Bike Riding

One of the few good memories I have of interacting with my (now deceased) stepfather was learning how to ride a bike. We lived in Manteo, North Carolina, well before it turned into the resort town/vacation spot it is now, before anyone ever heard of the Outer Banks or put OBX stickers on the backs of their cars to complement their now plebeian and undistinguished Ron Jon window stickers. Back then the town was poor, and many locals, including my stepfather, were fishermen. (And many of the fishermen and their dirt poor families whiled away the time listening to Southern rock and getting stoned, but that's another story.)

For my 6th birthday, I got a bike for a present, a little kid's BMX (redline squareback, I believe). My stepfather, who generally took little interest in me, patiently taught me to ride it, giving me balance support and encouragement, and running alongside me. As I got familiar with it, I was able to pick up speed, and the gyroscopic (centrifugal? centripetal?) force of the wheels was a better stabilizer than my stepfather, so he began to let go, and I was riding fine... until I noticed he had let go.

Noticing that I was on my own was the source of my first few falls. I wasn't prepared for the psychological stress of it. Doing something this dangerous and complicated myself? Preposterous! I barked alarmed complaints out of fear and anxiety, demanding to know why he let go, as I wobbled, overcorrected, and fell. But soon my confidence and experience outweighed my fears, and I managed to regain my balance after I wobbled, and eventually to ride smoothly, as all kids do. By the next week, I was riding with the neighborhood boys around the 1/4 mile dirt circle behind our trailer park, and by the end of the summer I was a daredevil, the youngest in the group of kids I hung with, but jumping over our makeshift cinder block/plywood ramp with as much gusto as the rest of them. In the end, I was the first brave enough to jump the ramp when it was set ridiculously too steep, landing hard but not crashing, inspiring my peers to overcome their fear of getting hurt by replacing it with a greater fear of looking chicken. The little kid did it, why can't you? Bok bok baaawk!

Switching gears -- and if you can manage abstract thought, you'll see where I'm going before I write the punchline -- my first marriage was a complete trainwreck. I've managed for years to not speak ill of my ex-wife in this blog, and I don't intend to now, but the fact is our marriage was a travesty. I felt unvalued and unloved, and looked on other men with suspicion. I developed frown lines, acid reflux, slowly became fat, and closed myself off from my family and friends in an attempt to appease her and gain her love again. She, in turn, thought I was treating our marriage as a job, doing things because I had to, not out of love or affection. She viewed me as having no interest in the world, preferring to sit at home and download nudie-gifs rather than going out to listen to music or just be with people, and treating real-world issues like a flowchart, binary thinking robot that I was.

So, that was a mess. We broke up hating each other, and only after years of separation did our respective wounds heal enough for us to work together amicably for the sake of Stacey. Again, the point here is not to blame or complain, or drag my dirty laundry out for daytime talkshow-esque public scrutiny and commentary, but rather to provide some back story for what comes next.

What comes next? Liberty, who is, by my best reckoning, the perfect woman. Young, alive, nonconformist. Beautiful. Well-read, intelligent, funny. Open to any wild suggestion, believing that I can take care of her, and trusting that I will. I've written about her here a few times, you can guess how I feel about her. Read all the entries from last September until now to get the gist of my feelings for her. They run deep.

Without hyperbole, and not to try to butter her up when she stumbles across this later (as far as I can tell, she doesn't frequent my blogs), and not because she is the relationship I am currently in, but because I have reflected on this privately, and found it to be an irrefutable truth: Liberty has made me happier that any person ever has. She has inspired me to be a man who is strong, asking me to lead. She has made me feel like my presence was valued, showing me smiles and attention whenever we were together. Her love and affection made me into a better man.

And now, we've been married and living together for a few months, and regular life has injected itself. We've seen each other sick, had busy schedules that left us both tired at night (if you're under 18, try not to contemplate what that means), and we've passed each other in the halls without stopping for a quick snuggle. A few times I found myself reading more into that than was there:

"Oh Jesus! She hates me now. I'm latching on to an empty heart, following her around like a lost puppy, what the hell did I do wrong!? No! Don't take this away from me! It was perfect! Have all the years of drinking from aluminum cans catch up to me and give me Alzheimers, have the next soccer game I play cripple me, have the bad wiring in my house short and start a fire that burns it down, have my boss determine that I cost too much and lay me off. But not her. Don't take her love from me, it's the thing that means the most to me."

And like the little boy who fell off his bike because he noticed no one was holding him up, I choked. I barked a confused, accusatory complaint. "Dude, there's nothing wrong, settle," was the response. The love was still there, and still is, and is stronger even than I thought it was. Think of this: Imagine a girl with a young kid who is barely scraping by, whose car falls apart during your courtship, whose cell phone gets cancelled, who struggles every day to get out of bed in time for school or work. She lets you seduce her, moves in with you, lets you be the support that gives her a car and a phone, asks you to stay with her sick kid when she can't miss an exam or when no one else can open at her store. And then she gets comfortable around you, and doesn't spend every waking moment trying to secure her status by exploiting her body. What could that mean?

It means, naturally, that she trusts me. She knows I don't want her to be a doting sycophant out of fear. Her position in our house feels safe to her, and she knows how to claw her way back from the brink of collapse, if need be, but she keeps coming home to me. She keeps inviting me to be with her family and friends, and she trusts me enough not to play a servile role, but to be herself.

What an amazing complement!

The affection? Still there. After a few days of cooling off after I lost my head, we naturally found ourselves in each other's arms. And I can feel the man she turned me into asserting himself, confident in his own position, and his character. I'm back, better than I was, and I don't need the constant whispers of "you are good and I want to be with you" to know that it's true.

Thank you, Liberty, you are amazing, and I have never loved a woman more. And I will be as daring a husband as I was a cyclist, confident and relaxed, with faith in our marriage strong enough to look cocky.

Sweet, Sweet Perl

Behold my latest off-the-cuff answer to a problem of the day:

#!/usr/bin/perl -w
use strict;

my %lines;
my $all_lines;
my $line_num = 0;

$all_lines .= $_ while <DATA>;
$lines{$_} = 1 for split /\s+/,$all_lines;

while (<>) {
$line_num++;
s/^/#/ if $lines{$line_num};
print $_;
}

__DATA__
169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176
314 315 316 317
320 321 322 323 324 325 326 327 328
391
403

Feel free to skip down to "Frank Muller" below if reading me geeking out isn't your bag. To save you the tedium of the complete history of what I was coding, I'll skip to the punchline: Thanks to the Sarbanes/Oxley act, brought about thanks to the assholes at Enron and MCI/Worldcom, I had a problem where I have to say how I want large changes made to a security access file 7 days from now, when I will be making daily small changes to the same file between now and then. This was granting emergency access to a service to people who really needed it, and undoing a larger set of access grants 7 days hence.

The solution? Identify line numbers in the access file to be commented out, and put all new daily changes to the file at the bottom, below all the lines to be commented. The script I came up with, pretty much off the cuff, shows the expressiveness of the Perl language. The line:

$all_lines .= $_ while <DATA>;

..iterates through all the text after __DATA__, an inline file handle, concatenating the text of each line to the string $all_lines. The line:

$lines{$_} = 1 for split /\s+/,$all_lines;

..splits the string $all_lines into a list of numbers separated by one or more whitespace characters (\s+), which means that a space and a line feed are both fine. For each item in that list, a hash element is added with a key of the number, and a value of 1.

The line:

s/^/#/ if $lines{$line_num};

..is the coup de grâce of the program. If the line number I'm currently on exists in the %lines hash, replace the first position of the line with a # sign (this "comments out" the line, making the security program ignore it). So in three small, but syntactically complex, lines, I've grabbed a list of lines to comment out, thrown it into a hash, and commented out lines in the config file whose line numbers appear in the hash.

Sweet, sweet Perl. Anyway, on to other stuff.


Frank Muller

...is dead! I couldn't believe it! He apparently just died a couple weeks ago, after suffering for years after a motorcycle accident. This man, more than any other, kept my brain working in a time where I could have easily slipped into working minimum wage jobs my whole adult life. With my active brain, I slowly clawed my way to a good financial position, and now I get to live in a house I own, drive an SUV, and wear dress shirts every day... neener, neener, neener.

Frank Muller was an actor turned audiobook reader. When I spent 4 years flipping pizza, he was with me in my car several hours a night on deliveries, reading Moby Dick, Interview with the Vampire, Different Seasons (Stephen King's short stories under a psuedonym), 1984, and other books. I so enjoyed his voice and style of reading that I stopped looking for books I thought I would enjoy, and began looking for books read by him - a few were stinkers, but there were some pearls in there too that I never would have found if he hadn't been the reader.

After I exhausted most of Frank's work, I found other good readers, like Scott Brick, who did fantastic readings of Dune, Fahrenheit 451, Ender's Game, and a lot of Asimov. To this day I still hit the library a couple times a month looking for audiobooks to listen to on the ride to work, and I always pick up a couple before going on vacation for the car ride down.

And it all started with Frank, the fuel to keep my brain working when I needed it most. Thanks, Frank. I'll miss you.


Honeymoon

My wife and I went for a mini-honeymoon over to Philadelphia for 3 days to check out some museums, included the Mutter museum of medical oddities (which fits our collective morbid sense of humor), and stopped into the wierd cultlike store IKEA to pick up some furniture and light fixtures.

I've got some pictures I took in the Philadelphia Museum of Art that I'll put up eventually as a Picasa album. Good stuff.

IKEA is interesting. They have an upstairs with apartments set up to show how you can design rooms using their furniture and art. Beside everything there are row and slot numbers for the pick-up area downstairs. Through the whole process, the staff leave you alone to go explore. I've heard some of the girls at work talk about how cool it is, and I think I'm going to have to agree.

Philly itself is a city I wouldn't want to settle down in. Too angry, too compact, too much hood. They have some good restaurants, though, and several theatres. Liberty and I went to see Les Miserables at a small theatre downtown, and it was a good production. Good place to visit, if you're good at ignoring the chaff.


Soccer

My local over 30 team, the Raiderz, are 5-1-1 right now! We just had our 5th win Sunday, where my buddy Hemant from work contributed enough to keep us in the game when we were struggling. We were short subs, and all of us were pretty spent after the game. I think we probably would have lost if Hemant hadn't shown up and played as hard as he did.

My own performance was alright. I spent most of the game chasing down a guy with more endurance than me. Late in the game he finally got a good drive around me, I pushed him out to the corner, and he just snuck in a pass before I could block it, and the guy he passed it to scored. That put us up 5-3 in the 4th quarter, and we somehow came back and scored again before the end of the game making the final score 6-3. Lots of fun.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday is the Columbus corporate challenge soccer tournament, where AEP is entered as 1 of 8 teams. I'm scheduled to play fullback on Thursday and Friday, and Saturday if we are in the top bracket, followed by my normal league game Sunday. I'm a little anxious about the whole ordeal. I'll have fun coming out and playing for AEP, where most people only know me as a code monkey, but I think playing 4 days in a row might just kill me.

Only one way to find out.


Stacey

Stacey's away at horseback riding camp for the week, and will come back Friday evening, exhausted, sore, and hungry. I wrote her a pair of letters that should reach her before she leaves, saying what dads say to their girls - that I'm thinking about you, miss you, and hope you're out following your bliss. Her summer is a series of camps, and a few weeks with family out of state, with the punchline being the giant birthday party right before school starts. The party that I haven't even started planning for yet.


Liberty

Still the best wife a man could ask for.

She's starting new classes this quarter, including Arabic! That gives me the chance to piggyback, trying my hand at deciphering a new alphabet and learning syntax rules of a non-romance language. woot!

I've met some of Liberty's extended family recently, at her grandfather's funeral. They all seemed to like me well enough, and most of them were smart and entertaining. Liberty's grandmother is in town until tonight, so Liberty and I went over to the house she's staying at with some other family for a goodbye dinner. It was simple and relaxed, little Scout played and was chatty with everyone, and I ended up orchestrating a family snapshot with Scout and Liberty slyly placed dead center.

I feel comfortable around her family. They don't seem to be demanding or judgmental, and I feel accepted when I'm around them.

Liberty has just installed some hair extensions to make her hair look long. It seemed like an odd choice to me, but I went with it, and I ended up enjoying putting them in for her. She couldn't put them in very well in the back of her head (since it requires visual feedback and some complex exchanges between hands), so I helped her put in about maybe 20 or 30 locks. I liked both getting to handle her hair for an extended time, and the playing with a new gadget aspect.


Muffin

With the warmer weather, Liberty and I are enjoying taking Scout to parks in the afternoon. She's learning how to climb through the big-toys, getting brave on the larger slides, and talking to some of the other kids a little. The budding of social and physical intelligence is a wonderful thing to watch. This year should bring a lot of that for her, and I think I've most of the way recruited a part-time playmate from next door, little Marissa, who is 5 now.

Our personal relationship also got a lot better over the last couple of months. I passed from tolerated to accepted shortly before her mom and I got married, and now I feel like she enjoys having me around, doesn't ask me to leave so she an mom can play in private, and on rare occasions says that she loves me. Nice to hear, but 3 year olds are fickle, so I'm not basing my self worth on it just yet.


All is well.

Soccer

Things are going well. My work still likes me, Liberty and I are still in love with each other, Scout and Stacey are both happy and healthy, and my mom is up visiting for a week. Liberty is slowly helping me repair my wardrobe, which still contains lots of 2x and 3x shirts from when I was fat, and I am approximately back in running shape. Stacey's extra-curriculars are coming to an end - her orchestra concert was last week, her soccer tournament ended over the weekend, and the dance recital is upcoming.

During Stacey's soccer season, she developed some good skills at goalie, and her footwork and field reading are on par with about half of the team. She played goalie for about 2/3 of the games, and played with my philosophy of coming out from the goal and challenging players as they approached before they could get good shots off. For the whole season she was only scored on once. She also made improvements on offense, scoring the winning goal as forward in the second half of the same game she got scored on as goalie. She'll be a great player, and her confidence and ball handling has improved.

On the other hand, the atmosphere of kids' sports sometimes sickens me. Parents shout angrily from the sidelines, yell at referees, referees yell at coaches, coaches yell at the girls and each other. This season, the girls started getting pushy on the field, no doubt at the encouragement of parents and coaches. Not every game is bad, but in most games you can see clearly the lack of right-mindedness of everyone involved in the game. Stacey is still a clean player, and was mortified when, after a girl pushed her during a game, she flailed to regain her balance and flattened the girl with an elbow to the chest. Stacey, at 11, is 5'6" and strong, but not violent, and will make sure a downed player gets back up instead of press the advantage for points in a game.

That's my girl, strong, smart, compassionate, and the best goalkeeper on the team. But she isn't a superstar, and she isn't accepted, for whatever reason, with the popular girls on the team, and was also marginalized by the coaches during the tournament. She did not get to play goalie, which I assume is from her perceived lack of aggression - don't put the nice kid in a key position, and her good plays during the championship game went unheralded by the team and coaches, and her mistakes criticized by both.

The head coach's daughter was a roughly equivalent player to Stacey. She had the same temperament, non-aggressiveness, and nervousness under pressure. She had the same intelligence, reading the play and being in the right spot on defense, but occasionally being passed by confident, fast opponents. When she made a mistake, you could see the girls attempt to censor themselves so as not to disparage the coach's kid, and the coaches were quick with applause and "that's OK, keep trying, doing good." When the team stars made mistakes, the girls were quick to shout similar encouragement. When Stacey and similarly skilled players made mistakes, the disparagement was uncensored. I think this is in the nature of kids and their pack orders.

The end result of all this nonsense was that Stacey's team won the championship of their division, and each player got trophies of a large chested tween wearing baggy soccer clothes and a confused expression. To try to make the moment more memorable, the coaches tried to say personal anecdotes about each player. They were familiar with the star players' life stories, what was going through their heads the first time they saw them play, etc., and for the players who weren't as accomplished and flashy, they got variations on "tries real hard" and "always plays where I tell her to." Despite her improvement during the year and being the keeper with the best record, Stacey's trophy was accompanied by a "tries real hard" and a botched anecdote about her game-winning shot earlier in the season that included "I saw a foot, but not a face, and then Stacey getting patted on the back, so I assume she made the shot." Amazing...ly bad delivery. However, coach, if you stumble across this some time in the future, no hard feelings, congratulations, and it was great to see your daughter make the season ending final goal. She deserves that memory with all the hard work she did this season.

So the question is, how is it that I don't hate any of these people, or have animosity towards them? They are the Buddha standing before me, helping to free me from attachments. Also, I have already volunteered with the U-12 coordinator to coach a team next year, and have signed up for an F-license class. I won't coach to vindicate wrongs against Stacey, and I do intend to win as many games as I can, but I want to see a team in this league coached the way Henry Bell, one of the WASA directors who sub-coached Stacey's team a few seasons ago, would coach it - games should be fun, and you should see if you can win without hurting anyone. Also, if each player is unique and contributes, you should be able to say something positive and meaningful about each of them equally.

For example, here's what I would have said about another marginalized player, Kristen, who received an "always plays where I tell her to" speech. Kristen was a little heavy, discouraged for most of the season, not quite in the top-tier social circle, but determined and skilled mentally, and her good defense helped keep us in the game many times throughout the season:

"Kristen is now the best fullback in the league, bar none. She recovered from an injury to be a valuable contributor, learned to control her temper, and learned how to read body language very well. Many of you probably saw her make some key blocks in the championship game to help keep us in the running when our faster players had started to wear themselves out. Without her contributions, we may not be getting these trophies now. Thanks, Kristen, we really needed you."

How hard is that? Her work merited at least that much effort -- and she's not even my kid. In fact, Stacey and she fought a little bit last season.

What would I have said about Stacey?

"Stacey is the goalie with the best record on this team. One goal allowed all season. (pause for applause) She aggressively leaves the comfort zone of the net, and risks injury to charge up and grab balls before the opponent's forward can set up for a shot. She shocked some of the teams we faced with her bold plays, and made them a little more timid, which helped us win games. In other positions, she steadfastly refused to push to get a ball, preferring to play with her feet instead of her hands. The opposing team was not the enemy; in fact, she had many cheery conversations with girls on other teams as time allowed, and was quick to check on their players who were injured or knocked down. This empathy with players on other teams did not cost us a point all season, and helped other girls feel good about playing in this league. You are a moral example to the rest of us, and we were sure as hell glad to have you on the team."

I love you, kid, you're still the best.

Changing gears, I am also on a soccer league. It is a co-ed, over 30 league, and there are some pretty good teams out there. Yesterday we played a very good team, and it looked for a while like we were going to get a whoopin', but my team and I came together after the first quarter and really turned things around. It was loads of fun. Loads of pain today as I start to recover, but loads of fun then.

In the first quarter, one of the first few plays of the game had an opponent forward run by me faster than I could keep up, and go in for an easy goal. I was shocked, as were the two people in front of me he zipped by, and our goalie who missed the block. I took my figurative car out of first gear after that, found myself quickly running out of breath, and had two collisions with a large player on the other team. He scolded me after the second hit, I assured him it was unintentional, we high-fived each other, and play continued.

At that moment, something happened in me. I think I went into combat mode. I had the physical discomfort of being winded and having been jarred a couple times, the emotional impact of being down 2 to nothing early in the game, and then the perceived threat of the other player who told me, in veiled terms but nonetheless clearly, that I had better not run into him again. I got calm, my breathing slowed, and I felt energized. I saw the field better, saw where people were going to pass, saw who was winded, who was trying to fake me out, and who would be surprised if I charged them. I started making plays and stopped being clumsy.

By the end of the half, we were tied at 2. I stayed in the entire second quarter and most of the third, and then took a break. During my break, we went up 3-2. I came back in to finish the game, and immediately snuck up on a fast player and stole the ball from him, drove it up field (very uncommon for me), passed it to a forward, who took it in for a goal. My first assist.

We won 4-2, and several of us were shaky and overheated after the game. I'm as sore as I've ever been after a game, and elated at my team and my own personal performance. Plus, my wife was in attendance, and got to see me being cool. Shwing.

Post Surgery, odds and ends

Things have been hopping along lately, and I have several brief anecdotes, any of which could be their own full journal entry, all of which I've clumsily slung together as one post.

So I've been getting these recurring sinus infections for the last several years, causing me increasingly painful and debilitating headaches. Suck. I first went to my family doctor about this in late 2000, and I was misdiagnosed as having cluster headaches, given some Vicodin, and sent on my way. A couple years later, after many headaches and lost days of work, I was near collapse when I got in my car to go to work one morning, and decided to go to the ER instead.

Demerol.

When I came to on my couch with a remote control in my hand some 4 hours later, I vaguely remembered someone having done a CT Scan on me at the hospital. It came back as a massive sinus infection, and I was referred to an ENT specialist, who has been my antibiotic supplier for the last two years. When the infections came on more frequently, and a second CT scan showed that back-to-back rounds of antibiotics didn't kill the infection, he recommended surgery. I said yes.

So I had a septoplasty and sinus procedure done, suffered a mildly irritating couple days of nosebleeds, a week of having a plastic appliance up my nose, and two weeks before I felt like myself again. I've only just recently been able to start exercising again with full effort, and I put off joining my mates on the soccer field when the season started a couple weeks ago in favor of giving myself some extra training time to get my wind back.

Now I'm back to full strength, doing as many push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups as I was before the surgery, as long a hold in the dolphin plank yoga pose, as many reps with 50 pounds on curls, Arnold presses, and bent rows. Everything back to where it was, except the running. I haven't run much at all over the winter, and when I was out practicing soccer with Stacey, I felt pretty clumsy, and tripped over my own feet once. Not a good sign.

That was practice with the kid, though. This Sunday was a different story. After one whiff which resulted in us getting scored on, I settled down and started playing well. On the sidelines watching the game were my daughters, wife, and in-laws, who all seemed to enjoy the spectacle. Stacey's old teammate Rachel was there with her father, and she and Stacey had a good time horsing around.

Stacey came pretty close to getting scored on for the first time this season as goalie last week. She let the striker get the ball between her legs, but turned and fell on it before it rolled in. Awesome reaction.

Her dance classes just had their pictures taken in their spring recital outfits, trey cute. I did Stacey's hair in a ballet bun for the first time in years, and it came out pretty good. Thankfully, Liberty was around to help with the make-up, where she vetoed the bad color choices the school suggested, and did Stacey up in something more appropriate to her skin tone... or so they tell me.

Little Scout, Liberty, and I have been having fun with sidewalk chalk lately. It turns out Liberty is the superior chalk artist. I found out that ants don't like to cross chalk lines when I, on a whim, drew a circle around one to see what would happen. It was odd, she (the ant, I'm not actually sure of the gender, but I'm saying "she") ran around furiously, bounding in random directions, and turning suddenly when she touched chalk. Eventually she found a section of the circle that had small gaps in the chalk line, and managed to run across it. Scout watched what must have been serious science to her three year old eyes.

Stacey, Liberty, and I went down to the Earth Day celebration at Goodale Park this Saturday, where we listened to some live music, watched hippies dance, played with dogs wandering around off their leashes, and watched another instance of Liberty's superior artistry. There were several booths advertising political groups, green businesses, nature reserves, etc., and one was asking everyone to draw something in a square of a giant tablecloth that will later be used as some art project or other. Stacey and I threw down some quick doodles, Liberty took about 10 minutes painstakingly drawing a flower pattern. It was gorgeous. In fact, here it is:



Friday was Stacey's 6th grade informal orchestra concert. The theme was the 60s, and the kids were encouraged to dress in 60s style clothes. A few nights before, me and the girls hit a vintage clothing store down in the Short North, and bought Stacey some simple bellbottoms and a hippy-ish shirt with clouds and a smiling sun on it. She looked cool in 60s clothes, with her long blonde hair hanging down loose. When I walked her over to the school for the concert, a number of girls greeted her cheerfully, which I'm not used to seeing. They seemed almost eager to see her, and she was one of the gang. I was elated, and beat a hasty retreat before my presence ruined everything, as I am very repellant to "the gang" in most cases, and didn't want any of that to rub off on Stacey.

At work today, there was an "Operation Feed" bake sale on my floor. Of the 5 or so items brought to the sale, only one of them, cupcakes, was homemade. The rest were storebought, and presumably flavorless, sweets. I made a comment to the people setting up that this was not a bake sale, but a resale. Why don't people like to cook anymore? I've seen the same problem in Girl Scouts and soccer, Stacey and I will cook up something fancy, have fun doing it, and make everyone happy with our creation, and other parents just go to the store and buy potato chips, missing great bonding time with their children - the moments that life is all about, the times you reflect on in your rocking chair when you're old. Liberty suggested Stacey was more fond of me than most pre-teens are of their parents, and most kids that age just don't want to spend time with mom and dad cooking something.

Their loss.

And while we're on a down note, Stacey's soccer game this evening was an atrocious nightmare of testosterone induced madness. Our assistant coach, loud and obnoxious in general (who another parent posed the question "is he for real?" about), got into a sideline shouting match with the other team's coach. Kids on both teams were pushing each other until one of our girls started crying. Some parents were making snide comments to the referee and some of the other players. I was so taken aback by all the anger that I walked away from the field to clear my head -- and missed Stacey taking a shot on goal. The shot was blocked, and followed up by our smallest player, the one who was crying earlier, for a score. Stacey, the tallest kid on either team, managed to avoid any rough play, using her legs to play instead of her hands. Just like I taught her.

Aside from the anger management class waiting to happen, life is good.

My girls rock. Seriously.

Yesterday all my girls made me pretty damned happy. I'll talk about them in the order that I met them.

Stacey.

She played some awesome soccer yesterday. On the way to the past few games, I've been giving a small strategy hint, like "sprint past the player with the ball, then engage her," or "position yourself to surprise the player with the ball - move back a little, then sprint at them when they lead the ball out," or "position yourself to receive a pass, spread out when two of you are near the ball." None of these strategies were really applicable, as little girls soccer doesn't play like a professional game does. No, kids' games are much more fun and interesting. I don't think that 5 minutes of coaching and pep talk during the drive to a game will turn Stacey into an elite footballer, but I think engaging her to think about the game, encouraging her to pay attention to where people are and what they look like they're about to do, lays the foundation that she can build her own strategy from. Basically, it really wouldn't matter what I said, it's just important to get her mind fixed on the problem. Her fantastic mind that far exceeds where I was at her age.

Yesterday she had her game on, blocking shots at fullback, making steals and good passes at midfield, and making three saves at goalie. Goalie is where she really shines, gaining much coach, team, and sideline praise. She has never been scored on (which I try to say as much as I can while it's still true), and is often 10 feet away from the goal, fearlessly running out to grab a ball before the opponent gets set for a shot. It was fun to watch, and she was happy getting the positive feedback from an otherwise demanding and elitist group of kids and parents.

Liberty and Scout came to the game, and when Stacey made her first big save, I was standing near her on the sidelines holding Scout, and the two of us yelled out cheers to her. I could see the glee on Stacey's face, making a good play with family watching and cheering her on.

Although I'm not competitive, don't angrily push Stacey to be the best, and have the sense to allow her to be as engaged with her activities as she wants to, I was happy to see Stacey start to break through the barriers in her game and her interaction with the other girls, getting some camaraderie with her team, and gaining not a small measure of confidence. As her dad, I couldn't have been prouder.



Liberty.

This upcoming Monday we'll have been married for a month. I swear I've never loved a woman more than I love her, even now that we're settling into a routine, and each of us is thinking "OK, now what?" She's still amazing, and as beautiful to me now as the day I first saw her on the sidewalk by PF Chang's at Easton last September 1. I'm not the type of man to be smitten, and have always maintained some reserve around women I've dated. But with Liberty, I quickly lost all pretense of having any sense around her. She is everything I have ever wanted in a woman, and she came to me on her own, sized me up, and liked what she saw. She has the hippy mentality, a healthy dose of pessimism about the way things are, but not so much that she can't find a hundred things to laugh and smile about every day. The look. God, the look. A little spice here and there on top of the body type that, well... I think my kid might read this some day, so I'll skip that part. I've also said before that I suspect she's smarter than I am, and isn't shy about disagreeing with me when she thinks I'm full of hot air. Keeps me honest.

So, yeah, I fell for her. And I married her 6 and a half months after we met. And if I could change anything about how that worked out, I wouldn't have waited so damned long.

Yesterday Liberty had the day off from work and a court date in the afternoon, so we watched Scout from home in the morning, and I got to see a few hours of mommy bonding with her baby girl. She read to her, played with her toys, braided her hair, and gave her the smile that always makes me melt, and words of love and comfort that only sound right coming from a mom. Scout felt cherished, and safe, and wanted. When I see Liberty with her daughter, just naturally affectionate and giving, real, with no affected sing-song voice or baby talk, I fall in love with her all over again. Every time. And as a bonus, when she's focussed on Scout, I can still sneak in a kiss or two.

So Yesterday I watched Liberty work her charms on Scout, and the two of them came to watch Stacey totally kick ass at soccer. She likes her stepdaughter a lot, and despite not being into sports, comes out in support of Stacey. The two of them have spent some time together a few times without me, without needing any coercing. They've gone go-carting at Magic Mountain, and Stacey has learned some of the fine art of retail sales at Liberty's work a couple times (unless you work at the same company, in which case she hasn't, that was a complete lie).

She's the best, as good to me and Stacey as she is to her own daughter. Those of you who had the chance to snatch her up and failed to do so lost out big. What were you thinking? I mean, seriously.

Scout.

"Daddy, om my up."

If I need to tell you what that means, you won't understand how it makes me feel to hear it. My ears remembered the words, and my arms knew what to do. And we never said "hey, Curtis is your daddy, call him daddy, ok?" She just did.

So those are my girls, and why I'm a happy man right now.

The News in Brief

I'm married.



Right now I'm recovering from surgery and don't feel like writing much, so more on married life later.

Don't need a watch to waste your time

First, congratulations to Kris and Andy on the birth of their baby! That would be my ex-sister-in-law and her husband up in warm and sunny Wisconsin. Stacey will be going up there this Spring Break for a week to play with her new cousin. I'll try to see if they mind me putting up more info and some pictures.

What's new with me? Still trying to set my body right after years of unhealthy living. I just posted a new "Inner Stork" entry over on my fatblog, and I recently had a bad run-in with an old friend of mine: caffeine.

I have been addicted to caffeine since I was a teenager, buying cans of Mountain Dew from my high school vending machine for a quarter each ('84, but we were a hippy school, not looking to make mad profit). I got quickly hooked, and drank several cans a day. For years. By the time I was a senior, I had stomach problems, and was prescribed the hot new drug at the time, Zantac. I didn't connect that with the pop drinking, attributing it instead to the stresses of being a 17 year old with a chip on his shoulder. Those of you who knew me at 17 may remember the chip. It was sizable.

Over the years, I had successes and failures with pop and my stomach, somehow being too dense to connect the dots. I went from Zantac to Protonix, to Prilosec, and kept drinking more and more pop, until I was up to around 3 liters a day.

Finally last month I hit the wall, doubled over with constant stomach pain for several days in a row. I took sick time off from work, performed poorly as a father and boyfriend, and was struggling not to be a disagreeable ass.

A pair of visits to the doctor and one ultrasound later, and nothing conclusive was determined, but a new ulcer is the most likely candidate. I started taking Nexium, and stopped drinking pop, and 4 days later I was back to full strength with no stomach pain, able to resume all my life's callings, business, fatherly, and amorous.

Like how I just slipped in "stopped drinking pop" in the middle of the sentence, like it was no big deal? If you've known me any time in the last 20 years, your mental image of me probably has a can of Mountain Dew in my left hand. Stopping was a big deal, and I have slightly more sympathy now for addicts of other drugs. My prior success at losing weight helped, knowing that I could go without something, knowing I could bare some discomfort. The headaches and cravings lasted a few days, and then nothing. And after a few more days, no exhaustion.

So now I've added pop to the list of undesirables I've given up: Alcohol, violence, gluttony, and greed. Next up: Meat, and envy. Those might take a while. However, I'm not a Jain, I'm just trying to get me through the night... alright... alright.

Unrelated - Farewell Gary.

Valentine's Day 2008

I took a personal day this February 14, not for added romance, but to take care of a sick kid. And for the first time ever, it wasn't my own sick kid I was taking care of. It was my soon-to-be stepdaughter Scout who was ill. She accepts me well enough, but I'm not quite a surrogate parent for her; mom and dad are still her favorite people. She had been sick and a little listless over the previous few days, and Liberty had skipped school one day, and taken off work the next to be with her. Thursday Liberty had a test she couldn't skip, so I made arrangements with my boss to take a day off and play caregiver.

We watched a little TV, and made a snack run, and then a flowers run. Both places we went the clerks engaged little Scout with smiles and comments on her frog boots, where she shyly ignored them and buried her head in my shoulder. When Liberty came home, I had the flower arrangement on the kitchen table, with the three boxes of chocolates, one for each of my girls, and Scout was asleep on my lap, nestled into my arm, as I played on the computer.

I couldn't have deliberately planned a more cute way for her to find us, and I didn't plan this one. She didn't want me to put her to bed for a nap, which I assume has something to do with her often waking up to me already being gone to work, and maybe was afraid she'd be abandoned if she let me out of her site. She got clingy as she got tired, and as a father who misses being with his own daughter at three, I went with it, and she fell asleep still grabbing onto me. I was sad that she wasn't feeling well, and that I couldn't communicate to her that I would still be near when she woke up, but still, it was nice.

So the other girls, they both hated the chocolates, and liked the flowers. For Stacey I got some storebought candy more for the pretty box than the contents, and the chocolates themselves ended up being cheap fare. For Liberty I had some Hoffman's chocolates delivered, which seemed nice when they got here, but they were described as "odd". Harrumph. Next year it's old reliable: Godiva.

Last was my grandmother. She is 86 now, and has always had a thing about getting cards, counting them and comparing how many she got with her other sisters on all the standard card-giving occasions. This year I forgot to get cards in the mail on time for me and Stacey, so I instead had some flowers delivered to her on the 13th. They were pansies in a nice porcelain basket vase. My grandmother has always liked pansies, so the personal touch was more important to her than how much money roses would have cost. A followup call confirmed that the flowers went over pretty well.

So what's going on in life? Stacey just received an "Excellent" award for her Science Fair project of Coke and Mentos, testing the hypothesis of whether different flavors of Mentos make Coke erupt to different heights. She had a good time and spent a moderate amount of effort on the project, ending up on par or better than her peers, including the 7th and 8th grader's projects. Next year she is eligible to go on to district competition, so I hope to be a part of her project then. (This year I only bought the raw materials, and her mom organized time and space to do the experimenting.) (Yes, the flavor of Mentos makes a difference.)

What else... I've been in touch with my father, my sister Angela, and her mom Rosemary, to both catch up and reconnect, and to announce my engagement to see if they'll be able to come up for the wedding. Rosemary keeps sending email forwards with pictures of random cute or cool things, which lets me take up some of gmail's huge storage space, so it doesn't just go to waste. You know, if you have a pail, you might as well fill it with something. My Great-Aunt Maxine is having a surprise 80th birthday party thrown for her in early March (shh!) that I'll try to get down to.

Oh, and I'm going in for surgery March 25th, and can finally find out if I'm allergic to anesthesia.

Cloverfield: 5 Stars, No Spoilers

Years of playing first-person shooters has apparently made me immune from camera-induced nausea. Pretentious movie critics of the 80s made similar remarks to the warning above about certain segments of Highlander, which I saw opening week while suffering from a splitting headache, and having set my stomach on edge already by taking too many Nuprin. (Remember Nuprin? Little, yellow, different?) Despite my condition, I didn't notice anything amiss with the camera action, even in the wacky opening helicopter-around-the-auditorium scene. And the same with Cloverfield. I commented on seeing the preview, and I've seen in countless reviews, blogs, and forum posts, that Cloverfield was "Godzilla meets Blair Witch". In fact, it was less like Blair Witch in camera style, more like the Cops TV show. As with Highlander, I didn't find the jerkiness of Cloverfield the least bit upsetting; the camera operator did a good job of keeping what we needed to see in view.

The movie content, however, that was upsetting - psychologically, not in a pretentious movie critic way. I loved it. It was scary. The effect of running around on the ground with a few survivors trying to accomplish a secondary goal while avoiding the monster played off a lot like a zombie movie. So, instead of Godzilla meets Blair Witch, let's call it Cops meets 28 Days Later.

My recommendation: Don't read any spoilers, and go see it. Take a Dramamine if you're a big wuss, but go see it. If you liked Children of Men, or Rob Zombie's Halloween, or Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead, or Alien - go see it.

The Proposal

The following paragraph is the beginning of a blog entry about my plans to propose to Liberty the day before she became my fiancée. I got interrupted and never returned to it until now.

I'm writing this the day before I'll propose to Liberty. What I'm up against is a few other proposals she's already had, all of them in bad form. From the "here, I got somethin' for ya'" and tossing the box at her, to "well, I'll marry you if you're pregnant." Coming across as classier than that won't be a challenge, naturally, but that she's been proposed to before in relationships that didn't work out is causing me a little anxiety. Until now, we've transcended the problems our past relationships have had, and we are supportive of each other, kind, patient, protecting, trusting, all that 1st Corinthians 13:4 stuff oft quoted at weddings. But taking the next step is scary.

And yes, it was scary. My proposal to my ex-wife was this elaborate farce where we went out and bought the ring together, and took a trip to the woods where we both understood I intended to ask her to marry me. There was no problem with fear there, only timing. I was disappointed in the whole affair, but happy at the time to get my affirmative answer.

With Liberty, I felt my heartbeat in my chest very fast and very powerful, and wondered for a moment if I was going to have a heart attack. In the twisted logic of the moment, I was worried less that I would die, and more that my death would ruin the moment. She didn't know what was going on, just that we were going to a nice restaurant for dinner. It was too early in our relationship for an offer of marriage (although we both were mad about each other, and visions of a long and happy life together had already come up in conversation a few times), so it caught her completely off-guard.

I told her the long story of my mom's wedding ring, how it was pawned, repurchased by my grandmother, stolen from her, and given back out of guilt, and forgotten about in a box in a basement, patiently waiting to be found again. All the while, the ring was in my pocket, having been freshly shined up at a local jeweler. I told her how I had a heart to heart with my mom about her, and how she knew I'd never felt for another woman what I felt now...

"So she gave me the ring. And now I'd like to give it to you. Will you marry me?"

When she nodded ascent, the butterflies left. My heart stopped pounding in my chest. She was visibly moved, and we were both so happy that we couldn't stop kissing each other for a few minutes. It was a thing of beauty. I'd say you had to be there, but, frankly, I'm glad it was just the two of us. And the spying wait staff, who had been told ahead of time what my plan was, to guarantee us a quiet place in the restaurant.

One of the many reasons she's a keeper: I told her I would have a glass of champagne with her to celebrate, and she said no, citing my non-drinking. I made a vow to myself 16 years ago not to drink any alcohol, and in 16 years, I have not had one drink. I would have gladly suspended that for one night to celebrate with my new bride to be, but she recognized my general distaste for booze, and we contented ourselves with our sodas, and the free desserts the restaurant gave us, for choosing them for the proposal. Nice touch.

That was before Christmas, and we're still mad about each other. Our kids are attached to each other, and our relationships with each other's kids keeps getting stronger. Little Scout has accepted me as a caregiver, no longer making sure mom is somewhere nearby, letting me read her bedtime stories, and take her down for breakfast if mom is still asleep. Stacey has grown fond of Liberty, and for the first time went off with her today without me to do girl stuff. I predict good things for the future.

The News in Brief

I'm engaged.



I'll write a lengthy treatise on how that happened, and how my mom's engagement ring found its way from being pawned for survival money in the 1970s to Liberty's finger here.

I've reconnected with some family down in Florida, including my father and sister, who I've been in a state of part estrangement, part procrastination for the last 10 years. When Liberty and I tie the knot (details to come, Internet crazies who come to crash the party will be politely turned away at the door), they may all make the trek up to Ohio to wish us well.

Got the tree up, and a few cool custom ornaments made, did all my shopping (I usually post a Christmas to-do list, but I've been inexplicably pressed for time for the last month, and unable to sit and just write a good blog entry. Some shots of the tree and ornaments, and Stacey from a recent Christmas show she and the Westerville Center for the Arts did at Easton, and Stacey in the outfit she wore to her first Christmas formal, are up in the latest Picasa album, here:

Christmas 2007

All is well. Stacey is up in Wisconsin with Teresa, Chris, and the Dahlstrom's for Christmas, and I have to wait until the new year to finish celebrating with her (note to self - buy fruit basket on Jan 2). I miss her. I want to tell her I'm engaged, but it should be in person. I need her to see in my eyes that she's still my little girl and can't be replaced or put on the back-burner.

I'm looking forward to spending Christmas with Liberty and her friends and family. Scout (Liberty's daughter) and her father will be there too, and I'll be happy to finally meet him. Beginnings are delicate times, as Frank Herbert preached in many Dune novels, and it will be important for him to see me as a friend and confidant. He is, after all, in basically the same place I was 7 years ago when Teresa and I split up - sharing custody, worrying about the ex trying to steal away with his child, and being distrustful of new people who interact with his daughter, and who used to be his woman. I'll try to do what I can to put him at ease, and it will be interesting to see a version of my past self from my current point of view.

More after Christmas.

Dating after the long hiatus

I have been out of serious romantic relationships for the past 7 years, from the time my ex-wife and I split up in February of 2000, until a couple months ago when Liberty and I started dating. In the intervening years I saw a woman for about 3 months, and while we enjoyed each other's company, the relationship didn't blossom, and we stopped calling each other. A woman I work with and I danced around a relationship shortly, and eventually figured out there was nothing between us but a common loneliness - that ended badly, and it took us most of the following year to rebuild a friendship. All told, about 6 months of false starts, and 6 and a half years of no romance.

What happened to me along the way were several good things. First, I became a devoted father, a stereotypical helicopter parent nosing his way into the school community, throwing many sleepovers and elaborate birthday parties, fretting over my daughter's struggles and beaming with pride at her successes. Stacey was my only love for all of her elementary school years. I mean, seriously, just read the archives of this blog.

I also learned to tackle personal problems, like disorganization, bad money management, a short temper, and chronic reclusion. Lastly, and most important for the purposes of what type of boyfriend I became, I stopped thinking in terms of "what would a good X do in this case?" What would a good father do when there's bickering late at night at a sleepover? What would a good boyfriend do when his girlfriend's kids want him to come play baseball in the backyard instead of hang out with mommy?

The behavior and expectations filter was once this constant background noise for me, almost as if I had no real persona of my own, and was like an autistic child trying to mimic how normally socialized people acted. Or maybe I had a fear of my own natural responses, and took comfort in just playing a part. What happened over the last 7 years was a decay of that part of me. My instincts became stronger than my habits, and I began to act in life as I would, not as my conceived archetypal ideal would. Because as a boyfriend, father, IT flunky, neighbor, and all the other hats I wear, I'm not different people, and my honest behavior and reactions now serve me better than my filtered behavior ever did.

And now there's Liberty, and I am myself around her without any affectations or embellishments, and our romance feels stronger than I imagined was possible. We've passed unscathed the stage where we learn each other's dirty little secrets, we've met each other's kids, had family over for dinner, and made the first hintings of "what if" plans. What if we're still into each other this much next year? What would living together look like? Now, I can't predict the future, I can only hope that things will work out as well as they seem like they might, but I never would have gotten here, never would have achieved this deep of a connection with a woman, without learning how to be an honest man instead of a caricature. As it turns out, I'm as loving and attentive as my ideal "good boyfriend" would have been.

I'm thankful for my flaws, and that it took me this long to grow into the man I am. Otherwise, I might never have met her. She is worth all the years of frustration and loneliness that came before, and much more. Classy, exotic, strong, intelligent, funny, well-read, beautiful, persevering, fearless, patient, caring. Perfect. The woman I love.

75

Stacey's soccer season is winding down now, and her last game is tonight. I believe we are currently ranked second out of the 6 U12 WASA teams, so the girls have enjoyed some success this year. Stacey has grown into a competent goalie, of all things, by being bold enough to come out of the box and grab the ball before the opponent shoots... just like I taught her. Honest.

Saturday was the last practice of the season, and was the "fun day" where the parents and the girls play against each other. We were out running around in the hot sun for about maybe 30 minutes total, enough to wipe out most of the adults and some of the kids. The adults lost, 2 to 1 in sudden death overtime, where the team's leading scorer passed me, playing sweeper, and took a shot that just snuck in on the correct side of the post. Cute kid, Alexa, and plenty of aggressive and hotshot during the team's games. I had harassed her a little during the game, sneaking in and stealing passes, blocking shots, and I finally got her mad enough to beat me on a play and score. I made it clear to her and her dad later that I didn't let her beat me, that she really did earn the point. That was the way the game was supposed to end: victory for the girls, camaraderie and teamwork defeating the greater size and life experience of the adults. It was a good thing.

The game against the girls helped me remember my love for soccer, and how fun it is supposed to be, at a time when my self-confidence as a player has been shaken. I felt good about playing, the other adults complemented me on my mad defense skillz, and everyone left with a smile on their face. So then yesterday was the game in my over-30 league, and my spirit and confidence was fully restored, and it showed.

Unfortunately, we had only 11 people on the team show up. A full complement, but no subs. So I played for just over 75 minutes of our 80 minute game in the blazing sun, finishing dehydrated, clumsy, and with a splitting headache. But before I fell to pieces, I contributed to my team, making a few good passes, harassing forwards on the other team to pass before they were settled, and making what should have been a key save in the game, only to have the ref call a foul on me. The play was against a fast opponent with good ball control who got around me at midfield when no one was behind me. I chased him down to the goal, and stepped on the ball just before he was able to get the shot off, accidentally knocking us both down. A ref called it a foul, to the great protest of most of my teammates, who all gave me encouragement and said it was a crap call. He took the free kick, sending his team up 2-1. We held for a while longer, but by the end we were all too winded to keep up, and we ended up losing 4-1.

So at the end of the day we lost, I ended up with a skinned knee and a headache, wiped out and sore, and I've never felt better. To boot, I got to the field right when the game was starting, and didn't get a chance to stretch. Today I'm a little stiff, tomorrow should be hell.

In other news, my lady friend and I, to the best of my reckoning, are officially a couple now. I've even heard Stacey say something I never thought would come out of her mouth in casual conversation: "my Dad and his girlfriend". Her name is Liberty, and I like her a lot. I haven't been in a romantic relationship for several years, and it's nice to wake that part of my brain up again. I'll be sparing on the details for everyone's privacy, but suffice to say that if my blog is cheerier than normal, she's a big reason why.

Becoming a familiar

"Help me Connor!" the little girl called to me. At that point, I knew I had officially been adopted. Connor. It has a nice ring to it. Rolls off the tongue better than Curtis, especially if you're 2 and a half years old.

The girl, Scout, is the daughter of a woman who may or may not be my girlfriend. We're at that awkward stage in new relationships where things either blow up or settle down, and the goodbyes stop being a mishmash of half hugs, quick pats on the back, and accidental headbutts and start being kisses and worried reflection... was that too much? Not enough? Scout was the girl who was shy around me last post, and yesterday evening started out looking like more of the same.

We planned to go out to Magic Mountain, a great place for tots to jump and climb, and bang buttons on various video games. When everyone arrived at my house and we were loading Scout up to the car for the trip, she still eyeballed me suspiciously and looked worried, but settled down during the ride, no doubt noticing mom and I getting along and chatting cheerfully. When we got to Magic Mountain, Scout is taking mom's hand while walking in, and subtly throws her other hand up for me to hold. Naturally, I take it. And smile ear to ear.

The play area has a giant truck with climbing tubes for the smaller kids to play in, which is less daunting than the two and a half storey nest of tubes and tunnels that the elementary school kids play in. Scout eagerly climbed in and explored, and eventually got lost and upset, and called to mommy for help. Mom peeks in one of the windows reassuringly, and gives Scout a hint of which way to go, and she figured out how everything was laid out, and was fine. With her new knowledge of the truck's topography, and wielding the adult summoning spell in her collection of scrolls, she decided to get "lost" again, and to summon me for help instead of mommy.

"Help me Connor!" I am 6'4" and not very flexible for purposes like fitting into toddlers' climbing toys, but I somehow managed to snake my way through a few twists and turns to find little Scout, who smiled at me as I helped lower her down one platform, whereupon she quickly made her escape from the bigtoy deathtrap. A few minutes later, as I finally wrenched and scooted myself back out the way I came in -- why is that always the hard part? -- we decided to go on to bigger and better things, like Ski-ball and dinner at Arby's. Somewhere during all that, Scout decided it was OK for me to pick her up and carry her, and she gave me the biggest complement a toddler can, by resting her head against my shoulder contentedly as I carried her back in the house.


So I'm adopted now, one of her familiars. Life is good. Thanks, little princess.

Training, the kid keeps growing, and romance revisited

So, here I am in a C# training class for the week, which I'm assuming based on the first couple of hours is going to be a miserable week, reminding me of all the things in the IT world that are upsetting. To enumerate, the sign on the door "Introduction to C+", the personal ramblings ("I think x will be the future of programming"), the experimenting with nonstandard classroom computer configurations, dirty keyboards, the table and chairs out of sync heightwise, and nothing yet that approaches any programming meat. The good news is the unfiltered Internet connection, hence this post, which I couldn't do from my office since about a year ago when "blog" was became a filtered keyword.

What's new? My kid is awesome, which isn't new, but she's continuing to be awesome in Middle School, making friends, being more challenged in some classes than she's used to, like the advanced 6th grade math class, all the while tackling a full schedule of dance, soccer, and music. We've butted heads on a few issues in the natural progression of her asserting her independence. My angst for that whole deal is out of proportion to the problem because of one simple fact: I've been a natural at fatherhood up until now.

After I last got angry with her, I chilled myself out and sat down with her and had a conversation that went something like this: Stacey, you've always had a natural gift for numbers. You've been at the top of your math class since you started school, been bragged on by your teachers, and been put in the gifted program at school. This year, you are put in with other kids who were at the tops of their classes, and the work is harder, and it doesn't come easy for you any more. You have to work at it, practice, and be patient while you get your head around new concepts that don't just automatically jump off the page at you as obvious. It's the same with me, now, with being a dad. I used to always know what to do, and it was easy, and I was never worried that I was doing the wrong thing, never frustrated, and always got along with you famously. Now you're growing up, and it's harder. You're running into life problems I struggled with when I was kid, and how to help you and balance being a parent and being an empathetic friend is harder. I'll have to work at it, and struggle to not be frustrated. And I love you just as much as I always did, and we'll figure all this crap out.

Or something like that. I doubt I was that eloquent, but the message was the same.

In other news, I met this woman. I like her. She has a cool kid who is almost 3, and although is unafraid of my wild Husky, the kid is completely terrified of me, the new guy. Between that and the recent struggles with Stacey, I feel as though I've completely lost my kid mojo. I found out later that the kid actually liked me, and liked the rice krispie treats I made for her, and liked playing in Stacey's playroom, and watching Cinderalla, but was a little concerned that mom intended to leave her there for me to babysit.

It looks like the woman and I might start seeing each other regularly, and I'm running the gauntlet of emotions again, the ones I thought I had conquered years ago. I've still got love, passion, fear, impatience, confidence, and cowardice all jumping around in me, just like I was a kid again. It's fantastic!

Two thumbs up for:
Shoot 'Em Up
Halloween
Stardust
Resident Evil 3
and The Truman Show, which I somehow managed to avoid seeing for 9 years.

The play - Success!

OK, she did such a great job, and the pictures turned out so well, that I'm not waiting until tomorrow. Here's the link to the web album:

Theater Camp

All the kids did a great job, and I'm really glad Stacey got to be a part of this. The show went off pretty well, and most of the kids needed some direction - including Stacey. Since all the kids learned their parts in under 40 hours, that shouldn't be surprising. Still, it was cute, and came off great, and the director, Candace, obviously loved to be working with the kids.

At the end of the show, she called all the kids up and said a personal anecdote about each of them, and gave them little trinkets, a small wind chime with a crystal in it. Very nice touch.

Thespian memories

Seven years ago, when Stacey was almost 4, I lived for a short time in a small apartment, piecing my life back together after Stacey's mom and I broke up. I started from scratch, taking only my clothes, computer, a reclining chair, and some odds and ends. By the time I had bled my money dry, I had procured the necessities of life: dishes, a kitchen table, cookware, a desk, two bookshelves, and two beds - one for me, one for Stacey.

The next few months were, without doubt or exaggeration, the best of my life. Stacey and I were close since she was a newborn, but we grew so attached to and fond of each other in the Spring of 2000 that it's difficult to describe. We were perfect in each other's eyes. She was beautiful and loved by everyone, a natural learner and eager and happy to explore everything. I was infallible, strong, and always available and willing to do anything she was interested in on a whim.

We hung out at parks, did crafts, and went to the zoo. When the weather was bad, we spent lazy days hanging out at a local mall that had a kids' play area.



We signed her for ballet class...



Went to see a kids' concert...



..and we discovered reading.



I introduced her to Sneetches, Madeline, the Velveteen Rabbit, Winnie The Pooh, other Dr. Suess stories, and some stories I wasn't familiar with that we bought at the local book store.

Stacey wanted me to read her bedtime stories almost every night, a ritual I looked forward to as much as she did. She would get under the covers in her bed which faced the bookshelf, then look at the books, throw the covers off and run and grab a book, then come back and get under the covers again, scooting over to me and putting her head on my shoulder. I would wrap my arm around her and get into character, and my reserved, quiet demeanor would fall away as I become a master thespian for a while.

I had never been skilled at reading aloud until I had someone who really wanted me to read to her. It took a few tries to get my confidence and ignore that I felt silly being in character, but I got over it, and became deft at reading aloud and speaking clearly and at the right tempo and volume -- and I became better at a lot of things because of that.

Around that time, I was recruited at work to come teach data communications to new hires when the "regular guy" wasn't available. This required not only creating my own materials and a plan, but also speaking clearly, and at the right tempo and volume, the very things I had been practicing nightly. I did well enough training my first class that I became the regular guy myself, and later went on to teach a week-long advanced class to the "level 2" tech support team.

A couple years later, I volunteered at an Elementary school teaching basic computer skills (creating Powerpoint slides and basic spreadsheet charts) to Fifth-graders, and ended up with a pair of giant construction paper thank you cards from the kids two years in a row. Again, the soft skills I learned by reading to Stacey, and the class-running skills I learned at work came into play.

So my kid wanting bedtime stories, and me embracing it wholeheartedly led to other benefits. Yet another example of how being good to your kids pays off.

This week, Stacey, almost 11, is in a theater daycamp, where she is learning the part of Peter Quince in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Last night we were practicing her lines, and I had great fun becoming Nick Bottom, arrogant and overbearing, and trying to play every part in Pyramus and Thisbe while Quince struggled for control of his play. As I hammed it up during our practice, Stacey got to the point where she couldn't stop laughing, and we had to quit for a minute.

The memories of reading bedtime stories came flooding back, little Stacey tucked into my arm with a grin on her face as I read off...

until neither the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knew
whether this one was that one or that one was this one
or which one was what one...
or what one was who.

...or...

Miss Genevieve,
noblest dog in France,
you shall have your ven-ge-ance!!

I've been pretty emotional with revery all day. The performance is tonight at 6. I'll get pictures and post how it went tomorrow.

Problems

All of life's problems at the moment:

Dog sheds too much
/dev/urandom only readable by root
Kid growing up too fast
Six month weight loss plan over, still have six month muscle-building plan to go
Four node webMethods cluster inefficient
Pension doesn't vest for another year
Bathtub needs to be caulked
Can't be in two places at once
Need to design new dinners kid and I can both eat

Not too bad, if these are all the problems I can think of. I've got my family, health, job, and sanity. Most of the problems will be familiar to everyone. The geek problems are just what's going on at work at the moment, transitory, to be replaced in a week or two with new problems. The unvested pension means I can't even consider rethinking my career for another year, else waste the free money that is 4/5ths waiting for me. The last one though, that's going to have me scratching my head for a little while.

Stacey is a growing girl, naturally active and healthy, burning through Calories as fast as I can throw them at her. In fact, when she is in the middle of a growth spurt, she eats more in a day than I do. I am currently eating 1600 Calories a day, and after I drop my final 2.2 pounds to hit 185, I plan on going back to around 2400 Calories with a lean, high-protein diet, and changing my workout to focus on aggressive muscle-building. Needless to say, my diet won't mesh well with the needs of an 11 year old girl.

The solution I'm considering now is to build meals that I can piece together at the table, and give myself smaller portions of the carb-heavy and fatty foods, and letting Stacey plate up on a balance of everything. For example, I'll take the roast chicken but no gravy, a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, and keep cheese off of the salad, where Stacey can pile on the gravy, salad dressing, and add lots of butter to the potatoes.

Next week is the last week before school starts, and she'll be with mom, so I'll take an evening or two and run around the grocery store and search for recipes online. I've been doing packaged meals and meal-substitute bars for so long now, that this will be a welcome change.

Here's a little anecdote I wrote up after Memorial Day but never published, when I attended a church picnic with some friends:

"Is it OK for Christians to beat up little girls?" This was the question my roommate asked me after I recounted the story of a volleyball game Stacey and I played in. She and I were on the same team, she having been picked dead last, and still a little peaved about it. It was game point, and we were losing. The ball is served to us, we return it, it comes back again to Stacey, and an aggressive, competitive man on our team runs up to hit the ball, knocking Stacey flat in the process. The ball came back to where I was, but I had lost interest and let it land beside me, thereby causing my team to lose the game. All the while I was staring at my kid picking herself back up and the man, my friend, who had knocked her down, thinking to myself "don't cock your fists, don't cock your fists." The aggressor in question was contrite afterwards, and Stacey was not as upset at the experience as I thought she would be. I was fuming, and struggling to keep my head. Later, after I had chilled, we played another game, and karma came to the rescue.

The final game we played that day, Stacey and another little girl were the team captains. Stacey picked no adults except for me, just teenagers and other kids. When the game started, another man who showed up late joined our side. Among the others on the opposing team was the man who knocked her down, and his son, who had been baiting Stacey and carrying on like the wild beast he is for most of the day. Our team did well, thanks to some lucky and overconfident plays by the teenagers, and as the game wound down, we were winning, and two points from game point, and it was Stacey's turn to serve. The son/wild animal was acting foolish and yelling taunts, trying to distract Stacey so she would flub her serve. She served well, and we won that point. Game point, the son turned up the asinine factor on his antics, and Stacey calmly looked at him, expressionless, and served the ball to him.

Ace.

Stacey redeemed herself in her own eyes, and the silent ace to win the game was as poignant a response to being picked last and knocked down as I could imagine. Victory was sweet, and despite not generally being competitive, I couldn't help but feel smug. My little angel saves the day again. Next up, Stacey saves Christmas.

Recap

Apparently I've been so busy with the "Operation Inner Stork" blog and keeping up with work and life that I've neglected my journal for most of the summer. So what's been going on?

The divorce was final in late May, and although I had been separated for years, the finality of it felt a little strange for a while. The ex and I still communicate well for things that involve our child, and not at all otherwise.

Stacey has been enrolled in a number of summer camps this year, and this is the first time she has done an overnight camp outside of the city. It was a Girl Scouts camp, Molly Lauman (http://www.campmollylauman.org/), and they had horseback riding, swimming, crafts, songs, and other camp stuff for 5 days. I was worried that Stacey would be uncomfortable or homesick, having never been away from home and relatives for more than a night, but she reports a fantastic time was had by her and all, and she came home with new friends, email addresses, and Webkinz, Club Penguin, and Millsberry buddies.

It's getting so that I need to give up worrying. The kid is, as always, competent and attacks life like nobody's business, while I fret away nervously to no end.

So other camps she did this year were a combo sports camp, a couple performing arts camps (one for dance, one for theater), a second scouts camp, and her first year of ropes course. Busy, busy.

And lastly, a crazy anecdote. Stacey and I head down to North Carolina for a week in late July to visit family. My 85 year old grandmother has some sisters who are getting old enough that travel is hard on them, and one of them is in a rest home. The plan was to visit the extended family in Virginia for a day, then head to West Virginia to see the oldest sister, and then Stacey and I would shoot back to Ohio.

Everything went great, and Stacey got to see some family she hasn't seen for a while, we slept at a house of one of my great aunt and uncles. The next morning, when we were getting ready to head to West Virginia, my mom mistakes the door to the basement for the door to her bedroom, and falls all the way down the stairs! Head over heals, screaming a scream that can only be described as "this can't be how it ends, damnit!", and conks her head on the basement floor.

A quick call to 911, a ride to the hospital, and 3 hours of observation and x-rays later, and it was determined that she didn't break a damned thing. Just bruises and some pulled muscles. 56 years old, out of shape, and a hypochondriac, and she comes away with a 12 foot fall with nothing broken. Zounds.

It's been a couple weeks now, and she's back on her feet, assisted with yummy pain pill goodness, and paying more attention to where she's walking. Needless to say, everyone was freaked out when it happened, and Stacey was genuinely frightened for the first time I can remember. She was a real sport in the hospital after she figured out grandma was going to be OK, and struck up conversations with nurses and asking about procedures and equipment, as she still plans to be a doctor.

So there it is, a close call and a little education, and life goes back to normal.

36

This May 3 marks me as 36 years old, and I've decided to get a good jump on my pending mid-life crisis. Since March 14, I've been returning to regular exercise and proper diet. I've been taking long walks daily, stretching, working with freeweights and nautilus equipment, and doing incrementally more intense cardio work. I have also been cutting out between-meal snacks and most of the sugar in my diet, and I am staying under 2000 Calories per day. In 8 weeks, I have lost 30 pounds, a grueling feat, and have finally reached the point where the Calories must come up, or the exercise must go down.

I haven't mentioned the weight loss in earlier posts, in case the whole plan blew up in my face, but I've been keeping a separate record of my progress over at http://inner-stork.blogspot.com/. (The blog's first entry explains the name.)

So I'm looking markedly better, although I still have plenty more to go before I would consider myself speedo material. My divorce, which I typically refrain from talking about here, is nearing its end-game, and by my 40th birthday, my daughter may give me her blessing to be on the market again. Touchy subject, as I prefer to sacrifice my desire for "that kind" of companionship to focus on Stacey's well-being, but to say that the desire isn't there would be a lie. It's something I think about, and when I'm having a fit near my 40th birthday, it will be something I think about a lot.

My work gives me every indication of wanting me to stay on, complete with a recent promotion and raise, and a bonus check that caught me up on lawyer's fees and the last of my credit card debt. In four years, if I haven't given up the IT ghost in favor of running my daycare, I will probably have a comfortable amount of disposable income.

Because of all this, I can see what happens to guys as they near 40, and why they have their little breakdowns. Maybe the marriage didn't work out. Maybe you got fat. Maybe after living alone you had to struggle financially for a few more years before getting your footing back. Maybe now you got yourself back in shape, and can finally afford the sporty car you never had as a teenager. You look at your progressively greying hair, and wonder just how long the girls will still find you sexy, and how long you have before the ED problems start. Maybe you see now as your last chance to be young, to get all those fun experiences the commercials promised you, what you were denied as a kid, before you start to decline to a marginalized, laughable old man.

It's all a lie! Get back in shape, great. Improve your financial situation, also great. But act like an adult. You aren't young any more, and the dream you were sold was a selfish one. If you have made it to 40, you should understand by now the greater benefit of living clean, and for the betterment of those you love. The 40 year old with the Jaguar and the 20 year old trophy girlfriend, the sunglasses and the James Dean demeanor -- he's an atrocity. A selfish boy bragging that he finally caught up to the cool kids from High School. Bleak. Empty. Hollow. And 22 years too late.


This is finale season in all of Stacey's activities. Her strings recital is tonight, her dance recital is in a couple weeks, her last soccer game was yesterday, and last Friday she laid down some vocals at Theatre Caffette with a pair of other girls, Sydney and Lauren, both talented. 5th grade "graduation" is just around the corner, as is the Girl Scouts end of the year swim party, and although I won't be swimming, I plan on going and not looking out of shape and afraid of the sun, like I've looked for the past couple years now. [Note to self: make sure boys are allowed at the swim party, since they are often banned from Girl Scouts activities.]

Stacey and I have been butting heads recently, in the natural process of kids growing up and asserting their independence. It frustrates me, especially considering the near perfect relationship we've had for the preceding 9 years. I still love her to death, and at times I am still the center of her world -- rarer now, but sometimes. How long before the idea of being tucked into bed is abhorrent? How long before the open rebellion? The shock-value boyfriend? I don't know, but how long before we give up on each other? Never. The base of our love and friendship is solid, and will withstand the torrents that life and nature will throw at us. She is now, and will always be, the reason I embrace life.

Now I has jazz

Stacey and I went down to the Southern Theater last week to see the Columbus Jazz Orchestra play some Cole Porter tunes. It was righteous. The last time I went to that style of theater was over 10 years ago to see Tori Amos, of all people. The Southern Theater is pretty and well restored, and cozy, fitting possibly 1000 people on 3 levels. We got hooked up with two orchestra-level seats by one of the band members, which was a great out of the blue present. Thanks, Bob.

I didn't keep a program, so as best my memory serves me, they played arrangements of the following:

All Of You
Begin the Beguine
Don't Fence Me In
I've Got You Under My Skin
Just One of Those Things
Let's Do It, Let's Fall In Love
My Heart Belongs to Daddy
Now You Has Jazz
The Physician
Too Darn Hot

"So what," you ask? So they played 10 complex arrangements flawlessly (to my ears), and some of the orchestra members have other jobs. It's noteworthy. And when you consider that last month they performed Miles Davis, and in February it was Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington, it's damned impressive.

Stacey had a great time, and made me happy when she snuggled up to me during "My Heart Belongs to Daddy". Now that she's getting older, she'll want to go out and see live music more, as cartoon movies and Disney start to become less important. I'm looking forward to it.

The last two weeks have been busy, and zipped by quickly. I finally found a free day to fix up my neglected yard for Spring, on a day that Stacey was at a camp riding horses with her Scouts troop. Other than that, it's been soccer games, dance class, rehearsal for an upcoming singing performance, and in the middle of it all I managed to make good on my promise to take my mentee to see a Reds game down in Cincinnati.

My running around schedule lately has been analogous to playing a fast song on Dance Dance Revolution, frantically stomping on the buttons, trying to keep time with the arrows as they fly up the screen. I'd give myself an AA over the last few weeks, with many Perfects, a couple Greats, and exactly one Marvelous: When it was our turn to bring snacks to the Soccer game, our homemade brownies and Rice Krispies treats were a hit with the girls.

Now, if I could only sleep more than 6 hours a night, and not wake up panicking that I'm forgetting something. Fortunately, the busy season will wrap up soon, as the extracurriculars wind down for the season, and the end of the school year draws near.

Stacey's soccer team is playing well this year, and the coach, Henry, is a good morale booster and technical instructor for them. Even though we haven't won any games yet, we have steadily improved, never had our butts handed to us, and just yesterday tied a very good team. The girls were very positive yesterday after our 2-2 tie.

The coach was short on help this season, and asked me if I would come and manage substitutions for the team, which I gladly said yes to. Being on the sidelines during the games, I've learned a little about coaching, reading a simple position/sub chart, and managing bouncy 9 and 10 year olds (a score of prior sleepovers and outings with Stacey's friends was good practice). Among the softer benefits, I finished learning the names of the girls I left out a couple posts ago: Carly, Caroline, Malorie, Vickie, and Grace. I feel good being out there with the team, and Stacey loves to see me participate in her world, so it's good all around.

Goodbye, Randy

My best friend's father, Randy Pees, died over the weekend. He had a rough life, but, as I see it, a nice enough ending: He played with his grandchildren fulltime, and died in his sleep. Personally, I couldn't ask for anything better.

He and I didn't get along, due to my brazen jackassery as a teen, but later in life made amends, if not friends. On one occasion, he, Bill (his son, my aforementioned best friend), I, and my daughter, met for lunch at a nice Italian restaurant, and had a swell time. I never saw him after that meal, and compared to how things could have been between us, I consider us well quit.

He was a lawyer, and debated as such with damn near anyone who crossed him. Despite our passive-agressive antagonism to each other, I payed attention to some of the things he said. He was not fond of telephone harassment, getting billed by service providers who failed to provide their service, working for The Man, or restaurant staff who dropped the ball.

Here are two anecdotes of Randy in prime form, one I witnessed, one recounted to me:


Sears

I was at the Pees house, probably playing Super NES with the gang, and Randy was talking to a Sears bill collector on the phone, and they appeared to me to be calling to demand money for a disputed charge. I only heard one side of the conversation, and it progressed thusly:

"I told you guys not to call any more, and here you are calling again. That's harassment."
"It isn't?! Are you a lawyer?"
"Well I am a lawyer, and I know what harassment is."
"Your supervisor? Sure, let me talk to more assholes from Sears!"

Bringing the veiled threat of a lawsuit against a $5/hour telephone flunky always brings out the best in people. A question worth asking here is: Why do retail companies employ people whose job it is to break the law?


Tee Jays

This one was recounted to me by Bill.

Randy takes his son, Bill, out to eat late one night to the local 24-hour Tee Jays. They were unexpectedly busy, had a minimal staff, but for some reason kept seating people that they wouldn't be able to serve any time soon. The restaurant had plenty of chairs, but only one waitress, Martha. The waitress was clearly in over her head, and no executive decision was made to stop the madness by getting more help in the store, or refusing service, or even suggesting that it may be an hour after you're seated before your meal comes.

Randy and Bill walked in, and were cheerfully greeted and seated, and no mention was made of the current staff/customer ratio problem. They chatted for a while, and even though it seemed a good long while before their order was taken, they didn't think much of it. After a substantial wait after placing the order, their food finally came. Among other issues with the food, Randy's water had a sizeable piece of trash in it, clearly visible. A casual observer would have no difficulty spotting this, much less an experienced waitress, part of whose job it is to declare product fit to consume before delivering it.

Randy ate his food and avoided his water. The waitress never returned to check on them, another standard job function of serving staff. Eventually she returned to place the bill on the table, and scoot away hurriedly. Randy went up to the register to pay, and Martha was there to take his money.

R "Busy night?"
M "Oh, yeah, it was terrible.."
[Other chitchat, putting Martha at ease.]
R "Do you have any kids, Martha?"
M "Why yes, I have..."
R "Well that's a shame, cause people like you oughtn't have the right to breed!"
[Stunned silence, followed by pitiful, mousy reply]
M "..but, sir,... I was the only one on the floor."

Shock and awe indeed. The argument can be made that Martha was not at fault, being too overwhelmed trying to help too many people. I counter that she should have put her foot down and demanded a manager take corrective action when things started to get out of control. It may have been greed at a potential wealth of tips, an inexperienced manager who didn't know what to do in an emergency, or, likely, no manager in the store since it was so late at night. I know at least one restaurant, Denny's, that runs this way -- which is an anecdote of it's own, but I'll save that until later. No matter what else, nothing excuses bringing someone contaminated food; you could kill someone that way.


There was more than self-righteous rage to Randy. He loved his kids and grandkids, he overcame an alcohol addiction, he found it in his heart to make amends with me, the troublemaking teen. I have no complaints.

So long, Randy, we hardly knew ye.

Spring Break, Taxes, Vonnegut, Baby Eaton

Horror movies are never as frightening as their literary counterparts. The imagination, however rusty, still outperforms an SGI. -- Liza Daly


Stacey went with her mom for Spring break, for the first time that I can recall. Spring break is a time that Stacey and I usually travel, to the beach, to Washington D.C., to visit relatives, to amusement parks, museums, etc. This year, Stacey and her mom went to Las Vegas, and apparently had a really good time. I did nothing but clean my house, play with my dog, and eat TV dinners (more on that later, as the astute reader will know that this goes contrary to some statements I've made before).

This year Westerville's Spring break was also during Easter week, rolling into Eater Sunday. Stacey has long since given up belief in various supernatural gift-givers, such as a certain pagan deliverer of eggs, but she still likes to get Eater baskets. I put together a basket for her as a surprise when she got back, with some dyed eggs, a couple nice chocolates, peeps (of course), gummy rings, and some generic jelly beans. My recent purchase of a double boiler came in handy, the bottom pot easily boiling a dozen eggs at the same time for dying.

[--Curtis' simple rules for egg boiling: Let the eggs sit at room temperature while the water heats up. Get water to rolling boil. Add eggs for exactly 13 minutes for a nice yellow yolk. Plunge eggs directly into icewater to pull the albumen away from the shell. Easy setup, perfect eggs every time.]

Stacey liked the basket, and was happy to get something, since she and mom had (understandably) spent Eater Sunday recuperating from the trip. The gummies went fast, as did half the chocolate, but the jelly beans, peeps, and eggs were mostly uneaten. I had 8 of the eggs as a lunch additive the following week, Stacey only being able to get through 4 hard boiled eggs before getting tired of them.


My tax returns netted me a whopping $119 dollars, which is great. I've been adjusting my W-4s over the last couple of years to try to maximize my paycheck, and get my tax returns as close to 0 as possible. The reason is simple, and I've gone over it here before: I want more control of my money. I want to get all I'm owed, owe nothing, and not have a big check once a year to go nuts with. I want to correctly spend my money, save for retirement, save for my kid's college, and pay off my last two remaining debts, my car and my house. Once-a-year mad money is counterproductive to all those goals. So this year I came real close to hitting the mark, off by a scant C note.


Kurt Vonnegut died. If you've ever been a literate rebel, this isn't news to you. The man's writing, and some films based on his writing, have evoked great emotion in me. Mother Night, for instance, caused in me a great sense of hopelessness for mankind. It was beautiful.

Most of my reading of his work was done when I was too young, and I found it "cool", but somewhat incomprehensible. The good news of his death, is that I'm spurred into picking up his books again, and this time around I'll better enjoy the bitter vitriol.

A man's death spawns in me anticipation to read things that will make me miserable. So it goes.


In better news, Stacey's second cousin Brian and his wife Tabitha are going to have a baby, making Stacey an "aunt" at 11 years old. Actually, they will be second cousins once removed, as shown in the (abbreviated) chart below:



She's due in November, so hopefully when Stacey and I head down for Thanksgiving, there'll be a new baby to play with, and a new great-great-grandmother in the family.