Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1.  Interest :: Free
2.  Chase :: Morgan
3.  Itch :: Scratch
4. Soothe :: Balm
5. Lamp :: Light
6. Tutor :: Teach
7. Nichole :: Ritchie
8. Sloth :: Slow
9. Burn :: Fire
10. Bug :: Bother

It's been a ridiculously long time since I did a Sunday muttering.  I will own up for going the easy route tonight.  It's late (like every night when I sit down to write), I'm tired (ditto), and it's late and I'm tired (in case you missed it  before). Based on the beginning of the list, I was afraid this was going to be a banking-themed affair.  Luckily (or unfortunately) thanks to Nicole Ritchie and slow burning soothing embalmers, my problem was solved.

And on that somewhat random note, and considering I'm falling asleep at my desk, I gladly
POST...

More tomorrow, I promise.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1.  Interest :: Free
2.  Chase :: Morgan
3.  Itch :: Scratch
4. Soothe :: Balm
5. Lamp :: Light
6. Tutor :: Teach
7. Nichole :: Ritchie
8. Sloth :: Slow
9. Burn :: Fire
10. Bug :: Bother

It's been a ridiculously long time since I did a Sunday muttering.  I will own up for going the easy route tonight.  It's late (like every night when I sit down to write), I'm tired (ditto), and it's late and I'm tired (in case you missed it  before). Based on the beginning of the list, I was afraid this was going to be a banking-themed affair.  Luckily (or unfortunately) thanks to Nicole Ritchie and slow burning soothing embalmers, my problem was solved.

And on that somewhat random note, and considering I'm falling asleep at my desk, I gladly
POST...

More tomorrow, I promise.

Meanwhile

It's the holiday season and according to the calendar I have 14 days until the big guy (or the baby Jee, depending on if you prefer to focus on the secular or the sacred) drops by for a visit. It should come as no surprise to you that I'm just not ready.

December is a busy season for musicians. There are concerts and gigs here there and everywhere. And being good (and poor) musicians, we do everything in our power not to turn anything down, because a performance is a performance, because we are (hopefully) getting paid, and a paycheck is a paycheck, and because we can always catch up on our sleep in January.

Meanwhile, as I look over the most recent status updates of my Facebook friends, I sometimes wonder if it shouldn't be called "Guiltbook" instead. Holy Moly. I have friends who have gone sledding with their children, gushed about ruddy cheeks, frozen snowpants and hot dogs.   I have friends who have romped outside in the icy cold, who have had successful hunting trips and who have caught snowflakes on their tongue. I have friends who have marveled at the wintry weather from inside the comforts of their own home. That particular scenario is usually accompanied by soft music and mulled apple cider. I have friends who have wrapped gifts, baked cookies, gone caroling with family and friends, and generally whooped my butt in the annual holiday activities to-do list.

It's not that I'm particularly upset about this. I know what my schedule is this time of year, and I know I'll get to the essentials when the time comes. There will most likely be no wintry romping and there may not be as many cookies, but I'll do what I can with the time that I have and I'll remember that a red and white holly berry and mistletoe-infused three-ringed circus is not required to mark, remember and celebrate the Christmas Season.

And while I'm busy doing the best I can with what I've got, I'm keenly aware that the entire holiday season is just another layer of life that is added on -- ready or not. It doesn't replace the mundane routine, the difficult decisions, or the emotional and physical hardships we face every day of our lives. When added to the mix, Christmas is often as much about surviving as it is about celebrating, which, when you think about it, could also be said about life.

So while I begin to gear up for the "really big shoe" on December 25th, I'm going to be mindful of those who are busy focusing on other layers of life.  It's important that in the frenzy of shopping and eating and general merry-making to remember "the rest of the story."  I imagine that while riding on a donkey for hours on end, a very-pregnant Mary must have thought that angels and annunciations were a pretty inconvenient layer to heap upon her already complicated life at that very moment.  And yet we know that in the midst of extreme physical and emotional hardships (not to mention serious political unrest), a tiny baby was born, bringing a message of peace and love.  Some may been (rightly) focused on surviving and might not have recognized the celebration that had been interwoven in their lives.  But it was there all the same.  Just like today.

Hope in the midst of hardship.  This is the real message of the holiday season.

Meanwhile

It's the holiday season and according to the calendar I have 14 days until the big guy (or the baby Jee, depending on if you prefer to focus on the secular or the sacred) drops by for a visit. It should come as no surprise to you that I'm just not ready.

December is a busy season for musicians. There are concerts and gigs here there and everywhere. And being good (and poor) musicians, we do everything in our power not to turn anything down, because a performance is a performance, because we are (hopefully) getting paid, and a paycheck is a paycheck, and because we can always catch up on our sleep in January.

Meanwhile, as I look over the most recent status updates of my Facebook friends, I sometimes wonder if it shouldn't be called "Guiltbook" instead. Holy Moly. I have friends who have gone sledding with their children, gushed about ruddy cheeks, frozen snowpants and hot dogs.   I have friends who have romped outside in the icy cold, who have had successful hunting trips and who have caught snowflakes on their tongue. I have friends who have marveled at the wintry weather from inside the comforts of their own home. That particular scenario is usually accompanied by soft music and mulled apple cider. I have friends who have wrapped gifts, baked cookies, gone caroling with family and friends, and generally whooped my butt in the annual holiday activities to-do list.

It's not that I'm particularly upset about this. I know what my schedule is this time of year, and I know I'll get to the essentials when the time comes. There will most likely be no wintry romping and there may not be as many cookies, but I'll do what I can with the time that I have and I'll remember that a red and white holly berry and mistletoe-infused three-ringed circus is not required to mark, remember and celebrate the Christmas Season.

And while I'm busy doing the best I can with what I've got, I'm keenly aware that the entire holiday season is just another layer of life that is added on -- ready or not. It doesn't replace the mundane routine, the difficult decisions, or the emotional and physical hardships we face every day of our lives. When added to the mix, Christmas is often as much about surviving as it is about celebrating, which, when you think about it, could also be said about life.

So while I begin to gear up for the "really big shoe" on December 25th, I'm going to be mindful of those who are busy focusing on other layers of life.  It's important that in the frenzy of shopping and eating and general merry-making to remember "the rest of the story."  I imagine that while riding on a donkey for hours on end, a very-pregnant Mary must have thought that angels and annunciations were a pretty inconvenient layer to heap upon her already complicated life at that very moment.  And yet we know that in the midst of extreme physical and emotional hardships (not to mention serious political unrest), a tiny baby was born, bringing a message of peace and love.  Some may been (rightly) focused on surviving and might not have recognized the celebration that had been interwoven in their lives.  But it was there all the same.  Just like today.

Hope in the midst of hardship.  This is the real message of the holiday season.

Colla Voce

Colla Voce – Follow the voice. A directive to the musican (normally accompanist) to perform the indicated passage in a free manner following the tempo and style of the solo performer.

When I was a college student, I used to have arguments with a faculty member about tempo. It was less of an argument and more like good-natured teasing, but he would always say something along the lines of "You young people, you want to sing everything fast, fast, fast." I would give him a look best interpreted as "damn right" and proceed to leave him in a musical melismatic dust. I liked to sing fast. From a technical aspect, I knew I was spot-on. From a young, punk, bad-ass Soprano aspect, I knew it was impressive and intimidating. I didn't know it at the time, but I think the only person I was impressing was myself. And as for intimidation, I believe, in hindsight, it takes someone to care enough to be intimidated before that can happen, so most likely I was tilting at windmills.

Vocal music is an interesting beast. For me, whereas text and harmony speak directly to the heart, melody and rhythm speak to the head. What's interesting is that the tempo of a piece speaks to both. I am a firm believer that each musical composition has its own "natural" tempo where it all the elements fit together and work.  Metronomes are not required. If you are sensitive to the natural tempo of a piece, you will feel it lock into place as if it were a puzzle piece. A correct tempo lets the melody, harmony and text work together as they were intended. Of course, this entire conversation excludes the wild and wonderful world of jazz, where all bets are refreshingly off.

Of the thousands of hours I have listened to music, the two things I am most judgemental about are pitch and tempo. Being out of tune will cause my eyebrows to skyrocket, my shoulder to twitch and my head to involuntarily flip around like a musical weathervane: down and to the left if it's flat, up and back if it's sharp. I don't know why. I just do it. Tempo, however is another story. Music that is much too slow causes every bone and muscle to cease functioning and I sink down into my chair, wimpering and whining like a baby. "Nooooo. Nooooooo. Pleaaaassssse. It's so sllllooooooow. HOW MUCH LONGER?!?" (Yes, hello issues with waiting. Nice to see you back again). Music that is too fast makes me twitchy and nervous. I keep looking around as if something is wrong, like maybe a FIRE.  "Why? Why so fast? What's the rush? Do you have somewhere else to go or something else to do? If you cannot breathe or say the words, don't you understand that it's TOO FAST?!?"

Finding the natural rhythm of music takes time.  There is definitely a learning curve and yes, I do believe some of that wisdom comes with age.  Don't get me wrong.  Fast is fabulous.  Fast is exciting and refreshing and a little bit dangerous but in the end it is enormous fun.  Fast is unbounded joy (albeit with some very cleverly disguised control).  It's Champagne and fireworks and glittering jewels.  If you got fast, you flaunt it, baby.  No apologies.  But slow I've grown to love.  If fast is youth, then slow is the experience that comes with age.  Slow is no longer boring and ponderous.  Slow is more -- more peaceful, more sorrowful, more touching, more meaningful.  Having the patience to hold the tempo back, to enjoy the moment, to let the harmonies mesh, to let the sound live in its space before fading away, to let the words gather together into a deeper meaning is rewarding in a way that fast can never be.

Today marks the thirtieth and final day of the annual National Blog Posting Month writing project.  Before Novemeber 1st, it had been nearly six months since I had clicked the infamous publish post button.  Ideas for posts came for a visit every now and again, but got pushed aside for any one of a number of other pressing (and not so pressing) matters.  I knew I had the chops to write for 30 days in a row, but I wondered if it had been so long that I wouldn't be able to find the rhythm of the words, and the tempo that allowed them to work.  I won't kid you: between job number one and job number two and a teenager involved in plays (plural) and concerts (many) and the daily soap opera that is high school (never-ending), it wasn't easy.  Looking over the last twenty-nine posts, only six were completed before 11pm, and of the remaining twenty-three, more than half were posted in the last 15 minutes of the day.  Although in the beginning I felt anxious and rushed, as the month wore on, I relaxed and eased into the writing process a bit more.  Sometimes I sat down without a topic in mind.  But instead of panicking, I would slow down and wait for the ideas and words and stories to catch up.

Now that November is over, what's next?  I'm excited that Holidailies -- another month-long writing project that I've participated in for several years -- is going to ramp up again in about a week.  Although it might be nice to take some time off in between writing projects, I think I won't.  Six months was a long time to be gone, and I really and truly did miss this little corner of the Internet that I call my own.  Now that I've settled into a tempo that works for me, I'm going to let it the rest work as it should.  It's fast enough to keep me at it, but slow enough to allow me to sit and think and allow my thoughts to gather into a deeper meaning.

And I'm proud to say, at the downright civilized time of 9:20 PM, I've reached the 2009 NaBloPoMo finish line.

Publish Post.

Colla Voce

Colla Voce – Follow the voice. A directive to the musican (normally accompanist) to perform the indicated passage in a free manner following the tempo and style of the solo performer.

When I was a college student, I used to have arguments with a faculty member about tempo. It was less of an argument and more like good-natured teasing, but he would always say something along the lines of "You young people, you want to sing everything fast, fast, fast." I would give him a look best interpreted as "damn right" and proceed to leave him in a musical melismatic dust. I liked to sing fast. From a technical aspect, I knew I was spot-on. From a young, punk, bad-ass Soprano aspect, I knew it was impressive and intimidating. I didn't know it at the time, but I think the only person I was impressing was myself. And as for intimidation, I believe, in hindsight, it takes someone to care enough to be intimidated before that can happen, so most likely I was tilting at windmills.

Vocal music is an interesting beast. For me, whereas text and harmony speak directly to the heart, melody and rhythm speak to the head. What's interesting is that the tempo of a piece speaks to both. I am a firm believer that each musical composition has its own "natural" tempo where it all the elements fit together and work.  Metronomes are not required. If you are sensitive to the natural tempo of a piece, you will feel it lock into place as if it were a puzzle piece. A correct tempo lets the melody, harmony and text work together as they were intended. Of course, this entire conversation excludes the wild and wonderful world of jazz, where all bets are refreshingly off.

Of the thousands of hours I have listened to music, the two things I am most judgemental about are pitch and tempo. Being out of tune will cause my eyebrows to skyrocket, my shoulder to twitch and my head to involuntarily flip around like a musical weathervane: down and to the left if it's flat, up and back if it's sharp. I don't know why. I just do it. Tempo, however is another story. Music that is much too slow causes every bone and muscle to cease functioning and I sink down into my chair, wimpering and whining like a baby. "Nooooo. Nooooooo. Pleaaaassssse. It's so sllllooooooow. HOW MUCH LONGER?!?" (Yes, hello issues with waiting. Nice to see you back again). Music that is too fast makes me twitchy and nervous. I keep looking around as if something is wrong, like maybe a FIRE.  "Why? Why so fast? What's the rush? Do you have somewhere else to go or something else to do? If you cannot breathe or say the words, don't you understand that it's TOO FAST?!?"

Finding the natural rhythm of music takes time.  There is definitely a learning curve and yes, I do believe some of that wisdom comes with age.  Don't get me wrong.  Fast is fabulous.  Fast is exciting and refreshing and a little bit dangerous but in the end it is enormous fun.  Fast is unbounded joy (albeit with some very cleverly disguised control).  It's Champagne and fireworks and glittering jewels.  If you got fast, you flaunt it, baby.  No apologies.  But slow I've grown to love.  If fast is youth, then slow is the experience that comes with age.  Slow is no longer boring and ponderous.  Slow is more -- more peaceful, more sorrowful, more touching, more meaningful.  Having the patience to hold the tempo back, to enjoy the moment, to let the harmonies mesh, to let the sound live in its space before fading away, to let the words gather together into a deeper meaning is rewarding in a way that fast can never be.

Today marks the thirtieth and final day of the annual National Blog Posting Month writing project.  Before Novemeber 1st, it had been nearly six months since I had clicked the infamous publish post button.  Ideas for posts came for a visit every now and again, but got pushed aside for any one of a number of other pressing (and not so pressing) matters.  I knew I had the chops to write for 30 days in a row, but I wondered if it had been so long that I wouldn't be able to find the rhythm of the words, and the tempo that allowed them to work.  I won't kid you: between job number one and job number two and a teenager involved in plays (plural) and concerts (many) and the daily soap opera that is high school (never-ending), it wasn't easy.  Looking over the last twenty-nine posts, only six were completed before 11pm, and of the remaining twenty-three, more than half were posted in the last 15 minutes of the day.  Although in the beginning I felt anxious and rushed, as the month wore on, I relaxed and eased into the writing process a bit more.  Sometimes I sat down without a topic in mind.  But instead of panicking, I would slow down and wait for the ideas and words and stories to catch up.

Now that November is over, what's next?  I'm excited that Holidailies -- another month-long writing project that I've participated in for several years -- is going to ramp up again in about a week.  Although it might be nice to take some time off in between writing projects, I think I won't.  Six months was a long time to be gone, and I really and truly did miss this little corner of the Internet that I call my own.  Now that I've settled into a tempo that works for me, I'm going to let it the rest work as it should.  It's fast enough to keep me at it, but slow enough to allow me to sit and think and allow my thoughts to gather into a deeper meaning.

And I'm proud to say, at the downright civilized time of 9:20 PM, I've reached the 2009 NaBloPoMo finish line.

Publish Post.

The Waiting Game

For those of you in the know (or not in the know, or just stuck reading this blog hoping for something witty), today marks the beginning of the season of Advent in the Christian Calendar.  Although as a church season it is not as penitential as Lent, Advent is nonetheless a more subdued season.  There are no Advent marching bands, hallelujahs! processions or widespread celebrating.  Advent can be summed up in one non-celebratory word:  Advent is a season of waiting.

In one respect, Lent (the most penitential ("bummer-rific") season of them all) is also a season of waiting.  The difference, however is vast.  It seems we spend Lent just waiting for it to be over.  And although Easter awaits at the end of Lent, it often seems the real victory of waiting-out Lent is simply surviving the 40-day countdown of self sacrifice.  We don't give up anything during Advent, but it's a waiting game just the same. 

The whole concept of waiting isn't unique to the Christian tradition.  It seems every religion has a component of "waiting" in it.  And if you don't subscribe to any particular religion, the same concept of waiting could be applied to generation, to community, to gender, or what have you.  Everybody is waiting for something: an end to poverty, equal rights, the next Harry Potter movie, Godot.  Waiting is universal.

And you know what?  We stink at waiting.  In fact, we are so bad at waiting, that we have formed our very existence around NOT waiting.  We have fast food, lightning deals and instant credit.  We hate waiting so much that we have caller ID so we can know before we answer who is on the phone and then end the call before they even say hello.  Waiting is not necessary.  If you want to see horribly unhappy people, spend some time in the one place where waiting is required:  The Waiting Room.  Not only is waiting no longer a part of our social and cultural makeup, to have to wait for something is now almost a dirty word, and is certainly the opposite of progress, invention and the great American way.

One has to try really, really, really hard to put on the brakes and just wait.  Once we hit Advent we know the payoff of Christmas is coming, and with the secular so intertwined with the sacred, it's hard to honor the idea of waiting when faced with blowup Santas, animatronic penguins and miles of outdoor lights strung on rooftops, trees, bushes, and any other surface within reach.  Retail outlets don't make it any easier.  Christmas starts sneaking in in mid-October (totally bypassing Thanksgiving) and is in full bloom come November 1st.  Just try to avoid it.

I think a main component of being a successful "waiter" -- that is, one who "waits" as opposed to one who brings you more dinner rolls -- is accepting life in the present, even when you know there is something better coming.  Acceptance, however, isn't static or complacent.  It can, however, be a challenge to learn to live and find the worth in the right now instead of marginalizing or skipping it for the next bigger and better event.

Nowadays, it's harder to wait during Advent because we've read this story before and the next chapter is one of our favorites.  But oftentimes when we are faced with something new or frightening or unsure, the last thing we want to be is in a hurry.  We prefer all the time we can get to think, process, and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for whatever comes next.

Maybe instead of bypassing Advent -- these four weeks leading up to Christmas -- we should embrace the waiting.  Take the time to think about where you are in life.  Accept your present existence.  Find it's goodness and worth.  And while you process and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for what we already know comes next, remember that what comes next isn't the end of the story.  Not even Christmas is static or complacent.  The story continues, even after December 25th.

Just wait and see.

The Waiting Game

For those of you in the know (or not in the know, or just stuck reading this blog hoping for something witty), today marks the beginning of the season of Advent in the Christian Calendar.  Although as a church season it is not as penitential as Lent, Advent is nonetheless a more subdued season.  There are no Advent marching bands, hallelujahs! processions or widespread celebrating.  Advent can be summed up in one non-celebratory word:  Advent is a season of waiting.

In one respect, Lent (the most penitential ("bummer-rific") season of them all) is also a season of waiting.  The difference, however is vast.  It seems we spend Lent just waiting for it to be over.  And although Easter awaits at the end of Lent, it often seems the real victory of waiting-out Lent is simply surviving the 40-day countdown of self sacrifice.  We don't give up anything during Advent, but it's a waiting game just the same. 

The whole concept of waiting isn't unique to the Christian tradition.  It seems every religion has a component of "waiting" in it.  And if you don't subscribe to any particular religion, the same concept of waiting could be applied to generation, to community, to gender, or what have you.  Everybody is waiting for something: an end to poverty, equal rights, the next Harry Potter movie, Godot.  Waiting is universal.

And you know what?  We stink at waiting.  In fact, we are so bad at waiting, that we have formed our very existence around NOT waiting.  We have fast food, lightning deals and instant credit.  We hate waiting so much that we have caller ID so we can know before we answer who is on the phone and then end the call before they even say hello.  Waiting is not necessary.  If you want to see horribly unhappy people, spend some time in the one place where waiting is required:  The Waiting Room.  Not only is waiting no longer a part of our social and cultural makeup, to have to wait for something is now almost a dirty word, and is certainly the opposite of progress, invention and the great American way.

One has to try really, really, really hard to put on the brakes and just wait.  Once we hit Advent we know the payoff of Christmas is coming, and with the secular so intertwined with the sacred, it's hard to honor the idea of waiting when faced with blowup Santas, animatronic penguins and miles of outdoor lights strung on rooftops, trees, bushes, and any other surface within reach.  Retail outlets don't make it any easier.  Christmas starts sneaking in in mid-October (totally bypassing Thanksgiving) and is in full bloom come November 1st.  Just try to avoid it.

I think a main component of being a successful "waiter" -- that is, one who "waits" as opposed to one who brings you more dinner rolls -- is accepting life in the present, even when you know there is something better coming.  Acceptance, however, isn't static or complacent.  It can, however, be a challenge to learn to live and find the worth in the right now instead of marginalizing or skipping it for the next bigger and better event.

Nowadays, it's harder to wait during Advent because we've read this story before and the next chapter is one of our favorites.  But oftentimes when we are faced with something new or frightening or unsure, the last thing we want to be is in a hurry.  We prefer all the time we can get to think, process, and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for whatever comes next.

Maybe instead of bypassing Advent -- these four weeks leading up to Christmas -- we should embrace the waiting.  Take the time to think about where you are in life.  Accept your present existence.  Find it's goodness and worth.  And while you process and formulate meticulous (not to mention wildly successful) plans for what we already know comes next, remember that what comes next isn't the end of the story.  Not even Christmas is static or complacent.  The story continues, even after December 25th.

Just wait and see.

Fit as a Fiddle

Today (Thanksgiving Day Number Two) we ate ourselves into near comas and then dispersed around the house.  TeenTuna and NephewTuna adjourned and decided to play some Wii Fit. 

Computer games -- especially first-player games -- are a funny thing.  Of course there is a bit of a learning curve as you figure out how to move, carry an object, or complete a task.  In other words, it's not that you don't know how to run.  You simply have to learn how to run the way the game wants you to run.

NephewTuna decided he wanted to try the jogging portion of the WiiFit.  The skill required here is elementary:  Holding the remote control in your hand or putting it in your pocket, simply jog in place.  The vibrations registered in the remote signals how fast or slow you're moving, and the little shadowy cartoon figure (that's you) will jog along the trail.  Seems simple, right?

Ten year-old boys being what they are (squirrely and apt to ignore rules), never do anything the simple way.  First, NephewTuna figured out he could just shake the remote in his hand and his figure would jog.  The committee of the rest of us told him no, he had to actually jog in place which, sadly for him, required the movement of feet.  He asked about "the purple guy" who was always in front of him.  We explained that the purple guy was like a "pace car" and he shouldn't pass him.

"But what happens if I do?"
"If you run too fast, you fall."
And sure enough, his character did a total face plant on the jogging trail.

Now, you might think that post-face plant, it would be suffice as cautionary tale.
Instead all three of us laughed hysterically and yelled, "Do it again!"
And he did.  And we laughed. And he did again.  And we laughed harder.

A little later down the course, as he was jogging (currently in the upright position) several cartoon dogs jog past in the other direction.  "PIG!" exclaimed my nephew.
"What?!??" I laughed.  It's not a pig.  It's a DOG." 
"Pig...dog....whatever.  It looks like a pig."
As the DOGS got closer I explained, "it's not a Pig.  It's a Dog.  It's got long ears."
And sure enough, I seemed to have won that squirmish.

Not long after he jogged by some DOGS again.  Deciding to end a repeat performance of the great pig debate before it even begun, I said, "They aren't PIGS, they're dogs.  See their colorful colorful collars?"

Without skipping a beat, he said simply,  "that's to tell them apart."
And with that irrefutable piece of information hurled at me, all I could do is wish him luck and find that piece of Pumpkin Cheesecake that had my name on it.

Fit as a Fiddle

Today (Thanksgiving Day Number Two) we ate ourselves into near comas and then dispersed around the house.  TeenTuna and NephewTuna adjourned and decided to play some Wii Fit. 

Computer games -- especially first-player games -- are a funny thing.  Of course there is a bit of a learning curve as you figure out how to move, carry an object, or complete a task.  In other words, it's not that you don't know how to run.  You simply have to learn how to run the way the game wants you to run.

NephewTuna decided he wanted to try the jogging portion of the WiiFit.  The skill required here is elementary:  Holding the remote control in your hand or putting it in your pocket, simply jog in place.  The vibrations registered in the remote signals how fast or slow you're moving, and the little shadowy cartoon figure (that's you) will jog along the trail.  Seems simple, right?

Ten year-old boys being what they are (squirrely and apt to ignore rules), never do anything the simple way.  First, NephewTuna figured out he could just shake the remote in his hand and his figure would jog.  The committee of the rest of us told him no, he had to actually jog in place which, sadly for him, required the movement of feet.  He asked about "the purple guy" who was always in front of him.  We explained that the purple guy was like a "pace car" and he shouldn't pass him.

"But what happens if I do?"
"If you run too fast, you fall."
And sure enough, his character did a total face plant on the jogging trail.

Now, you might think that post-face plant, it would be suffice as cautionary tale.
Instead all three of us laughed hysterically and yelled, "Do it again!"
And he did.  And we laughed. And he did again.  And we laughed harder.

A little later down the course, as he was jogging (currently in the upright position) several cartoon dogs jog past in the other direction.  "PIG!" exclaimed my nephew.
"What?!??" I laughed.  It's not a pig.  It's a DOG." 
"Pig...dog....whatever.  It looks like a pig."
As the DOGS got closer I explained, "it's not a Pig.  It's a Dog.  It's got long ears."
And sure enough, I seemed to have won that squirmish.

Not long after he jogged by some DOGS again.  Deciding to end a repeat performance of the great pig debate before it even begun, I said, "They aren't PIGS, they're dogs.  See their colorful colorful collars?"

Without skipping a beat, he said simply,  "that's to tell them apart."
And with that irrefutable piece of information hurled at me, all I could do is wish him luck and find that piece of Pumpkin Cheesecake that had my name on it.

Hypocrite, Table for One

Dear Internet:

In regards to yesterday's post about Black Friday shopping that was along the lines of, "Not in a car, not in a tent, not in the dark, I said what I meant..."

Yeah. Well, just remember:
1. The guy finally did try green eggs, and ham. And he liked them.
2. It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind (Just ask Harold Arlen)
3. My TV was dying.
4. This excursion occurred during a time of day that included daylight and the letters PM.

The most important excuse factoid in this scenario was number three.  I've been researching TV's for quite awhile, and had gotten to the point where I was carrying my 2010 Consumer's Reports buying guide with me.  My old television (my FREE 32" Toshiba, for those of you who remember from back in the day) had a thick black bar across the bottom of the set, and it was migrating northward at a worrisome pace.  For several months now, people have had extremely stumpy legs, and I never know the score of any sporting event, because that critical piece of information had floated into the abyss off the top of the screen.  So this afternoon, while TeenTuna was off with a friend, GramTuna and I grabbed a sandwich and then moseyed over to Sears to look at stoves.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, we never made it.  All the televisions were in the way.

And now I'm all set with a new set.
I didn't have to fight anyone for it.
I didn't have to pitch a tent (or a fit)
I spoke AT LENGTH to the sales dude
I made the sales dude laugh
I got it home, and set up without any help at all.  I was my own personal geek squad.

And seeing as it was the BIG shopping day of the year, it was (relatively) civilized.

So, mission accomplished Black Friday: 
The store got its sale. 
I got the TV. 
We all kept our sanity.

Thank you, Thank you, Sam-I-Am.

Hypocrite, Table for One

Dear Internet:

In regards to yesterday's post about Black Friday shopping that was along the lines of, "Not in a car, not in a tent, not in the dark, I said what I meant..."

Yeah. Well, just remember:
1. The guy finally did try green eggs, and ham. And he liked them.
2. It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind (Just ask Harold Arlen)
3. My TV was dying.
4. This excursion occurred during a time of day that included daylight and the letters PM.

The most important excuse factoid in this scenario was number three.  I've been researching TV's for quite awhile, and had gotten to the point where I was carrying my 2010 Consumer's Reports buying guide with me.  My old television (my FREE 32" Toshiba, for those of you who remember from back in the day) had a thick black bar across the bottom of the set, and it was migrating northward at a worrisome pace.  For several months now, people have had extremely stumpy legs, and I never know the score of any sporting event, because that critical piece of information had floated into the abyss off the top of the screen.  So this afternoon, while TeenTuna was off with a friend, GramTuna and I grabbed a sandwich and then moseyed over to Sears to look at stoves.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, we never made it.  All the televisions were in the way.

And now I'm all set with a new set.
I didn't have to fight anyone for it.
I didn't have to pitch a tent (or a fit)
I spoke AT LENGTH to the sales dude
I made the sales dude laugh
I got it home, and set up without any help at all.  I was my own personal geek squad.

And seeing as it was the BIG shopping day of the year, it was (relatively) civilized.

So, mission accomplished Black Friday: 
The store got its sale. 
I got the TV. 
We all kept our sanity.

Thank you, Thank you, Sam-I-Am.