These are few of my favorite things...

I always suspected that eventually, some of my hobbies may turn into big-time, professional-type, money-making businesses. Two of these seem to have now done so, except for the "big-time", "professional", and "money-making" parts. I never expected that it would take having children to do this.

The first hobby is juggling. My friend Mark turned me on to it, or maybe I turned him on to it. I can't remember. What I do remember is working at Bob's Big Boy and spending my lunch hour in the walk-in refrigerator with three lemons. After months and months(and lots of bruised lemons) I finally got the hang of basic juggling and started on tricks. (Maybe Mark did catch the bug from me, because I distinctly remember the jealousy I felt (and still feel) when he quickly outclassed me.) I always imagined we'd hit the stage as a comedy juggling duo. Well, there's still time. Maybe after retirement. We can do a senile act. "Mark, what are we doing here in front of all these people with these clubs?" "Hell if I know. Seen my antacid?"

Anyway, I ended up getting a gig as a juggler. Unpaid. At my daughter's school. For the spring fair. And more than juggling, I'll be teaching it. Someone is bringing a boatload of yarn balls for me to use to teach kids how to juggle. Well, it's a start.

Another hobby of mine is decorating cakes, which until recently I thought I could actually make money from. I say recently, because I've just tuned into a cable show on the Food Network called "Ace of Cakes", and whereas I once thought I was getting pretty good, I now realize that in the grand scheme of things, I'm still only fooling around.

Anyway, I'm making a wedding cake. Sounds auspicious, until you hear who it's for. It's for Q and U.

No, that's not the initials of the bride and groom. Those are their names. Q and U.

My son is finishing up kindergarten. They have "Letter People", like Mr. M who has a munchy mouth, and Mrs. T who has big teeth. Well, the last two Letter People they are covering this year are Q and U. And next week, Q and U are getting married. The kindergarten is having a party, and needs people to bring cups and plates and juice and snacks. And cake.

I really don't think the teacher is expecting an actual wedding cake, but hell, why not? It's good practice, and I've never done a tiered cake before. It's a good way to try it. If it works, great, and if it doesn't, not a big deal. I won't have ruined someone's wedding.

Although I'm going to have to work a little bit to find an appropriate cake topper. A matched figurine set of a quail and a unicorn might be hard to come by.

3,2,1, Contact!

This is an unusual post. Its only purpose is to appeal to one particular person reading this blog. Belgarion Longbow, you know who you are. I'd love to hear from you again, but for the life of me can't figure out how to use your comment to my last posting to respond or contact you.

Although I'm not going to put my email address up here, for anyone to see, you know my name and hopefully remember how to spell it. Look me up! If you happen to contact the people at the address I lived when we met, they will be able to tell you how to get in touch with me.

There are others from that same summer I am still in touch with who would also love to hear about/from you.

(I'm putting the onus on you because my last name is much more unusual than yours, and you are more likely to find me than the other way around. Besides, last time I heard about you, you were in Germany!)

Call, write, email, something! I look forward to it.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire

I had just finished editing and posting that last entry when I hear rustling in the back room. I hissed at the cat that I thought was rummaging around behind the TV. Ten seconds later, that same cat comes out making a very strange sound. The only time I've heard it before was when he had caught a mouse. So I start flipping on lights and chasing him down.

I catch up just in time to see him drop my children's pet hamster on the living room floor.

Now understand, this would be exceedingly bad, considering that just this past weekend we held a funeral for the other hamster. Yes, a funeral. Graveside, with some words of condolence for the dearly departed, followed by sniffles and tears. I actually said Kaddish for a hamster.

Having dealt with it once already, I was in no mood to do a repeat performance. I grabbed the cat and held him still, wondering how the hell I was going to get the hamster back, since it had run under the chair (the chair which was next to the couch on which both of my children decided to sleep tonight).

I only had a few seconds to think about it, because that was when the hamster waddled out from under the chair and into my hand.

I must be really tired, because it took two of us to figure out what happened next. See, I had the hamster cage in the downstairs bathroom, with the door closed, because the wheel is squeaky and it was driving us nuts. So when I go back to put her in the cage, I see the bathroom door is still closed! Inside, the cage (which had been perched on the sink) was on its side on the floor. I figured, the hamster running in the wheel gradually edged the cage closer to the side of the sink until it fell over and made its escape. It was very thoughtful of the hamster (or, possibly, the cat) to close the door after herself, but how the hell did she do it?

It took both of us to realize that we're talking about a hamster. A rodent. A thing that can squeeze into tight places.

Like under a door.

Phone service at Ellis Island

Today I spoke with a friend of mine about a cute little incident involving my oldest daughter. He suggested I write about it (I was about to say "blog it", but I'm still not comfortable enough with the format to call it that), so that's what this entry is about. Note that what I used to call "my daughter" I am now calling "my oldest daughter". This is another story that another good friend has told me I should write about, and I will, but I haven't figured out the words yet. Keep posted.

By the way, the words "cute little incident involving my daughter" are code words. They translate to "highly amusing anecdote to those people with children, and a really boring post to those without". You have been warned.


Anyway, I'm hanging about the house today with nothing better to do except wonder when the PTO will call me back when I glance outside and see a strange sight. All the lawn chairs and the bench have been lined up in two rows, one behind the other. Sitting in the second row is my (oldest) daughter. She is dressed in a petticoat, with a shawl around her shoulders and a bandanna on her head. In her lap rests a wicker basket, and her hands are neatly folded on the handle. She is just sitting there, seemingly doing nothing.

Curious, I call through the screen door, "Sarah, what are you doing?"

She answers, "I'm emigrating. I'm waiting my turn." And then, as I watch, she moves up a seat. And waits.

She's the only one out there. No one is there calling her name or stamping passports. She's the only child on our street (or town, or borough, or probably state) who plays "Emigration".

I felt like Gomez Adams. Strange and different, but a little proud to be so. What kind of child plays emigration? My kind, I suppose.

(On a related note, five minutes later I look out and my son is sitting on one of the chairs with a blanket around his head. "Alex, are you emigrating too?", I ask. The answer: "No, dad, I'm Luke Skywalker.")

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That's part one. Part two is the lovely experience I had with our telecommunications company over the past few days. I won't tell you which company it is, but I will say that it starts with a "V" and ends with "erizon".

Our roommate moved out. It was clear when he moved in that the situation was only temporary, but then again, that was seven years ago. Anyway, he left, and we didn't see a point to receiving phone bills in his name. So I called Verizon our phone company last Monday to have the name on the account changed.

They can't do that.

They can provide the latest in fiber optic communications, but they can't change the name on the account. What can they do? Close the old account, and open a new one.

I'm fine with that. They do so. Tuesday, our phone, TV, and internet go dead. I call (on my cell phone) to have the new account put up. Here's the gist of the conversation that follows.

Me: I'm calling to have a new name on our account. I'd like the same phone number if possible.

Sales Rep: Yes sir, no problem. We can have a technician out there Monday.

Me: No, that's not necessary. We already have all the equipment. We just need it turned on.

Sales Rep: We need to send out a tech, sir. Technically, we should have picked up the equipment when the account was deleted. Then we would send someone out there with new equipment.

Me: You don't understand, it was just working yesterday. Just turn it back on the way you turned it off.

Sales Rep: We'll have someone out there Monday between 8am and 5pm.

Me: Listen, if we didn't pay the bill and you suspended service, would you need to send a tech out to turn it back on?

Sales Rep: Of course not, sir.

Me: Then you can just do that, right?

Sales Rep: Would you hold a moment, sir? Thanks.

(Two minutes of conferring with his manager)

Sales Rep: Would you hold just another moment please? Thanks.

(Five more minutes of conferral.)

Sales Rep: Well, sir, when we delete the account we clear the posts and they need to be reset. The tech will be out there Monday. Thank you for choosing Verizon us.

Well, the tech comes, and I explain the whole thing to him again. His response?

Tech: Yeah, I figured it was something weird. On the sheet they gave me where it says "Problem description" they wrote "undescribable".

Anyway, what the tech expected to be an 8 hour day turned into a 40 minute day. Everything now works, hence I am able to post this blog.


Finally, a plea for help. I can't for the life of me figure out how to get this blog to accept the "tab" key. If someone could show me how to do this, I wouldn't have to keep skipping a line every time I want a new paragraph.