Puddintopia

Among my multitude of unique and mostly useless gifts, I typically find that I am especially blessed with a cast iron stomach. I can often consume any food without fear of consequences…downstream…and excessive acid has proven to be an issue so few times for me that I can count the occurrences on one hand. The Puddinette looks at me with narrowed eyes on those few occasions when I power through leftover pizza at midnight. She is usually crunching Tums at the time.

This morning, though, I didn’t so much wake up as I was dragged to consciousness with the hot burning sensation of comeuppance leaking into my throat from deep within the pit of my stomach. I simply can’t come up with a way to accurately describe the intense fire scorching the back of my mouth. The best I can do is to say that it felt as if an angry mob of Lilliputians, torches and pitchforks in hand, marched up my esophagus and proceeded to burn that dangling thing in back of my throat for witchcraft, heresy, or both.

As a relative novice in the trials of heartburn, I first tried to cool it with several vast gulps of water. I saw a twinkling of amusement in my lovely wife’s eyes when she realized both my predicament and my first attempt at resolving it, much like a parent will smile the first time a young child tries to “help” folding the laundry, which inevitably results in a huge pile of helplessly twisted clothing.

Tums, I thought, that’s what I need. Isn’t there an old comercial where a Tums sponge absorbs a bunch of…colored stuff…in like, 1.4 seconds? As that was almost certainly an accurate representation, surely I’d just need to nosh one or two and the painfully acidic prickle would go completely away in a corresponding lapse of time, right? So I chomped one up, joyful in the label’s assertion on the bottle that it was, in fact, “Xtra Strength”. That had to mean even faster results! I then waited, expectantly, for some kind of, I don’t know, instantaneous coolness, or other relieving sensation that would wash away the agony.

Turns out my expectations may have been a little elevated on the subject of how quickly an antacid works. The instant relief I was hopeful of didn’t really occur so much instantly, or even momentarily, as rather theoretically. I sat on the side of my bed and time dragged out before me like it does for a convict doing a dime, a kid on Christmas Eve, or anyone having business at the DMV.

A few minutes went by, and I started coughing with nearly every intake of breath. It was bad; thermonuclear warhead bad, Godzilla approaching Tokyo bad, Pauly Short movie bad. Finally, the Puddinette, sensing my increasing discomfort, asked me if I was having a heart attack. She’s a trained medical professional and tends to start with the most catastrophic possibilities first and work down, but that’s another post. When I replied no, she undoubtedly thought to herself (as a veteran of the War on Reflux), Aw, the poor rookie, he thinks his little case of heartburn is soooo bad. She told me that a glass of milk is often helpful in extinguishing such a fire. I suspect she sent me to the kitchen knowing full well that the Tums would kick in very shortly, but coincidentally, it was also just about time for someone to get the kids started on breakfast. I think I was had.

At any rate, I inhaled a glass of milk and made a quick breakfast for the kids. Afterward, the agonizing reflux had subsided, and I went on about my day. Regardless, the next time one of the Four Horseman rides up into my throat, I think I might have to reconsider my lifestyle.

This is probably how you end up consuming “thickened liquids” and tapioca pudding 3 times a day.

pud’n

He sat, waiting, in an uncomfortable chair by the elevators, pretending to read a newspaper. Was this the day he’d finally do it? There was honestly no reason not to have done it already, except he hated confrontation and knew that afterward there would be no going back. The toothpaste doesn’t fit back in the tube.

“Thom, wait,” she called, sobbing. “Thom. Thom! Thom!”

A hand shook his shoulder, “Thom. Thom?” He opened his eyes, but it wasn’t Heather. She was too thin. Pale in the dark moonlight. Her name, he knew her name.

“Ana?” he coughed.

“Good, you remember. You seemed to be having a rough dream. How do you feel?”

He cleared his throat. “Thirsty. And maybe hungry.”

“That is very good. I have soups. Chicken noodle or vegetable. Would you like to try one?”

“Water first. Then chicken.”

She nodded, filled a cup that was waiting on the table he had crawled to yesterday from the same sink, and held it to his mouth. “A few sips, slowly. Then I will get you soup. We have much to discuss.”

The moment following the birth of one’s child, when you are handed a sleepy, wrinkly, pink little thing that clearly has no protection from the nasty, cold world other than a warm, striped, swaddling towel and the hands holding him or her, is a seminal event in the life of anyone having experienced it. Looking down at that slumbering newborn, you swear to yourself, your offspring, and whatever higher being that will listen that you’ll do anything, anything! to keep the child healthy and happy, come what may. There’s no mountain you wouldn’t climb, no river you wouldn’t ford, no forest you wouldn’t fell; no matter the task, you will find a way in the name of that newborn, so help you God!

You then spend the rest of life trying to figure a way out of that foolhardy oath.

There’s glory in climbing mountains, maybe some honor in a river crossing. But the things you actually end up doing in the name of providing for your family? Yeah, good luck finding glory there, chief. No one’s producing a Movie of the Week to highlight your glorious victory at the Battle of Clogged Commode, or the Miracle of the Bow Daddy Had to Tie on Barbie When Mommy Was At The Store.

I find myself doing many a strange thing these days, things I do NOT enjoy but which cause only slight irritation, which is the lesser discomfort compared to witnessing true, innocent sadness in one’s child. For example, I give you The Puffle Predicament. The Puddinpop occasionally spends some time playing on Club Penguin, where he has decorated an igloo with all the chicest elements and adopted a puffle for every color of the rainbow. One night over Winter Break, though, catastrophe struck: Max, his original puffle, the first in the puffle managerie, returned to the wild!

Max was kind enough to send a postcard.

Apparently, each puffle has statistics of some variety, and if any of those stats dip below a pre-determined level, the ungrateful fuzzball will opt to take its chances in the wilderness. Good luck finding dinner out there in the electronic ether, Max, I hope you choke on it!

Anyway, the Puddinpop took the news stoically, at first. “He’ll be happier with his friends,” he said, trying to convince himself. “He’ll be fine in the wild.” After bedtime, though, I witnessed a heart-wrenching scene when I went in to check on him. He was sobbing quietly into his pillow, eyes full of wet, shiny tears over a fuzzy online pet gone missing.

Nearly heartbroken, I lied, as parents do, and suggested that perhaps Max might return of his own accord, knowing full well that a puffle, once at large, will not return. The Puddinpop seemed to take comfort in the lie and eventually drifted off to sleep, no doubt dreaming of all the fun his online penguin would have with that little blue puffle.

Swallowing the bitter taste in my throat, I then did what had to be done. I poured myself a large glass of courage and logged into Club Penguin, intending to adopt for him a new “Max”. Blue puffles all look alike; no one would ever be the wiser. Unfortunately, though, they cost 800 coins to adopt and at the time, his penguin was only in possession of 816. Sure, I could use the majority of his hard earned coins to adopt another puff of blue, name him Max, and call it night, but my eldest son is nothing if not shrewd in the ways of online commerce; he would know someone had pilfered his account, and that just would not do.

Seeing no recourse, I took a long steadying pull from my beverage, did some online research into which Club Penguin games generate the most coins quickly, and then spent the subsequent 45 minutes playing a mind-numbing game where a waddling penguin avatar unloads coffee beans, of all things, from delivery trucks while flower pots, anvils, and dead fish rain down upon him. The more stacks of coffee you make, the more coins you earn. The ground beneath my (son’s) penguin’s feet were aflame as I shuttled animated bags of coffee beans between the truck and loading dock, dancing wildly as pots of petunias smashed into the earth and rotten fish fell in the space where I stood a nanosecond earlier. By the time I had enough coins amassed to adopt a blue puffle without arousing suspicion, I was the King of the Coffee Truck Penguins! Epic tales of my coffee bean exploits are still whispered among the flock to this day.

So yes, it was not my preferred way to spend a Saturday night. But, more importantly, the Puddinpop’s excitement the following morning, when he found “Max” once again among his flock, was worth every single foolish second.

If parents realized that when swearing their personal oaths to do anything, anything! for a newborn child, they are actually pleading guilty to a crime carrying a maximum sentence of 18 years worth of Chuck E. Cheese birthdays, I think you might see a lot more people making promises specifically referencing a mountain, river, or trip to the moon.

Truth be told, though, pinky swear or not, I’d still do whatever was necessary to re-adopt that damned puffle.

pud’n

One of the local high schools had a fundraiser tonight for Haitian relief, an indoor winter festival type of thing typified by games of “skill” such as throwing a giant wiffleball into a toilet seat, catching a bamboo ring on an empty potato chip can, and everyone’s favorite Price Is Right rip-off, Blinko. Somehow, the Puddinette convinced me to attend the festival with her and kids, which still surprises even me. My appreciate for this of kind event, church festivals, county fairs, etc, judged on a scale from “Hell, yes, get me a walking taco!” to “this is worse than working the 2 am shift at Taco Bell”, usually falls squarely right at “Please kick me in the family jewels, hit me with the cartoon anvil, and then use my tongue as a lint roller.”

In other words, I’m not a huge fan. I’m not sure why, honestly. I do have memories of winning a real, working camera at the county fair when I was 12 (actual camera value: $2.50, cost of film for cheap camera: $4.00, number of pictures successfully taken and developed: 0).

It was probably the following year, at 13, when I began to develop my current feelings. I was obligated, as were all CCD students of conscription age, to “volunteer” for service at the annual church festival. I spent a day forcefully exhaling into tiny balloons until my face was crimson while darts, thrown by children normally considered too young to handle pointed objects, whizzed past my head. When I was released from service, my period of indenture complete, I spent what seemed like hours squeezing through the profuse crowd, surprised by the raucousness that accompanied the combination of “games of chance” involving actual dollars (in some cases, many) and towers of empty plastic beer cups.

I don’t recall really enjoying myself at festivals much after that. It was apparent to me that the point was the commerce, and I never really understood the value in trading my hard-earned cash for plastic trinkets. Also, it probably didn’t help that I rarely had any hard-earned cash at festival time. As a young man, money didn’t burn a hole in my pocket so much as it would teleport directly from my possession into a store’s cash register within moments of obtaining it. I could make $10 working the yard and have it spent twice before I came in to clean up. Dad would reach into his wallet to fish out that ten-dollar bill and be surprised to find that it had already vanished, and I was the proud owner of two comic books, a Snicker’s bar, and a package of grape Big League chew.

By the time I did actually have money for events of that nature, I’d developed a loathsome relationship with crowds of random strangers. The crowds had no use for me, and I still have little use for them.

I used to live in an apartment across the street from one of the more well-attended church festivals in the area, and although my brother and I would throw a massive party during the event every year, I never once crossed the street for entertainment. Friends would come and go, visit for a while, stumble over to the festivities and then back when in need of “refreshment”, and wanted to quench their thirst for less than $6.50. Our refrigerator served admirably as a way station for many a thirsty traveler, but sadly, our “souvenir cup” looked an awfully lot like a red Solo.

My poor wife continues to hope that someday I’ll remove the uncomfortable stick apparently firmly entrenched in my nethers, at which time I will look upon festivals with joy and happiness. I’m sure that my children would like to see me at a ring toss booth without clenching my jaws as if expecting a shot of ebola via used elephant needle. I guess there’s always room for wishful thinking. Until then, I’m going to take some pride in the fact that I attended the Haitian fundraiser festival tonight and didn’t punch anyone.

I will admit that they did have good popcorn.

pud’n

I was driving home today, mind wandering aimlessly as I tried to figure out what I was gonna do with the not-quite-so-alone dude, when it struck me just how unappealing it is outside at the moment. The snow, which last week was fluffy, white, pure, and stacked in piles and drifts tall enough for Jack to have climbed them to the Giant, has a become a sad, dirty, icy reminder of itself. It’s just ugly now, and as it melts, it recedes into the mud, leaving swampiness wherever one used to have a lawn.

It’s enough to drive a person crazy, and many people I know have serious trouble coping with it. A friend of mine has long said that there ought to be a heavy gray color in one of the 20 billion paint chips available at your local hardware store named “Depressing Cincinnati Winter”. I’m beginning to agree. I used to not care, personally, but I as I get older, I find that I do look forward to the drying of the ground and the lifting of that ever-present blanket of gray that hangs in the sky menacingly. I won’t go so far as to claim that I’m actually looking forward to some sunshine, because as most of you know, I’m not a huge fan of that either, but a little blue sky wouldn’t hurt.

It’s kind of ironic how winter flows. Most of us associate it with the majority of December and especially the holidays. Technically, though, the season doesn’t begin until the 21th or so, just a handful of days before Christmas, when the great masses are so frantically preparing for Stress-Fest that they could give two shakes about the winter solstice. When the dust settles on the holiday season in the first week of January, however, we all suddenly find ourselves staring down the barrel of two full months of cold, gray, lifeless, Johnny-lost-it-and-has-the-ax-go-hide-in-the-hedge-maze winter.

We attempt to divert whenever possible, to be sure. There’s the Super Bowl, Valentine’s Day, the Swimsuit Issue, arguments of relative RPIs, and the annual President’s Day sales on everything (really, why have we associated the birthdays of two of our most cherished leaders to the sale of carpeting and appliances, anyone?). Hell, we even take a day to revel in worshiping at the alter of a subterranean rodent. I overheard a conversation earlier this month between two grown men about whether The Groundhog (Punxsutawney Phil) actually saw his shadow, and if that did or not “count” for us, as the sky conditions here in the Northern KY/Southwestern OH area would be different than in Pennsylvania. It took every ounce of my self control not to smack them both on the back of the head, as if they needed a V-8 juice, and scream, “I’m pretty sure it’ll be Spring on March 20th, and that damn woodchuck can quick causing trouble, if he knows what’s good for him!” Luckily, restraint prevailed, otherwise, someone would have been dialing 9-1-1 as I flailed about, wild-eyed and panting, blustering on about the untrustworthiness of common burrowing animals as weather predictors.

I don’t mind winter, really, but I am tired of dirty snow and gray skies. My birthday is March 12th, and as far as I’m concerned, Spring arrives with it. Until then, I’ll apply the best salve I have for seasonal discomfort: beer.

pud’n

He nearly fell at the sound of the voice, but caught himself before sliding backwards off the table. He didn’t yet trust his legs to hold him upright.

He looked towards the voice and a found feminine shadow standing in the doorway. “Who…,” he started.

“My name is Ana,” the shadow replied, “and you should be in bed.” She crossed the space between them quickly, faster than he expected. He shrank from her, but had little chance to move away.

Out of the shadows and into the shining starlight, he got a better look at her. She was of average height, maybe 5’8″ or 5’9″, with a trim frame. She wore jeans and a knit sweater, though, which made her build difficult to be sure of, especially given the general lack of available light.

Her face suggested that she didn’t carry even an extra pound of weight, with a slender neck and prominent cheekbones. Her smooth, white skin gleamed in the pale light, her dark eyes standing out. He couldn’t tell their color, but he found it hard not to focus on them. The were stunning and piercing and sparkled, somehow all at once. The last person he’d seen with eyes like that he had married, a lifetime or two ago now.

“Do you remember your name?” she asked.

“Um, Thom,” he replied, shakily.

“I’m trying to help you, Thom. You need to get well. Let’s get you back in bed.” He felt the strength in her hands as she took him by the shoulders. She helped him away from the table and ducked beneath his left arm. He hesitated and then leaned onto her, afraid she couldn’t hold him. She did, though, easily, and directed them both back towards the empty hospital bed.

“Ana?” he asked, as they shuffled back across the room.

“Yes.”

“Do I know you?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’m taking care of you now. You’ve been asleep for a very long time. We weren’t sure if you would ever wake up. Now that you have, I mean to make sure you have time to recover fully.”

“How did I,” he started, nearly whispering.

“It’s a very long story, and part of an even longer one. I think you were in a coma for more than 10 years. What year do you last remember?”

He thought for a moment. “1997″, he said slowly, “that’s the last date I remember.”

They reached the bed and she helped him lay down. “Yes, more than 10 years. Do you need anything else? More water?”

The man who barely remembered being Thom shook his head as he settled back into the bed, letting it sink in. “Not now, I’m very tired right now. 10 years? Is it 2007?”

She hooked a full bag of clear fluid to his IV post and took a syringe from her pocket. She removed the cap and pushed the needle into an input ports on the plastic tubing. Squeezing the plunger steadily, the contents of the syringe flowed down the line. “It’s 2010 now, Thom, although the year has very little meaning now.”

He had been tired a moment ago, but now felt a weight on his eyelids, closing them. He fought to keep them open, vainly.

“The world you know is gone, Thom,” he heard her say, and then he was asleep.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I am deeply disturbed by The Puddinette’s television viewing habits. The crux of the issue is that, in general, if it’s reality, she’s down with it, but I can’t stomach any form of reality television unless there’s a chef involved. For the wife, though, if they’ve make a show where some number of theoretically similar people have their “spontaneous” lives filmed 24-7, she won’t be able to turn it off. God help her, too, when she finds a program where a bunch of people who really ought to be considering a lengthy stay in either a half-way house, mental institution, or prison all co-habitate some pimped out crib provided by the production team, who hopes that full-time access to a wet bar, hot tub, and community showers will result in…um…questionable moral behaviors. My better half is powerless to resist such temptation . Sure, she readily admits that it’s mostly horrible crap, but sometimes you just can’t avoid staring at a train wreck.

She and I often discuss how nice it would be if someone, somewhere, somehow, managed to make a TV show that we both would look forward to watching. Sure, we catch the occasional compromise show, but really, it’s typically not something one of us would sit through without the other on hand. Today, though, I think I cracked the nut. Finally, I’ve come up with something that might work for everyone. As she was complaining that she would kinda like to do something the other ladies this evening, the idea struck me: the world totally needs “The Real Housewives of Northern Kentucky”.

This won’t be the kind of program where you’ll get a bunch surgically enhanced women who care more for time on camera than their kids or that snipe at each at the director’s bidding. No, no, I’m talking about actual soccer mom’s here, tooling about their respective ‘hoods, dropping kids at preschool in the ubiquitous Honda Odyssey (an official sponsor, of course), droppin’ some phat cash at The Walmart on crazy stuff like milk and eggs, before rushing home just in time to get the kindergartener off the bus for lunch. Mmmm…peanut butter and jelly!

On reality shows, there’s always someone just teetering (or worse) on the edge of infidelity. In reality, when you’ve got to actually physically raise your own kids, well, hell, nobody’s got time for fooling around. On that reality show, there’s always some alcohol-fueled cocktail party where a liquored up trollop causes a big scene by calling one of the other “ladies” a whore in front of her peeps and much drama ensues. In the real world, where you thank the good Lord every day at 3 o’clock because it’s nap time for the baby and quiet time for the other kids, mom’s don’t call each other out; they lack the time, the energy, and the motivation for it. They’re just glad to be able to have the occasional dinner at Applebee’s without having to cut up anyone’s chicken.

On that reality show, ladies do time with the one-on-one confessional camera. In actual reality, moms squeeze every 10 minutes of peace they can find into pumping up their plots in Farmville and throwing out calls to their peeps to get their back and help raise that new chicken coop. On my show, “The Real Housewives of Northern Kentucky”, the only confessional is one’s facebook status, and you can always count on your friends to be rocking Farmville during nap time at their own houses, snapping fingers as they read that request for help with the new stables. “Don’t worry girl,” they’ll comment in reply, “I got your back, now hit me with an egg full of some hot ugly duckling”.

The term “hot ugly duckling” isn’t a euphemism to real housewives, but God only knows what to might mean to the bottle blonds and plastic boobs of Orange County.

pud’n

My four year-old daughter is a wonderful, special person. She is bright, very polite, can make friends with anyone, helps out with her 16-month old baby brother, takes very good care of her baby doll children, and always has a hug for mommy or daddy. Unfortunately, no child is perfect, my sweet little daughter included. Getting her to eat a full dinner is a task like to try a glacier’s patience. Her room occasionally looks as if the bomb squad has been using Barbie/My Little Pony ordinance to practice detonation, and the clean up of said explosion tends to produce melodramatic weeping long before any toys are actually returned to their proper places. Beyond that, though, she has one particular gift that causes no little amount of consternation.

My daughter can clog a toilet by walking into a bathroom and looking at it.

We’re not sure what happens in there; it’s a puzzle for the age. My own theory is that she’s raising orphaned turtles and returning them back to the wild via the plumbing. The Puddinette wonders if perhaps she’s flushing socks, individually, since one often seems to disappear inexplicably. Honestly, it’s probably for the best that no one can explain it, but the fact remains that my trusty plunger and I are called into service much too frequently.

As I am the father of four children, three of which are boys, it obviously comes as no surprise to me that our plumbing is occasionally taxed. Chucking something into the toilet just to see it swirl about and disappear is something of a pastime for young male children. However, the frequency with which I find myself staring into a gleaming white porcelain bowl filled with too much water that’s going absolutely no where is alarming.

One day, having just gotten home from work to find my lovely daughter complaining of the potty being stopped, I muttering to myself that “I spend more time with my plunger than a truck stop janitor does.” I told my wife later that same night that if things didn’t change, I was getting a shirt with the name “Smitty” embossed across the breast and “Puddin’s Home Janitorial” printed on the back. She laughed and suggested that if I didn’t get back to work, I’d have my pay docked. Since then, Smitty gets the call two or three times a week to report to “Bathroom 2, for maintenance”.

My daughter, apparently, has no interest in seeing Smitty’s retirement. She strolled into our bedroom today as the Puddinette was putting laundry away and announced calmly, “Call Smitty, the toilet clogged again”. My wife related the story to me as soon as she stopped rotflmao’ing. Smitty wasn’t quite as amused.

You know a man’s home is his truck stop when his cute-as-a-button four year-old daughter pages him to the Men’s Room with his plunger. Luckily, when she’s 16 and some boy arrives to pick my little girl up for the Prom, I won’t need to be polishing my firearms as a warning. I’ll have this post, carefully saved in an aging manila folder, ready to produce at a moment’s notice for the purposes of embarrassing her infinitely.

That ought to teach her to call me Smitty.

pud’n

You might have noticed the lack of Puddiny discourse last night on The Inherent Evilness of Navel Lint or some similarly inane subject, but then again, you likely made it through the day anyway. I’m sure it was a struggle. I had a software prototype that needed finishing before an 11 AM demo for upper management today and I burned me some midnight oil last night, completing features and dropping delicate finishing touches. The Puddinette stumbled downstairs to the office at 5:30 this morning (it was still yesterday to me!), wondering if I was either slumped over my laptop, drooling upon myself in a state of semi-incoherence, or, worse, had been stolen away by little gray men with their….probing tools. Turns out neither was the case, I was just lost in getting One Last Thing done, and time always seems to evaporate when you’re working on that particular item.

It must have turned out alright, though, because I was told shortly before the black curtain of inevitable unconsciousness crashed over me this afternoon that the demo was a hit and the project was approved. So, yay! for me and Team Puddin (which, incidentally, is comprised of myself and um, er, yeah, me).

I used to do this kind of thing all the time, and obviously I’m not alone. No one gets that first dreaded Term Paper turned in without foregoing some amount of sleep the prior night. Well, no one except my lovely wife, of course. She’s always been one of those people, for whom an uncompleted task is a dark stain upon her mortal soul. An uncompleted to-do list weighs heavily upon her conscience, tormenting her like Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart; each item an unholy demerit, certain to result in the loss of favor with her Maker, and inevitably, eternal doom. I suspect her first term paper was complete many days in advance of turn-in. Mine, on the other hand, was still warm from the printer when it exchanged hands.

It’s not her fault, it’s the way she was made. We love her anyway. It is remarkable, though, that even given her…affliction, she still has a place in her heart for me. I know this might come as a shock, but I’m decidedly not concerned with the length of my own to-do list, and believe me, it grows daily. I’m resigned to the fact that The List will be with me always (like a ghostly Lifetime movie wife killed before her time) and will almost certainly remain long after I’ve shuffled off this particular coil. I’m actually trying to figure out a way to fit the damned thing into my Will. “PuddinPop, I bequeath you the Ferrari, but first you have to clean out the gutters, mulch the flower beds, and paint the second floor hallway”.

I like this idea…it might be time to call the attorney.

pud’n

It was an odd day today, so odd, in fact, that I had to use actual trigonometry (!) at work this afternoon (do they still burn you as a witch for that?). More surprising, even, was the fact that I somehow managed to apply said trigonometry correctly. Afterward, I was lucky enough to spend an hour trying to figure out why my trig-based answers didn’t match the answers I already had in hand (I was employing the back-of-the-book method of problem solving, which may be one of the more important skills learned in high school). Turns out the other answers were wrong and my answers were right. Why, yes, indeed, that is a good thing, thank you for noticing. On the other hand, it means we have to now re-do the steps that generated the wrong answers in the first place.

You’re all very engrossed, I can tell.

The long and short of it is that by the time I got home my brain hurt already. After the kids went to bed I had some work to catch up on because the time I should have spent accomplishing…stuff…this afternoon was instead spent using trigonometry to find problems. As I sat down for my evening catch-up work, I turned on the Olympics in hopes of finding some international hockey action. Sadly, there was no hockey, but plenty of men’s figure skating. In case you’re wondering, that is pretty much the exact same thing as firing up a football game and finding skinny dudes doing ballet. In decidedly non-dude approved jumpsuits.

Yes, I realize that many people apparently like men’s figure skating. I don’t have a problem with it, per se, but I think that as a whole, it would be much improved if it was an actual men’s event rather than a ladies’ event with male participants. Let’s see some aggression out there instead of all that fancy arm-waving. Perhaps we could stage it head-to-head, make it some kind of a throwdown, skate-off, deathmatch. Find a way to get some on-ice smack talk in there, and maybe I’ll pay attention.

I’d still rather watch hockey, though.

One more thing for tonight. Here’s a picture of three of my kids in the snow yesterday; everyone likes pictures of kids, right?

Please note that the snow is already knee-high in that picture. This is taken early in the afternoon, when we’d only gotten about half of our 18 metric crap-tons. By the time I went to bed last night, you could no longer see the paths they’d made in the snow.

The Puddinette brought this picture to my attention shortly before I began writing for the evening. We were both very much entertained by the image, but have no idea what the hell the kids are doing there. After much discussion, we decided they’re either practicing dance routines for an upcoming worldwide summer tour (tickets for Puddin3 are on sale now!), re-enacting the opening of “My Three Sons“, or perhaps attempting to replicate the famous “Charlie’s Angel’s” silhouette. The world may never truly know, but damn if they don’t crack me up anyway.

pud’n