water, and it seemed louder than usual. It just doesn't seem like there's much dedicated attention placed on those pups in the back. They don't even have names up on half the kennels, so I was walking dogs I knew nothing about. I wanted to growl at people myself.
But I'm not there for the employees. Most of the dogs from last week were still there, except for the boxer that got adopted that afternoon. My friend the Rottweiler is looking a little better, but he has worms and won't be healthy and adoptable for a while. The only pic the shelter has available is for "JC", who looks like a combination of a pit bull and Don King's hair, but she was very sweet.


My son is three months old today. He goes in for another checkup on Monday.

The apartment next to me, vacated last month, is being shown as I type. Pardon me while I scare them off with some random screaming and cackling. I need it quiet for study time...

My son, the Jalopy

You read books. You see movies. You know going in: babies cry.
I was prepared for this, and yet, it seems to take a lot for our son to get to the point of tears. A lot of this is certainly due to the fact that he is doted on and extremely well taken care of and has lots of shiny objects (read: pet tags) to keep him occupied.
But even in the middle of the night, if he wakes up in his cradle, he doesn't get us up with a blood-curdling scream -- rather, he sputters. And spits. And coos. And revs. Like he's cranking up a 1914 Ford Model T. It's the baby equivalent of "ahem."
I'm glad that he is comfortable enough with me that I can soothe him from time to time and not automatically have to hand him over to She With Bosom. Sunday, while my wife was in the shower before bed, Ryan started to Spitfire himself back awake again, legs kicking, arms flailing, trying to get that engine started. I threw my legs over the side of the bed, ready to lean over and pick him up, but as soon as he saw me, he immediately stopped gyrating, his eyes fluttered, and he fell to sleep. I have NO idea what I did, but it was a great feeling.

Which was the exact opposite of the feeling I had when I was carrying him around the living room during the Redskins-Seahawks game and our defense let an easy tackle on 3rd and 5 slip through their hands. I didn't exactly yell, but let forth a sudden, low-pitched exclamation that scared the beehaysoos out of my son. Arms and legs kicked out like a starfish, and a low, slow cry began...followed by that deadly silence that signals that he'd just ran out of breath and boy, wait until he gets his next one and...yes...there it is...
"What happened?" calls my wife from upstairs.
"The Seahawks just got a first down and Ryan's very upset about it."

Huggies Stole Our Championship

Sure, you can blame the lackluster offense, not taking advantange of the three turnovers, or perhaps that six straight emotional victories had finally caught up with them, but really the Redskins lost because there isn't a decent diaper out there.
My son was decked out in his lucky Redskins outfit again, ready for the late afternoon kickoff, when he took a stroll down Urinetown, and the diaper he was wearing (Slogan: "Now 100% More Permeable!") did a bang-up job of sucking. So we had to change his whole outfit into something with ducks on it which certainly favored the Starbucks-swigging nautical aviary platoons of the northwest.
We have informed Joe Gibbs that since Ryan will be bigger next season, he will have more clothing options available to him in the 9 month-to-15 month range, plus he should be out of diapers and also be able to play "Hail to the Redskins" on the xylophone.

"Poop."
Well, not quite...

The Step

The staff of the Humane Society of (*snicker*) "Greater" Dayton have done a pee-poor job of keeping their website up to date, so I can't show you the great dogs I had the pleasure of meeting this afternoon.
I hadn't volunteered since before Thanksgiving -- I was just too busy in December with classes and changing diapers -- and although I told them I'd be back in January, they still looked pretty surprised to see me. Found out Tiger was adopted, and I didn't see any other familiar faces, so that's all good news. Unfortunately, it's a full house again. They asked me to walk the "rotty" in the back who had growled at a couple of volunteers this week. (Great.) I figured I'd work my way up to him.
Fiffer was a rambunctious greyhound/lab mix, Storm a bouncy, claw-y chow looking thing without a purple tongue, let's take a look at the Rottweiler, okay, staring me down, let's move on, Aulora was scared of her shadow, and a couple of other new arrivals without names yet were just fine furry companions. But back to the Rott.
Squatted next to his cage, not making eye contact. He was curled up on a dog bed, but when I crouched, he got up, shook, and approached me. I put my hand up as a downward paw; a friendly sniff. I asked him if he wanted to go for a walk, gently opened the cage, and he stepped towards me and let me hook up a leash. No problem.
It wasn't until I got him outside that I realized that he was extremely malnourished. He barely had the strength to lift his leg up to a bush. But he had a powerful stride once I got him across the street into the field, and he enjoyed a biscuit from my pocket. And I took the time to kneel down and scratch him on the head and the cheek and the chin and neck...and stop...and wait for that wonderful reaction... the step. The small subtle step forward, the nose into my armpit, a simple request for more. Something my own dogs do rarely, because they are lavished with love nine hours a day (they're asleep the other 15). But this guy, with ribs showing, open sores on his paws, and gooey eyes dripping tears, you could tell from his reaction that he hasn't been touched this way in a long, long time.
This is the reason homework takes a back seat on Thursday afternoons in Dayton Ohio.

It felt this good

Well, I started my back physical therapy today.
Hydrotherapy (water jets shooting up on to my back while lying down) to "relax" the muscles killed, the "rack" (decompressor) stretched my spine, which hurt like hell, a quick ice pack, then electric shocks and suction cups (?) above and below my lumbar. Then I hit the weight machines.
With my fists.
Screw you, weight machines, I said.
Only nineteen more sessions!

Hail

Thanks to the offensive juggernaut that is the Washington Redskins, they have made it to the second round of the playoffs. I watched the game at a Buffalo Wings bar and/or grill with an old buddy of mine from college who is a more rabid fan than I but who has decidedly fewer stories in his home dedicated exclusively to the Redskins. We blame his wife.
There were definitely more Redskins fans than Bucs fans at the bar, which meant we were subjected to random high-fives and barbaric yawps from smoke-laden inebrious strangers, but because we got the victory, we didn't mind much. Indiana U. even won their basketball game against Ohio State on a separate television, though because of where we live, there were significantly fewer Hoosier-Yawpers around.

I kiss your head.

Yon

Now that I've had all of this term's classes, I can tell you that I would still prefer playing guitar or pouring Elmer's glue on my fingers and letting it dry and peeling it off and holding it up to the moonlight and pretending it's spooky Transylvanian cobwebs.
The good news is that I only have three courses this term as opposed to four, and the classes are nicely spread out over the week rather than being all stacked together, giving me time in between to complete work. The bad news is that I have to actually attend the three courses:

Management of Human Resources (ORSC 672) addresses personnel management topics including the legal framework for personnel management and job analysis as the foundation of personnel management activities. It's taught by someone who got a Master's Degree at a Seminary, so it's like she's a nun or something. We need to watch our language.

Data Communications (IMGT 657) is taught by the same guy who taught Information Warfare last term, but we're pretty much covering the same material, only with more emphasis on Application Architectures, SMTP, IMAP, FTP, Telnet, Modulation, Analog Transmission of Digital Data, TCP/IP, SPX/IPX, and 802.11b. Stuff.

Macroeconomics and Public Policy (ECON 620) is about friggin economics.

What do you think, son?

Click

You know, it looked a little illumanitive in there as I approached, but I just thought it was the street lights shining in.
I finished unpacking my car last night, and when I locked the car, the lights inside stayed on, which they do in many cars so you can find your seat belt, adjust your shoes, do a crossword, what have you. I should ensure it goes out, I thought to myself as I rolled my suitcase and armful of crap away.
Somewhere in that one block I forgot to look back, and MAN what a funny lack of noise the car made this afternoon when I tried to start it.
With forty minutes to get class, I asked a gentleman who had just parked up the street if he wouldn't mind giving me a jump with his car, but he said "Naw," his is "messed up." Forsooth and begorrah.
Fortunately, as those of you know from the 26 July 05 blog entry, I live across the street from a Goodyear shop, and since they've taken enough of my money in the last six months, I asked if they had a portable charger they could use for my car around the corner. Started right up, then died when I put it in gear, but started again, and got me to class. I grabbed a guy afterwards to make sure I wasn't stranded in the parking lot, but it started then, too. What a car. For a bonehead owner.

Beep

After 18 wonderful days filled with baby drool instead of organizational behavior statistical surveys and something I'll graciously call "apartment food," I have returned to the abyss. Unfortunately, the abyss was beeping.

Sometime over the break, the battery for the smoke detector in my apartment died, which it announced to anyone within a half-mile radius with a short, loud, high-pitched brrip every thirty seconds or so. Unfortunately, the device sits about ten feet up the wall above my bedroom door, so even up on my size-11.5 tippytoes perched on a chair, I could not reach it, let alone duct tape a pillow over the speaker. I called the 24-hour maintenance line, and possible highschool graduate "John" called back to tell me that since the incident was not classified as an emergency, and his services would not be reimbursed, I was indeed excrement out of fortuity.
"So are you guys going to pay for a hotel room so I can get some sleep?"
"Nope."
"Is there a ladder somewhere in the building so I can take it out myself?"
"Nope. Plus, it's hard-wired 110, and it's a pain in the ass even with the six-foot...so..."
"Yes, I'm sure you're a highly trained professional."
"Hmm?"
"Happy New Year, John."

So I went to sleep somewhere between 12:30 and 3 am, feeling like a guy in a coma hooked up to a machine, with the loudest, slowest heartbeat on record.
What was the name of that TV show where the guy's lone super power was the ability to slow down his vital functions so he could pretend he was dead and thus solve mysteries in morgues and stuff?

Ryan's First Dump

Every newborn is going to experience a series of firsts, and I'm thrilled I was able to witness so many of Ryan's. His first sneeze, his first yawn, his first shots :-(
(We're saving the little puppy dog band-aids.)
I was home for his first Christmas. His first New Year's Eve. His first time falling asleep in his crib.
So mommy's got to save a page in his baby book to commemorate this blog's title event...
yes...
his very first visit to the Prince William County Landfill.

What were YOU thinking?