Bits

Things you don't hear every day:

"You know, I'm really getting sick of you...and your ham."

Which brings up the following hypothetical:

Say you went to a Christmas brunch, perhaps after church. Say you take home multiple plates of leftovers. Say you have a plate of salad and a plate of ham. Baked, glazed, sliced Christmas-style ham. Just how long do these kinds of things stay good in the fridge?

This is a source of constant aggravation for the Wife, because I tend to be of the persuasion that the fridge is a magical timeless place where the milk I pull out of the fridge two weeks later has existed in there completely unchanged and perfectly fit for consumption.

The Wife on the other hand leans more towards the line of thought that the fridge instantly sours anything placed in it's confines. She's never eaten anything out of the fridge not commercially packaged with it's factory seal intact, yet for some reason insists on collecting half-empty cans of root beer in there. As far as she's concerned, I may as well just polish of that jar of pickles after opening it, since they'll all be bad tomorrow.

My objections citing the well-documented finds of pickles and glazed ham that was still good in the Egyptian pyramids never seem to hold much weight.




If you're going to comment, please keep in mind I'm looking more for quantifiable, scientific assessments than fearful 'two-day old meatloaf gives me the willies' kind of comments. If you're not talking chemistry, evolution and microorganisms (or perhaps the conservation of precious food resources), I don't want to hear it. (Because under no circumstances can I allow the Wife to win this one.)

Read Any Good Books Lately?

While we've been busy pretending we're not on our own in Germany for Christmas, sans family and friends (though I shouldn't complain, the Army recruiter did have to give up a backpack, mug, and a lanyard to get me to sign up for this), we've passed the time thinking about maybe preparing for the new human being we will soon be responsible for raising.

After no less than one and a half articles found on the internet's worth of serious study while watching Sumo wrestling on EuroSport, it has become abundantly clear that about the best way to not screw up this parenting bit in the greatest number of departments is by reading to the Bean on a regular basis. Just how regularly I'm not yet sure, but often, nontheless.

So we've been debating and reminiscing about children's books. I've been suggesting that we jump straight to Jules Verne or something else easy, like Socrates (the dialectic should be no problem, right?). The Wife, however, has been leaning more along the lines of Richard Scarry or 'Good Night Moon.'

So anyway, people have been asking if we need anything. We're not really sure. There's a shipment coming. We should be covered on most of the baby equipment. We've been telling people that he'll need some clothes. This is true. We think. Depends what's in the shipment.

We'd also like to get a head start on the books. If we can fulfill these needs, then, at the very least, I won't be reading The Trial to a naked baby. And Kafka is a really tough go the first time through; it wouldn't be pretty.

(Side note: I like books. If you ever get stuck with my name in a Secret Santa drawing and don't know what to get me - which is more than likely; I've never been good with wish lists - pick a book. One you like, one I might like, a unique set, whatever. Even if I were to never read it, there is intrinsic and lasting value in having great books in a great library that I can share and pass on.)

What we'd like to know is what children's books you would recommend as either must-haves for any children's library, favorites from your (or your children's) childhood, or ones that sinply have a special place in your heart. I saw a collection of Little Golden Books and had to get that on the spot. I have a collection of Fairy Tales. I need to get my hands on 'Little Bunny Follows His Nose' and (if the stars align) 'Cappy Cardinal.'

Happy Reminiscing.





Also, good books I've managed to finish in recent memory:
Guns, Germs and Steel and Collapse - Jared Diamond
An Instance of the Fingerpost - Iain Pears
Pale Fire - Vladimir Nabokov
Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

Currently working on:
Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman and For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway

Recent welcome additions to the library: (=gifts)
Master and Commander and Post Captain - Patrick O'Brian

Catching Up

There's a number of things I've been delinquent in posting lately, largely because if I don't have time to sit and write a significant essay for these posts I prefer not to do them. And I don't have time. But such is life. And the Army has taught me, if nothing else, that I'm better off having any product on hand than holding out for a perfect one and never getting there and looking like a real ass in front of my peers and chain of command. And my readers have demended a product.

The Army has taught me other things too, but many of those lessons I oughtn't print for legal or moral or not wanting to ruin anybody's idealistic patriotism reasons.

First thing, pictures. Ta da.

Mind you, this was over a month ago. Next thing to do will be getting a picture of Bean. We have one. I need to scan it. Again, been busy lately. Pictures can be emailed to those of you suspecting that maybe I found some random pregnant woman in my apartment and took photographs of her instead.

Next order of business. Bed Rest. Doc has the Wife spending most of the day on the bed or couch, which leaves me to be the primary source of food/entertainment/etc. Problem is, I'm not much of a nurturer. I have to say that again for emphasis. NOT A NURTURER. When people cry, my first impulse is indifference and confusion, followed by nervousness and frustration, which is not a helpful response by any stretch of the imagination.

As luck would have it, the Wife is a bit of a cryer.

I'm also not much for entertainment, which is a bad thing because the Wife is approaching certifiability, thanks to spending all day in bed waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. Except the baby auditionioning for the Riverdance - on her bladder - which, to hear her tell it, is simply excruciating.

I'm also not much of a cook, which is a related issue to the nurturing. I've always been content to scavenge when not finding meals readily available, but the Wife not so much. I've messed up both toast and instant mashed potatos. Twice. (Hot market tip for you: Invest in whatever company owns Stouffers.) I'm not admiting all this out of pride so much as intense shame and guilt, and the hope that you will pity the Wife. Please. Pity her. Bad sign: The Boss' wife sent fruitcake this week. The Wife has eaten most of it.

One of my fellow LTs shamed me by bringing over a tray of chicken and eggplant parmesean the other day. For all the women who had offered to do anything we needed, he was the first to actually show up at the door. He is the most permanent bachelor I've ever known, and dubbed "not boyfriend material" by more than one officer wife. His father's most sage advice, discussed on many a morning PT run, was "Have kids. Don't get married." I was beyond touched by this gesture, though. Then again, my increased sappiness could be due to the pretty consistent 13+ hour workdays that have been happening lately. That hasn't helped the condition of the house any, either.

It's starting to look like we may have to cancel Christmas. Except the going to church and recognizing the birth of Christ part, which, I guess, is the point to begin with, so disregard.

And naturally, instead of cleaning, I've now passed the majority of the evening online, my laptop has cooked my thighs medium-rare, and I find myself entirely lacking some clever closing thought, moral, or twist. I need to find something with which I can spike my eggnog.

Quoth the Wife

The Wife has been spending a whole lot of time on the couch lately. Doctor's orders. Fantastic. Now there's nothing for her to do but worry about all the things that could possibly go wrong and evaluate every baby movement in the fear it might be a contraction.


Also a lot of conversations have been following this pattern:

"I talked to my mom on the phone tod-Ow!"

"Do you think you change the cat litt-Aah!"

"Can you make those chicken stri-Son of a BITCH!"


So, the magic has officially ended. "Wow. I can't wait to have this over with and be able to sit on the couch and just...aaaahhhh...and not have somebody kicking my ass from the inside."