Weak work week

I got paid very little for combating weapons of mass destruction last week. Only went in to the office Monday and Wednesday. The Good Colonel was with us all week table-sawing us a new and improved household per his daughter's instructions and grandson's guidance -- I was able to take one day off to help out and try to pretend like I live here, and the last two of the week to take him and my dad to West Point (more on that later).

It really is remarkable what this man can accomplish. He built a 6-foot by 4.5-foot cabinet to fill a dead space by the hot tub and give me a place to store chemicals, towels, magazines, what have you. We demolished two leftover cement platforms from the old back deck. With my Dad's help, we dug out and built the framing for a new landscaped step to replace the mound of mud we had and provide a pathway to the patio. We dug an eight-inch trench ten feet long to mount and bury a piece of fencing under the deck so the dogs can't get out. We hung the bicycle trailer on the side of the garage wall. We fixed a drooping fence. We dug up and moved a two--foot diameter bush. We added three pieces of T-111 to an unsightly portion of the sunroom addition and made it more sightly. We shoved rope caulk into gaps between the window frames and the walls. We added legs to a platform I'd built to form a Ryan-sized table for coloring and whatnot. He started to build a cat tree. One thing after another, for four days. The man is a machine.
Who shuts off at 5pm for beer. My kind of hired help.
We paid him handsomely with SunChips and a couple meals out, but as an early riser, he was usually in bed by 9. Unfortunately, that hampered our ploy of getting Ryan into his crib and walking/sneaking out, lest crying wake up grandpa, so I had to stay with him until he fell asleep -- this being a superfun energetic week for him, he didn't fall asleep until anywhere from 9:45 to 10:30.
So before our computer crapped out the end of the week, that is why blogging is late this week.
Stay tunish.
If only to find out why I'm typing rather adroitly with bandages on my left hand.

Stand By

Modem broken! Working problem! Can't blog all day from work! Updates soon! Abandon not, all ye who enter here! Etc.!

And He Don't Care

Had our nephew in for the night again yesterday before he headed back to the left coast, and I thought he might enjoy going to the new Japanese Steak House near us for dinner, a fantastic place called TJSH, for Toyota Jujitsu Samurai HareKare. I believe.
His grandparents were wary; apparently the lad is a bit of a picky eater. Indeed, when we walked in, the 6-yr old asked, "Do you think they have hot dogs?"
But he tried nearly everything except the shrimp (more for me!) and enjoyed most of the cooking/show -- the guy (unfortunately compared to a teenage mutant ninja turtle by grandpa) pulled out all the stops, spinning eggs on his spatula, catching them in his hat, flipping food into customers' mouths, the Onion Volcano: everything and, as Ryan would say it, "moooRRRRe?!"
Unfortunately, Ryan was so jazzed from the night (and/or the gelato for dessert), he couldn't fall asleep until after 10:15. Then Bailey had to go out -- we usually put them to bed after their final feed and 'deffy' so they're not loud and complicating littleboybedtime, and they're good till morning, but Bailey seemed awful adamant, so I let her out. But then again at midnight she started whining, unusual, so I let just her out (even though Griffin was keen to explore again). Hard to see the results in the dark, but she was definitely going through the motions of needing to go number ruff ruff, so you can't blame the old girl.
Except when she had to go out again at 3:15. That's just silly.
I decided to leave them outside this time, so Bailey could put herself to bed in her downstairs room through the doggie door and let herDAMNself out when she needed it, but at 3:42 she started her howl/bark thing at a leaf blowing in the back yard (or whatever), so I stumbled downstairs to get her back in. By then, the in-laws were up for the early drive to the airport, so I got a chance to wave another tired-ass goodbye.

Still up with the crack of birds this morning, though, to take advantage of just splendid summer weather and drive up the road to Mount Vernon for the first time in twenty years. Ryan doesn't know the first president from his bippy, but enjoyed pointing out the ovals in the mansion's ceiling, looking at the river, checking out the horses, geese, sheep, and pigs on the property, and trying his hand on the corn cracker in the plantation mock-up. Hell, I even learned something -- Washington's nephew's son fought on the confederate side in the Civil War.

While Mimaa's away, Grandpa's playing at our house the rest of the week, graciously offering his craftsman skills to help finish a ton of projects that just wouldn't dew on my honey list.

I am not a people person

I am a proud regulation-following member of the armed forces, ready to die to protect the freedoms of all Americans.

however.

I would like everyone in this country even remotely involved in dog fighting to be stripped of their skin with a shrimp fork, hung by their pancreases, electrocuted, and thrown to the cement ground by a professional wrestler.

so...weak...fingers so...heavy

A few years ago, my cholesterol was a doctor-concerning 236.

So I stopped eating Froot Loops, sticks of butter, and brussels sprouts.

The labwork from my July 2nd physical came in today; my reading was 174.


I need a cheeseburger.

The orange calling the kettle black

There's a commercial out there for

shit, I don't even know. But you'll see why:

There's a commercial out there that shows an amorphous, kid-like being running through a house, garbage, clothes and crap falling off of him left and right, on the stairs, etc.

"Do you have a clutter monster in your home?" asks the ad while panning to the annoyed mother.

I would have wiped the smirk off of Ainsley's face if I hadn't just then dumped a bag of crumbs all over my shorts.
~~~
I saw another doctor again up at Walter Reed to again discuss my back. My last MRI shows a bulge (whoa!) that's touching a nerve root (you don't say!). I told the doc I'm doing okay, just occasional spine stiffness and tingling in my foot. He said I should be using my hot tub every day (though my wife didn't believe he said that), stretching every day, and that it was pretty much up to me what kind of treatment would be next (surgery, steroid injection, meds, physical therapy). I told him it really wasn't -- I'd be happy to maintain the status quo, but there are higher ups who want to know why I'm not running and doing sit-ups and no one seems to want to put a permanent waiver in my record. So, for gas and grins I had him put in a consult for physical therapy back down at Ft. Belvoir, just to get someone's latest opinion on the best way to manipulate my back and take pressure off the discs. Meanwhile, I have the 'pathology' to prove this is a long-term issue and that I'm aggressively combating it, per my doctor, which should satisfy anyone looking at my records in the short term. And I will sit in 104 degree water whenever I get the chance.
~~~
Tonight the son of Ainsley's late de facto grandfather stopped by with his wife and half his dogs as a halfway point between North Carolina and New York. I'd never met him, and it'd been over 15 years for Ainsley. Nice fellow, nice wife who looked an awful lot like Jill Clayburgh (and a vegetarian, so there's at least two of them out there), really nice dog "Little Bear" who tolerated with aplomb a screechy Ryan, overly sniffy Bailey & Dover, Prick On Paws Griffin (who growled at him every chance he had so he stayed outside most of the time), and violent sabre-tooth-tiger-esque stalker kitty Jeremy.
I grilled some chicken, but not before the igniter broke off my grill. Rather than take the time to fix it, I just grabbed the long matches and told Ainsley I was improvising.
This sort of juxtaposition tends to make Ainlsey worry.
I retain my eyebrows.

Sugar and Sugar and Falatenights

The theory that states that if some sugar keeps the boy up at night, then eight times that will make him sleepy has been proven unaxiomtic.
Saturday morning, Ainsley hosted a baby shower for an old water aerobics cofloater working on her second string at Chuck E. Cheese -- most of the invitees had young children, so she figured it would be more fun for them (and whatever Dads showed up) to have games to play rather than watching adults open mommirific presents and discuss swollen feet.
Ryan wasn't into the riding video games much, but loved riding the Barney car, carousel, and Chuck E. Cheese Phot O. Vehicle, and loved LOVED loved throwing little basketballs into the bas-ket-baw HOOp (he nothing-but-netted two of his first three shots with me holding him up five feet away from the rim). Nothing like Pizza at 10:30 and big pieces of cake for dessert. He actually went down for a nap, but woke up to be dragged across the street to our neighbor's birthday party for their two-year-old...where they had two more bas-ket-baw HOOPs set up on the deck, into which Ryan threw a basketball, football, green rubber ball, and red ladybug ball. Anything to avoid the birthday boy and his weird jerky friends who didn't know how to say please to an adult and just loved throwing tantrums and shooting water pistols and throwing balls at people's heads.
Tried to avoid another round of cake, but it was thrust upon us. I had to go help Mimaa pick up Grandpa and my 6-year-old nephew David from the airport (he's spending a week at the barn), but Ryan was still awake when we got home at 9pm and didn't come off his sugar rush until well after 10:30. Poor lad. All goofed up and nowhere to go.

Girls on Film

I've been receiving congrats mixed with comedic condolences upon the announcement that we have a spudette in the broiler. It really is cool that I'll be able to experience the other sex and never have to wonder what it'd be like, although it's still rather daunting. The first thing I said was that I'd have to talk to my father-in-law, since he raised two.

(His advice: "First, go to Vietnam for a year...")

My second thought was that I hoped she went to the Air Force Academy and then eloped. Lowers the cost. Somewhat. Apparently something called "designer clothes" is going to kick in when she's 14. Or 8. Or 4. Sometime in there.

Here's a photo. Our last 4-d image of Ryan was taken at 34 weeks or so, so he had a lot more baby fat and facial features and looked less like a mummy. But here she is at 18 weeks. We're not sure if it's that Ainsley had just finished lunch or what, but the girl was so active, the doc had trouble getting all the measurements of the heart, brain, etc., but he was pleased that she was showing good movement. After viewing the (clinical term:) 'woohoo', we were unable to get another look and take a picture, as she daintily kept her legs crossed at the toes. But Ryan saw the images and said, "Baby!" So it's definitely not a plate of pasta in there.

Sugar and Spice and Fallopians

I do not have toe fungus.
This per the nurse practitioner who read my lab results.
One (one being Ainsley) still wonders why my leetle toenail is the color of a chick-pea and the consistency of Sweet & Lo, but according to military medical science, I am completely healthy.

Loving Wife: "Whatever, Mister Mushroom."

I think "Mr. Mushroom" would be a great name for a restaurant. Italian. Maybe a pizza joint. Radio jingle would be difficult, as nothing rhymes with mushroom.


In other news, we're having a baby girl.
And based on her activity during the ultrasound, a baby gymnast. She was bouncing around in there like Stephen Hawking on the Vomit Comet.
"Sit still!" I whispered into the blue goopy belly button, so the unfortunately named Dr. Scott Petersen could get a good view of her heart, brain, and ... thingy. Whatever girls call it. "Roo," in French, I'm told, making it illegal to call my dog by her nickname (Bailey-Roo) in Quebec.

But now we get to talk to Ryan about having a sister. It's pretty cool. Assuming he has enough time away from the high school football field to protect her from losers.

Thank you, crappy Toyota

Stuck at a light this afternoon, I read a bumper sticker on the car in front of me that I realized probably suits my philosophy of life to an unfortunate tee:

Comfort the Disturbed

Disturb the Comfortable

~~~
Ryan has gotten up before 0630 the last two days, for no reason we can fathom. Not waking up crying, just ... up. Ready for the day. "Mommy?" I heard him today while said Mommypants was downstairs fixing me a lovely cup of tea, so I picked him up and changed his diaper and then walked into the closet to get dressed. As soon as he saw me pull my uniform off the hangar, he said, "Bye-bye." So someone knows what work is.
~~~
Work has gotten steady, which is good. Finishing up an annual rewrite of our operating procedures, working my upcoming rotation, writing someone's departure medal, and continuing the planning of the Colonel's retirement ceremony has kept me thankfully busy but not overwhelmed. Especially since I've barely done anything off Protocol's retirement ceremony checklist. I called his admin troop, a great girl who just got picked up for Master Sergeant. I told her I was running the checklist, and wanted to make sure I wasn't duplicating any efforts.
"Do you know if a plaque has been ordered?"
"Done."
"Oh. And a coin?"
"Yes."
"How about his retirement orders?"
"Up at 11th Wing awaiting signature."
"...His medal?"
"Already submitted."
"...Retirement certificate?"
"Up at the boss's office."
"......So what the hell am I doing?"
"Well, you're in charge."
I think not.
~~~
Ryan continues to tickle his grandparents' fancy. The other night, he was close to being done with dinner, and found some food stuck to his fingers. Rather than wipe it on his bib or put it on his plate, he flicked it to the floor.
"Ryan, no," said his father.
Then he found another piece and again slowly let it drop to the floor.
"Ryan," said his mother forcefully, "what do we do with food?"

Think think think think

"Bailey?" he called.

It was all he could do for Grandpa to swallow his laughs behind his napkin.

Gone West; Young Man

The good news was that my three days of charged leave was reduced to two.
The bad news was that the reason for leaving for the Barn (Chez Pampaw and Baboo[shka]) one day later was a nasty malaise that waylaid my spousal better yang. So to speak.
We left around 10 Saturday morning to get Ryan some Green Acres time, stopping at 10:30 to fumigate his diaper region. We found a 7-11 just off the highway, and after changing him, Ainsley went in for either a Slushee or a Slurpee, whatever they have there (not sure I've ever purchased one in my life), and I, being a semi-life lifelong dog owner, instinctively took my son over to walk in the grass.
Lunch upon arrival, Ryan ended up resisting a nap while the Fouldses and I hosed off and scrubbed the gazebo and furniture for weekend use. Strange location, too excited, who knows, but Ryan was rarin' to go sit on Grandpa's lap on the rider mower/tractor, then get chauffeured around the property in the back trailer. The heat of DC hadn't quite reached out to the foothills, but the bugs were annoying and unswattably omnipresent. Despite the long day without rest, Ryan still wouldn't go to sleep until 9:30 or so.
Sunday we drove into town to buy fruit and weeds at the farmer's market, then 80% of us enjoyed a lunch at a brand new place called the Oasis Cafe, specializing -- no -- adamantly exclusively vegetarian. This must be how Ainsley feels in every other restaurant on the planet, scanning the menu for something -- anything -- that suits her dietary wishes. But all the hummus soups and tofurkey sandwiches with veganaise and organic pita spinach leaf granola balls
WHAT THE HELL IS VEGANAISE ANYWAY
left a lot to be desired for this picky meatchewer. I was coveting Ryan's banana and almond butter sandwich, even with the raisins, especially after my wrap was missing the one thing I was looking forward to: cucumbers (or in Ryanspeak: Qbuggers). Ainsley suggested ice cream afterwards, though I offered that we should just go back to the Oasis Cafe for some cauliflower pie.
Sarcasm be damned, Ryan enjoyed probably his first real ice cream cone, taking lip-bites of a scoop as big as his head, as the rest melted down Mimaa's hand, the good sport.
The boy napped, thankfully, giving his mom some much-needed rest, as well. I again looked at old family albums and again fell in love with a 12-year-old Ainsley, who probably didn't realize how unbelievably hot she was.
The neighbors came over for a cookout, Col Foulds searing pork chops to perfection while Ryan and I chased each other between bug divebombs around the yard and "zebo." 10:30 before he went to sleep this night.
I had to return Monday to be at work Tuesday, but Ainsley and Ryan decided to stay behind an extra day since her folks were planning on coming in on Tuesday anyway. So while Ryan had one more day of tractors and deer sightings, I "bach"ed it with the animals for a night, absent-mindedly whispering to them at night, even though Ryan was asleep 106 miles away. It's a comfy habit.

Antipendularism

At the age of 36, a large man with significant thickness, and despite a love for most kinetic amusements, I declare, at this time, that I no longer understand the appeal of the rudimentary playground swing.

Dearth of Creativity

A few weeks ago, I attended a going-away luncheon for the guy who sat in the cube next to me. It was at Macaroni Grill, which I hadn't been to in years, and for good reason. The food and service weren't great, though they do let you crayon on the tablecloths. But there were maybe 15 of us, and they assigned us one waitress whose give a damn broke, telling us that doing separate checks would take a lot of time. Screw you, Flo, get it done.
So Tuesday two more guys from my office left (tis the season), and they held their going-away luncheon at...Macaroni Grill. Only this time, the organizer had set up call-ahead orders, paid some money up front, and reserved space for 20. When we got there, there were no tables. Some sort of mix-up. After fifteen minutes, they crammed us into an L-shaped configuration next to a booth of four and a booth of two, hoping that would do. And gave us one clearly overwhelmed waitress.
Leaving, I said goodbye to a Lt Col I noticed was retiring at the end of the month. Joshingly, I told him, "Well, I guess we'll be back here in a few weeks for yours, eh?"
"Yep, three weeks or so," he said in all earnestness.
*sy*

After 97 days, we have Lava-soaped our hands of the comedically sloganed "Our Craftsmanship Shows" company who builds decks and maybe sunrooms but not very well or quickly. Two gentlemen came by this morning and I explained for a third time why Crooked Sucks and Straight is Vunderbar, going so far as to have them hold up a level to show them what a half-inch difference looks like. It was fixed to a good enough standpoint and we just Want It Done Already, so we've paid our last installment and now... timpani roll ... we own a deck, patio, and sunroom. Which, little nitnoid things aside, is really a cool structure to sit in and have breakfast.

We had dinner there, too, for July 4th. I grilled up some pork loins that tasted like the tongue of an old sneaker, but Dad was kind enough to add 3 tablespoons of salt and choke it down. We then suffered through the Battle of Saratoga two houses down until after 11pm (Bailey: a little skittish; Dover: panting, shaking, freaking out; Griffin: snoring). The post-holiday firework sales are being lit off as I type. So this is why we never go anywhere on Independence Day: Dover would chew a hole through the side of the house. If not himself.

For the holiday we also bought some chairs for the living room (the project never ends!) so we don't have to sit guests on the floppy ottoman anymore. Ryan enjoyed the store, finding chairs to rock in, ugly-ass animal statuary to identify (to include a black elephant bigger than Griffin), and wide lanes to fly like an airplane in. Though we usually fly together, this was the first time I'd seen him make airplane noises and stick an arm out while walking. I told him that if he's not holding on to me, he should use two hands for the airplane. He proceeded to walk around the store with his two hands in front of him, so anyone watching and hearing the dull roar of his airplane would have thought him a baby zombie.

Ryan has met "The Wiggles." He approves. Already says "Wiggles" better than some of his other words (umbrella, cup, back, rock [noun], rock [verb], globe, upside-down, jiggy). Dances, waves his arms, big smile, mesmerized. Much easier to get the dogs fed with him otherwise occupied.
Today I taught him how to slap-wipe his hands together to get dirt off. So proud.

"Baby Zombie!" There's a movie I'd go see.

Ainsley has a birth

Despite the fact that she was born at 1 o'clock in the afternoon one time zone over yonder down the holler as they say, we decided to conform to tradition and celebrate Ainsley's entire calendar day birthday event anniversary thing. Ryan and I got up early and drove to the grocery store to buy her weird fruit and muffins for breakfast, to include an apple fritter that she called a "cow pie". So there's some Texas left in her after all.

Her parents arrived around 1pm, and after an appropriately Redskins-intensive gift-opening session, we drove up to Alexandria to a casual yet ritzy African-French-American restaurant called "Farrah Olivia". It was like the Inn at Little Washington without the tie. Five courses, reasonably priced, and with stunning presentation -- everyone's plates were works of art. I had chosen the place after reading about it in the Washington Post Magazine (while in Russia, of all places) and reading that the chef was from Cote d'Ivoire -- where my wife and her family had spent some time back in the 70s. I told the maitre'babe this and asked if it were at all possible, would the chef come out and meet them. He was nice enough to do so and let my mother-in-law practice her French. We ate outside, which I thought would be better for Ryan (and those around him), and despite the fact that it was on a relatively busy street and wasn't as unhumid as advertised, it was still a pleasant night for mid-summer in D.C.

Today, after a trip to the dump to get rid of what can be generously described as household debris, COL Foulds and I wrestled with cleaning up the back yard (finally -- after 3 months -- taking down the orange construction fence surrounding our project) while Ainsley and her mom prepped for an afternoon early 4th of July winesoaked burger cookout with the Boivins. A much lovelier day than yesterday, we were able to open up the sunroom doors and put people on the back deck while others ate in the sunroom for the first time. Poor Ryan's lost his baskEEtball bouncing area.

He's such a good kid. Friday I was lying on the floor in the office next to him while he showed me his books, and he looked over at my position, immediately got up and went to the chair, and brought me a pillow.
And proceeded to drop it on my face. "Peelo."
Tonight's bedtime struggle notwithstanding, he does know what that horizontal position is for. I made Ainsley a birthday card on the computer that had a picture of her on the front page. "Who's that?" I asked the boy on my lap. "Mommy." Because of the card's layout, I then tilted the picture 90 degrees.
"Ni-Night," Ryan said to Mommy.