Francophone

One of Ryan's favorite toys is the phone. Only our phones aren't toys and we had to stop giving him our cells because he pushed enough buttons to call Sri Lanka or get onto the internet and have us charged fees for surfing. But at first he just liked the beeps and songs, then he started mimicking us by going "Blah Blah Blah" (that's a direct quote) with the phone on the side of his head. Or anything sleek, bent, and hand-sized, for that matter. I'm surprised he hasn't put a banana to his ear and called Guatemala.
Only now that he's found his voice, we're not exactly sure who his parents are. Because instead of saying "hello?" when he puts a phone to his ear, it comes out "Ah-loo?" like little Lord Font Le Roi.

Went to a buddy's Lt Col pin-on ceremony today at the Defense Intelligence Agency. Pretty cool building. Very glassy. But I hadn't seen him or his wife in over two years, and I also witnessed his pin-on to Major four years ago when we worked together in Colorado Springs, so all in all it was worth getting stuck in DC traffic to go.

Day 91 of our "7- to 10-day" project has passed with them being a snake's navel away from finally being out of our hair. If only they could find someone in the county with a level -- perhaps even a string tied between two objects -- so they could make a little 15-inch banister not crooked. If only.

The two-year-old directly across the cul de sac got a basketball hoop today. Uh-oh.

More Ryan words: zebra, hold it, hippo, olive, tube, okay, comment-allez-vous, spankmuffin

Playdough

After the wife didn't seem to appreciate me trying to teach my son to point, wink, and make a *click-click* sign like an old hairy gigolo, I worked instead on getting him to do a 'thumbs-up'. First by demonstrating, then by letting Mommy win a "thumb war", then by letting him try. He is inclined to stick his index finger out instead, but if we work really hard, and hold his fist down, and staple a piece of dental floss to his fingernail, we can get that little sucker up.
He actually picked up on it pretty quickly, and once threw out a spontaneous "Aaaayyyy".

I read in a pregnancy magazine that Ainsley had subtly left on top of my face that pregnant mothers are supposed to sleep on their left side. It's supposed to increase blood flow to the fetus and release pressure off either the kidneys or the liver, I forgot. Probably the liver, I deduced. Then I thought that "Liver" would be a nice name for a girl, and perhaps that's what Liv Tyler is short for.
I'm thinking I had too much wine with dinner.

My Army boss announced that we were going to do a Staff Ride to get out of the office for a day. Some folks didn't know that it's a chance to analyze a battlefield first-hand, convenient here in The Civil War's backyard. An Air Force lieutenant colonel suggested instead that we go to the Udvar-Hazy Air & Space Museum, since rockets are closer to what we do for a living. An Air Force major pointed out that if we went to a Civil War site, we'd just point out how Air Superiority could have contributed to the overall success of the Union.
"You Air Force people just don't get it, do you?"
HEY DON'T LUMP ME IN WITH THESE GUYS, I'M A HISTORY MAJOR AND DID MY THESIS ON THE BATTLE OF PERRYVILLE and then I got quiet because I worried that they were going to make me organize the trip. Or drive the bus.
The boss jokingly said it might be Fredericksburg (since that's where he lives); someone else suggested "The Wild."
"You mean 'The Wilderness'?"
"Whatever."
"Well, that's kind of a hard battlefield to walk around in...what with it being in the wilderness and all."
I offered that I'd never been to Appomattox or Chancellorsville, but they decided to go closer, Manassas.
They also decided, despite my all-Caps espousalment from above, to go smack-dab in the middle of my next deployment.
Fine.
I'll just go to Appomattox.

More Ryan words: cucumber, tomato, pink, do, bib, moment, all done, xerophilous

Fade to blue

I learned today that an Air Force colonel I worked with in Turkey from 2000-2001, recently retired and working as a logistics contractor in Iraq, was killed earlier this month during an insurgent attack.
I was a lowly Captain, literally in the corner of the room during Wing Staff meetings, while I watched the Wing Commander sit with his Big Three -- Ops, Support, and Logistic Group Commanders -- discussing the latest issues with Operation Northern Watch or the local terrorist threat or the next exercise. We may have exchanged a few words in passing, though our professional paths were in different fields. But I admired him, recollected on him from time to time, and often looked for him on af.mil to see if he'd made General.
He is the first, after all the thousands and thousands to die in this war, that I knew. I can picture his wife; remember his kids from the on-base high school. And this sort of revelation happens all over the country, every week. To think thousands were dying each day during WWII...
I found a website the family has put together and learned that the Colonel will be buried at Arlington Cemetery a few days before my next deployment. I'm going to try like hell to get there.

Land. Mines.

The biggest headache I ever had with living in an apartment was when the air conditioner exploded and sprayed Freon over everything I owned in the dining room.
Oh, there was the mice in that one other place.
And then all the noise from both sides in Dayton.

So never mind; owning a home is cool. Just dangerous.
We spent Saturday morning at Lowe's buying more DoItYourDamnSelf stuff, then the post-napping hours digging dirt, clay, and rocks out from under the deck to pile up against the bottom step of our new stairs so they'll pass code before we do a full-blown landscaping project. Ryan's not used to those kinds of slopes, and did a slow sideways somersault down the Mound of Renowned and was none too pleased.
Still, that beats me falling off the top rung of a ladder while pruning the tree our front. So huzzah for that paratrooper landing training I received seventeen years ago at Field Training. And for letting go of the pruner before hitting.

In recognition of his continued service to the Pocomoke clan, we invited Grandad over to swing in the hammock and soak in the hot tub (with Ryan counting our toes) before enjoying a flame-kist steak dinner. For better or worse, Ryan has learned how to say "No" though it's so far used in a relatively benign way, as in "no thanks, I don't want to give the dogs a treat and stick my hand near those teeth", not a screaming and running-away "NO DON'T WANNA GO TO BED YET". He also correctly identified his bendy-straw this morning as being pink.

Other interesting words he knows: bulldozer, volleyball, beer, diaper, Guggenheim Museum.

Reek Hap

Early mornings at work and early nights to bed-slash-Ryan's floor have delayed my visiting you all this week. Howdy.
Spent most of Monday in a counter-elicitation class, taught by some dude who demonstrated how easy it is to get people to talk without even asking questions, based on judging their personalities, etc. He was from Huntsville, Alabama, and used video taped conversations with people from there to demonstrate his techniques; he later explained one reference to the local ice-skating arena by stating that it was the biggest money-maker in town, with the possibility of getting a semi-pro hockey team there, and the local college competes nationally for the NCAA title nearly every year. Plus they have midget hockey.
"Midget hockey?" I said. "Heck, I'd pay to see that."
Apparently it's not what I thought it was. He called me a smart ass (!) and said it wasn't like dwarf tossing; more like little league.
I started to feel funny after lunch, blaming the previous day's all-out diet-busting dinner, but I also had a glimmer of a headache. By the time I started driving home, my stomach was in a knot and my body was aching and hot; yet another flu. Ainsley put me to bed at 6:10pm after I put up a feeble protest.

Up 11 hours later, I felt progressively better as the day wore on; even walked on the treadmill to get the muscles stretched out for the next day's fitness test on the bike. When I got home, Ainsley showed me her project du jour: Ryan can count to five. I was so tickled! Each number belted out as almost a question but with the same intonation as "yippee!" So I will continue to teach him how to not stick a broom up the dog's butt while he's eating; Ainsley will work on the more refined bits. (He's taught himself how to hold a football and smack it into the other hand and look all quarterbacky and stuff.)

Wednesday I drove straight to Bolling AFB to take my scheduled ergonomoronic test, planned for a week after my admin staff had failed for the better part of half a year to get me scheduled. I showed up at 8:45 for the 9:00 test.
And then sat in the waiting room until 9:32 while they tried to find someone to unlock the computer password.
"Man, your starting heart rate is really low."
"Well sure; I'm practically asleep."
After keeping my tempo at 50rpm for 12 minutes while the computer decided how much resistance to put on the wheel and hardly breaking a sweat, the test stopped and the monkeys inside the computer spat out a number: 42. Above Average, said the printout. Equivalent, score-wise to having run a mile and a half in about 12 minutes. But without the perspiration or, what's that word....effort. In the complicated math involved with my medical profile, that 42 gave me an overall fitness score of 75.67, about the lowest score you can get and still be in the "good" category so they'll leave me the hell alone for a year instead of bothering me in 90 days.
We celebrated by getting rid of our child.
He just needed some out-of-house time and Grandad time, and conveniently said latter time title holder was available to give him peas and blow bubbles and count to five until we got back from dinner on the Occoquan waterfront.

Thursday was Family Day at work; bouncy castles, bands, games, funnel cakes, fire truck displays, and Ryan's first pony ride on a beautiful first day of summer day. Ryan is still going to get squished on a basketball court if we don't watch him closely as he runs under the basket with a ball perched on his collarbones ready to go to the "hoo." After a home-cooked taco dinner with Grandad, we were able, for the third night running, to put Ryan in his crib, say good nights and love yous, and leave the room, allowing him to wind himself down to sleep. It's a beautiful thing. At this rate of figuring out stuff as parents, he should be potty trained by age 12.

Spousal Anomaly

In the course of one hour yesterday, we discovered: a plumbing project of mine I thought I had accomplished last fall has instead leaked into three rooms and caused untold thousands of dollars worth of damage; a bowl I cleverly crammed into the cupboard at an angle to get it to fit fell and broke when my wife opened the door; and I pinched my little boy's finger in the lid to the dog food container.

So it's a wonder that anyone was willing to acknowledge me on Father's Day.
But I was festooned with lovely presents from wife, son, and father, and got to spend the morning at the National Zoo looking at the National Pandas, Elephants, and little mole rat looking mini aardvark dealies. My dad was then nice enough to sacrifice his afternoon and knees to help put back together our house that has been sitting in other parts of the house and garage for the better part of two months now. Ever worry that your foyer is too small? Stick an entertainment center in it for a month, and then take it away. It's HUGE! You'll see.

I have to think that being a father would have been cool anyway, but Ryan is just such an amazing kid. Happy 98% of the time, as Ainsley told the plumber (see line 1 above), friendly, fun to be around, well-behaved... it's uncanny how lucky we are. Ainsley has commented on how she's had him around other kids who are just night and day to him; getting into stuff, screaming, crying, disobeying. Last night we were at a friend's for dinner, and they have a son who's two months older than Ryan. We were all hanging out in the big huge playroom, and whatever Ryan wanted to play with, the other kid just butted right in, like Griffin does when I'm petting one of the other dogs. And Ryan just simply let him take whatever he had been playing with and went to something else. After the twenty-third time, Ryan got a furrowed brow, as if to say, "Look, what do I have to DO to please you, man?" but never went ballistic. They ended the night dancing, clapping, and trying to snap fingers to a silly Elmo song, so all was good.
Ryan can also count all the way up to two. Though he usually starts with "Two." And his "one" sounds an awful lot like "Juan." But we still find him awesome.

Bells & Whistles

Yesterday I was privy to and party of a unique event: a Navy retirement ceremony for my former branch chief, retiring after 20 years of service. An hour-long mixture of certificates, gifts (make sure that wooden plaque made in Russia doesn't have any bugs in it), and speeches, culminating with the retiree being "piped ashore" by walking down a red carpet flanked by these large bullet-looking things meant to represent the gang plank, saluting three pairs of Army, Air Force, and Navy brethren on either side. "Commander, U.S. Navy, coming ashore, never to sail again." Clang Clang Clang went the bosun's bell. A lone piper whistling him away. Wife shedding tears. Pretty cool moment.
I had offered my help to the guy the next cube over setting it all up, but he did almost all the groundwork himself; he did ask me to be an escort for the family members arriving, so an Army Major and I met them up front, gave them visitor badges, and pretty much just followed them around, showing them the bathrooms, important stuff. We had a separate "holding room" for them before the show, so I sat and did my best to entertain the wife, kids, parents, in-laws, and sister. When the shindig was over, his sister started fussing with the food on the reception table, unpeeling the plastic from the cheese & crackers, and starting to make the punch.
"No, no," I said. "You go be a guest. I'll make the punch."
"Are you sure?"
"Yep. I've got it. Follow-up question, though: how do you make punch?"
Two 2-liter bottles of sprite and a half-tub of rainbow sherbert ice cream later, we had what looked less like punch and more like fifth place in a sixth grade science fair, somewhere between a papier mache volcano and a cotton candy machine. But everyone said it was good, so phewph.
I then saw the commander's wife leave the back of the room, so I quickly ran after her, to legitimize the red "Escort Required" badge she was sporting.
"You don't have to take me everywhere, you know."
"I actually do. It's a federal law."
The next day, the commander said that his family thought the world of me, so that was nice to hear.
I have since been rewarded by being put in charge of someone else's retirement ceremony August 10th.
I'll make the punch.

Random bits

Well, that other wall had a smudge, so I figure I could just touch it up a little with the paint roller since it was handy and coated with paint already, what a good deed I'd be doing.
Of course, the off-yellow color on the roller is a gnat's nad off from the actual color on the wall.
So last night it was painting two entire long walls, in and around doors and the fireplace, till 11:15pm, to fix my mistake.
This is why I got a C- in art at Eggleston Elementary. Apparently a triceratops wasn't an appropriate choice for demonstrating 'shading'.

We bought a rug for the dining room finally. Even though we have like seventeen down in the basement, they're all the wrong color taupe or too big or too narrow or too scratchy or too flammable. Unrolled the new carpet; just fits. Even though we just spent bewkew bucks to retile the dining room, it makes more sense to have a food and animal catch-all, plus the wooden chairs make a cat-shuddering screeching noise across the tile anytime you move an inch. So, looks good, feels right, kitties like to play with the flower patterns. Only we realized we still have to seal the grout. Carpet rolled up. Sitting in garage with the rest of the junk.

At the end of a meal, I was trying to keep Ryan happy and unwhiney, so I clapped my hands over my head in a slow, steady arc as if leading a stadium cheer. Ryan paused, staring at my arms as they swayed up in the air like great daddy wings. I stopped. Ryan made the sign for "more" and said "Mo!" Yes, I said, my name is Moe. Cheerleader Moe. "Go, Moe," they tell me. But sometimes they root for my adversaries. So they say "Go Moe Foes."
It may have been lack of sleep or inhaling too much paint dust, but at the time that seemed the funniest thing I'd said in eight or ten years.

I'm trying to get my annual fitness test accomplished, but since I'm on a profile for running, I have to take a test on a bike hooked up to a computer to gauge my max VO2 output. Which no one in the civilized world understands, but that's the deal. Only my admin troop said she couldn't get a hold of her contact at the Pentagon's bike test place (they don't have one at DTRA) to schedule my test. I did some research on my own, and found out the reason she was having trouble reaching him was that he was currently deceased. Valuable information to have, one would think.

Ryan loves to identify things he recognizes. Apparently when he helps unload dishes, he points out which mug is usually used by which member of the family. Same with clothes coming out of the washer. ID's each one. "Yes, Ryan. That's daddy's sock. There are fifty-eight more just like it in there, can we move it along?"
We had a friend over for dinner Friday. The table was all set, and Ryan walked in and saw wine glasses.
"Mimaa?" he asked Ainsley.
Seems his grandmother's got a reputation.

Endeavoring to be Ungoopy

Spent the end-week mostly at home on purpose, as I feel I've been gone too much. It's not really true -- I've only really gone to work -- but by the time I get home and spend some time with the fam, it's time for dinner, then time for Ryan's Mystery Bed Time Du Jour, and then hell the dogs are already asleep may as well join 'em. Just didn't feel like I've accomplished much in the house.
So yesterday morning we worked some on our backyard mini-porch/tree house, Ryan helping with his spare hammer by tapping away at anything he could find (sticks, the planks, a dog) or just sticking it in his mouth for safe keeping. While the others napped, I painted a wall we'd had to have re-drywalled after some remodeling, and then we all went out and shopped for a rug to go in the dining room, after the one we ordered two weeks ago turned out to be a phantom.
Today we took the dogs over to Grandad's to walk along a lovely path behind his house, where we saw tons of birds, squirrels, two deer, and a few ticks. Dad treated us to melon and croissants at his place while the dogs passed out on the cool tile floor and we tried to teach Ryan how to say "croissant".
Back home for naps, I finished taping the new baseboards (part of the new tile project) and managed to paint a few yards before it was time to head to the Boivins' for a belated graduation party, where Ryan typically wowed everyone with his cute eyelashes, bravery in the face of Chloe, and ability to Put It Away. The boy is a garbage disposal. I found some cuts on his thumb tonight, and the guess is he accidentally tried to eat it.
Wanting at least something to be done and a period to be placed on a project (if not a semi-colon, pending Ainsley's approval of my work), I painted the rest of the baseboards and the occasional other bits of house I found to be whitish and paintable. (Sorry, Jeremy.) Done at 12:21 am.
The week begins.

Fawn Haul

Why am I always in inappropriate footwear when Griffin decides to chase wild animals?

Yesterday I carried my shoes downstairs, put them next to the chair in the living room, and then went downstairs to let Griffin and Bailey out (Dover remained upstairs to protect Ainsley from under the bed). By the time I got back upstairs, I heard the dogs barking, which is fairly normal though annoying at 6:30 in the morning, so I started towards the back window to shush them. Then I heard another noise that was somewhere between a honk and a wail.
Ruh-roh.

I ran down the deck stairs, over the construction fence, and down to the back of the yard, calling towards the dogs, when I saw Griffin with a deer in his mouth. Huh.
Bailey was a few feet back, barking as if to say, "Hey! There's a deer in your mouth!"
It was a baby deer, just slightly bigger than Dover, who had somehow gotten into our back 40, and Griffin was treating it like a squeaky toy, picking it up at his lower back and then letting it go, then chasing him back towards the fence, the poor thing crashing into it trying to get away from the dog with the teeth, the dog with the bark, and the large man running in socks.
I managed to get between them, using a stick to widen my "back off, dogs" wingspan, and yelled for Ainsley to come get Griffin. I was able to scare the deer back from whence it came, and it hopefully learned its lesson. As did I. Always put on shoes before letting dogs out.

Let's travel back in time to an e-mail from late Spring 2002, shall we?

Even though we’ve lived in Colorado nearly a year, we haven’t been able to do much exploring around, so Ainsley and I decided to honeymoon up in the mountains, where we could take our dogs. We got a cabin about 4 ½ hours west of here, up, down, through and over some of the most beautiful scenery in the country, where, as a newly established partnership of coupledom, I got to point out some gorgeous snow-covered peaks, and Ainsley got to point out whenever I was still in fourth gear.
See, I’m DRIVING. I don’t want to have to THINK. This is why I have an AUTOMATIC car.
Grrrrrrr...
Our cabin was on a ranch half-way up the side of a hill, roaring distance from the Crystal River in a lush green valley below Mount Sopris, named after a famous explorer, Dr. Henry Mount.
There were 14 cabins on the ranch, as well as an old farmhouse from 1913 and an antique store. It was pretty crowded, but once the weekend ended, there were fewer people around. We had our own kitchen and bathroom, and a wee little front porch to watch the valley and listen to the river. An idyllic, peaceful setting. Until someone walked by. Then: “BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!BARK!”WHOSE idea was it to bring dogs, again?

The ranch, being a ranch, had a ranch dog, a ranch burro, a ranch llama, and a ranch goat. The goat was sometimes taken out of the pen and tethered in the center of a pasture area for kids to come pet it and feed it Chex Mix or whatever.
So Griffin decided to say hi.
He had gotten out of our grip up at our cabin and decided to go exploring at top speed, me trying to chase him in sandals that kept coming unvelcroed, and he eventually came across the above pasture. The goat was freaked, running to the end of its line, then tripping as if it had been lassoed at a rodeo. Griffin just chased and chased it, barking like crazy, sometimes trying to bite its tail (it was about four times Griffin’s size). Griffin is one of those dogs who knows that “Come Here!” is one of those things that people say for fun, and was just loving chasey time. So picture Griffin, circling a goat, which was circling me, trying to keep me between him and the dog, while I shouted Griffin’s name, diving at him from time to time with only one sandal on, Griffin darting out of the way, and again going after the goat. Finally, after a good full three minutes, he stopped to lap up some water and I grabbed his neck. I could just see my farewell note to the ranch: “Loved the view, sorry my dog tried to eat your goat.”

Bent

If you'll pardon the anthropomorphic impossibility, my back has reared its ugly head again.
New job, new performance reports, and someone up the chain wants to know if the fact that I have a barely-passing fitness score means that per AFI10-148 para 4.2.7.1 I should still be allowed to sit at a desk.
My boss had to scramble to find me in the gym (of all places!) on Friday to have me explain what's been going on the last five months (trying in vain to get someone to assess me and update my profile) plus the last six years as background. Then I explained it to his boss, who said he understood and I was off the hook. Until someone else saw my forms and did a little more digging.
So today I was back at the Pentagon telling another doctor what's worked, what hasn't, what I've taken, what I've done, what I need, what I hope. (Un?)fortunately, he said he was an ortho something specialist, and though I told him that chiropractic care hadn't done much for me in Colorado, that was three (or four...or five?) years ago. So he proceeded to roll me and pull me and push me, though the only thing that popped was my hip. He did say that my

this is a direct quote here

He did say that my tushy was crooked. He thinks the quick work he did on me helped my alignment, and now my legs are the same length (he was serious), so I guess that's something. But he wants another MRI, wants me to see a specialist, maybe get another steroid. So I told my boss(es) that I was still being looked at, but no one medically important seemed ready to give up on me and kick me out of the service. I'm good at what I do, and can still fly around the world and crawl around rail cars. Hopefully this will suffice for the time being.
Meanwhile, I just got out of the hot tub, required to recover from this afternoon's treatment. Just had no idea my leg could move in that direction.

Beaten

Ryan had babbled and played in his crib all through his nap time on Saturday, so he was done gone good by dinner time, and asleep by 7:35. Unprecedented! If we had a working television not in the garage in this house, I'd have watched it!
Sunday was rainy all day, as the aftermath of Tropical Storm Barry lumbered through. Put a damper on our plans to go take the dogs over to Dad's for a change, but we invited him over later for a soak in the hot tub and supper. He even read books with his grandson, trying for a while to get him to sleep, but he (Ryan) wasn't near as tired as Saturday --despite trying all afternoon to teach him how to jump, for which gravity was not cooperative, though the muse of comedy was, as we cracked up to watch him squat, grunt, get the arms back, and exPLODE UP ... to a standing position, sometimes jogging forward a couple steps from all that thrust and vector, big smile on his face.
I spelled Grandad around 7:45, then told Ryan I'd be back as I went to go let the dogs out. I crept back upstairs and peeked through the door, watching as he pointed at pictures in books and talked to himself, especially pleased when he would find two of the same thing, nodding to himself all the while. So cute.
I tried to put him down in his crib and leave, and he only cried for a second, but he just wouldn't fall asleep. Blah blah blah, rassle rassle rassle, wander wander wander. I tried to sneak back up and close his bedroom door so we could all sneak past and go to bed, but he caught me reaching for the doorknob ("Daddooo!"). So I went in there with him, tried to rock him for a bit, but he was still jazzed, placing the pads of his feet on my nose for fun. So I put him down again, and just got on the floor next to the crib to keep him company, which is all he seems to want. Blah blah blah, he said, slapping on the different channels of his musical aquarium, throwing his stuffed animals around...it's 9:45... I pulled his little stuffed bear off his rocking chair and put it under my head to just try and get comfortable and lie still.
Next thing I know, it's 11. Ryan's out, snoring, head up against his woowoo like a pillow. I'd probably been asleep over an hour, and Ryan probably went down right after.
Pretty soft, that bear.

Boiling Bliss

My wife is the greatest gift-giverer in the Western Hemisphere.

gottricci spudialus

Well, there's the new peanut at twelve weeks; snug as a bug in a rug of embryosial placentapadding.
Legs tucked in, arms crossed over the eyes, umbilical down the front, the "4-D" image vaguely resembles a small raccoon, but it's still cool to get something different from your rudimentary side profile mug shot:

6.4 cm from crown to rump. Heartbeat at 167 pumps per minute. Sex is apparently none of our business for another two months or so.

Where Were You When

Fifteen years ago today, I became a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Air Force.

That was as long ago now as the summer of 1977 was then.

Cripes.

The kid's got potential

So the current Secretary of Defense, I just found out, was in the Air Force.



And he was a missileer.



And he got a masters degree in history.



From Indiana University.



Plus a PhD in Russian history and strategic studies.



Hmmm...

Revue

"Short" week, my left arse.
Memorial Day I had the grand idea of taking mi espousa to the cinema for the first time since, oh, Empire Strikes Back came out. (Okay, maybe Cars.) Since we knew Grandad was feeling jealous about all the one-on-one time Mimaa had gotten with Ryan since Thursday night, we graced him with Ryan's presence (this is called "the drop-off") and headed to the movie theater around 4pm.
Where everything was sold out.
So we shopped for rugs. Movie... rectangular woolen kaleidoscope... same same.
We popped next door to try out the new Japanese steakhouse, and the food was excellent and the chef entertaining and he let me light the onion volcano on fire so BANZAI!
We picked up Ryan, up to his elbows in peas at the dinner table, and got him home in time for his chosen 10:18pm bedtime.

Tuesday while I was at work, my new hot tub was delivered (an AFIT graduation gift from Loveypants) and corrective work resumed in earnest on our deck and sunroom. Unfortunately, the hot tub was installed 180-degrees from where we needed it, so that was a fun twelve minutes of me grunting against its weight trying to spin it back around. Our electrician had asked us to fill the tub so he could start it the next day after finishing the work he had to do, delayed due to some truck of his catching fire or something. So after dinner I was out there with a flashlight making sure it didn't overflow. Ryan got to sleep by 10:40.

Wednesday evening Ryan and I went to the park; though it's starting to get in the low 90s here, I needed the fresh air after being cooped up at my desk all day. I'd been battling a cold or allergies all day, though, so I was pretty beat by nightfall. The electrician did some work, but nothing was connected to the tub, so there sat a bunch of luke-warm water. Not so therapeutic. After Ryan's bath, seventoothbrushing and cheering on my gargle, I simply got down on the floor next to Ryan's crib to see what he would do; he actually fell asleep himself by 9:20.

Thursday I went back to the clinic near me for the third time in five months to try to get my physical profile updated so I wouldn't have to run a mile and a half and destroy my already deteriorated back. After being bounced around from base to base all spring, I finally just brought in the paperwork I needed signed and scheduled up the physical part at the Pentagon, where I know they can do Air Force physicals. Ainsley had another ultrasound up in Bethesda, so as I was done first I picked up Ryan at her friend Debbie's, where he'd been napping late for an hour and a half (uh-oh). On the continuing sitcom front, the contractors had built the railing so that we couldn't open the lid to the hot tub, which didn't much matter anyway since our electrician broke the side of it by drilling into a thin wooden panel (and yet still hadn't started it up). We had some time to kill before meeting Dad at Olive Garden for dinner, so we got Ryan's hippie hairdo cut -- what is it about these non-George male barbers that can't cut Ryan's hair without him crying? The girls up the street do it and he's fine! After too much sugar for dessert (uh-oh), Ryan was not interested in staying horizontal at all. I think I even fell asleep on the floor, but when I heard nothing and started to get up, he was just sitting in the center of his mattress, regarding a blanket. He didn't get to sleep till almost quarter to midnight.

Six hours and a quarter later, I woke up, gave Ainsley a list of things still wrong with the project, and toodled off to work, actually enjoying my first non-hour-long accident-ensnared trip to work all week. I get to be the Ops Officer for the next two weeks while the current one and current standby are in Siberian Transit, which basically means I get to answer the phone and make slides for weekly briefings. And I am ALL ABOUT making slides.
And Dan stew: the hot tub is at 99 and rising.