43 Year Old Word Problem

November 25, 2008

Question:  If my 43 year old finger is traveling in one direction at high speed and collides with a 32 year old kneecap traveling in the other direction at the same speed, which one will get to the emergency room first?

The answer, of course, is my 43 year old finger.  Not even close.  Dislocated and looking like a reflection in a fun house mirror.

From the sausage-like swelling and pounding pain to the odd phase-shifting thing happening at the first knuckle where the bone dislocated and moved to a place it should never be, my finger looked like something out of a cartoon where faces routinely take on the shape of frying pans and smashed fingers the shape of the offending hammer (pictures available on request, though my friend Peter saw them and doesn’t recommend viewing near mealtimes).

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It’s All About the Music

November 25, 2008
Lil' Mama - Lip Gloss Poppin'

Lil' Mama

My 6 year old son has a tendency to latch onto a song lyric he likes and repeatedly sing it at the top of his lungs for days.  He also has two pre-teen older sisters.  This leads to some interesting results…

All day Saturday, he walked around the house belting out, with great gusto and a huge smile, the following lyric:  “My lip gloss is poppin’ and all the boys are stoppin’!!”  Nuff said.  Thank you, Lil’ Mama.


Legal Defenses Of The Young – Part 1

November 25, 2008

starKaren was the one who discovered the star in question.  Beautifully drawn.  In ink.  On the arm of the sofa.  “Who did this?!”  Like deer in the woods quickly lifting their heads after a far off gunshot, the four kids in the living room looked up, looked at Karen, then at each other.  Faces betraying nothing, the three older ones advanced slowly to look at the star.  They examined it like a piece of radioactive waste.  No denials yet.  Yaniv, the 6 year old, lagged behind, then cautiously advanced towards the couch, mouth slightly agape, feigning nonchalance.

Nobody said a word.

Karen again: “WHO did this??”  Turning to Yaniv, “Was it you?”.  A millimeter head motion to the left, then nothing.  The prosecutor, sensing a crack in the facade, pushed forward:  “Was it you?  did you do this?  did you draw this?”.  Big eyes stared back.  Nothing.  Which from a 6 year old is the equivalent of a sobbing confession from an adult.

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5 Children By The Numbers

November 25, 2008

Give child bath every day until 6 years old:  2,190 baths per child x 5 children = 10,950 baths given.

3.5 years of diapers = 1,278 days of diapers x 4 diapers a day per child (average) = 5,112 diapers per child x 5 children = 25,560 diapers changed.

I tried to run the same numbers for upcoming education bills but my calculator started belching smoke.


Semper Fi

November 25, 2008

Drop into enemy territory.  Eyes scan left … right … note all points of ingress and egress – blind spots – be watchful for escapees as troops fan out.  Evaluate terrain.  It’s too hilly, dammit!  Fall back!  Fall back!  Look ou…!  MAN DOWN! MEDIC! MEDIC!! MAN DOWN!

Nothing like a Sunday morning visit to the Children’s Museum.


Kill The Ref!!

November 25, 2008

The conversation with the organizing coach went something like this:  “I’d rather sit on the sidelines and cheer on my son.”   “But we really need refs.”  “well … but .. I don’t know the rules that well.”

Freeze!  Zoom in.  See if you can spot the fatal error…yeeees, there it is, see it?  Lack of an unequivocal denial.  BIG mistake.  He smelled blood and moved in.  “That’s ok, they’re just 6 year olds.  C’mon.”  Deep sigh.  This went back and forth for a while, but I was done for.  Finally:  “OK.  Soccer’s the one played with the feet, right?”  Too little too late.

The e-mail arrived a week later – mandatory three hour training session for coaches.  No kidding.  Three hours.  On a Saturday morning.  VERY hardcore.  How to throw out a girl who refuses to remove her jewelry, no touching the players, if you have to console, hug from the side, whisper to the team’s coach and have THEM dispatch a homicidal parent (hopefully before they charge the field with a machete), and more.  Boot camp.  Then there was a quiz (I kid you not) followed by what felt like my high school graduation as we filed past, had our hands shook, and were handed the hideous yellow shirt we were expected to wear to each game, black shorts, a rule book, a whistle, a plastic coin (for the toss), and, my favorite, red and yellow cards for penalties and ejections.

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Men, Yoga, and Unnatural Positions

November 25, 2008

Several years ago my friend Madeline tried to get me to try yoga.  I maturely responded, “Not a chance…chick thing.”

Turns out, Karma’s a bitch.

Flash forward a couple of years to the night I threw my back out reaching to flush the toilet (needless to say I made up a better story for public consumption – something about a hoops game at W 4th Street and hyper extending my back reaching for an alley oop).

After three days unable to walk and a week moving about like a 95 year old, I found myself in my office with Madeline.  She spoke in short declarative sentences to make it through the fog of painkillers I was taking: “yoga good for back.  you try”.  If it would stop the back pain, I was ready to try anything.

To my surprise, the yoga felt good – really good.  Heather, our graceful, incredibly strong, pretzel of a teacher was great, never caring that I was a wildebeest among her regular gazelles, just nurturing me along at my own pace.  The clincher was the number of gorgeous, flexible, scantily clad women who do yoga at 7 a.m. – a great way to start the day.  I have been doing it twice a week since then, enjoying the yoga and the view, and taking care of my back.  But always in the back of my mind was the understanding that when testosterone based life forms venture into estrogen dominated activities, there are some things we are just not supposed to do.

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