The Not a Christmas Letters, Part 4

This is what I think is the last of the Not a Christmas Letters.  I tried to pick it up later a couple of times, but I never really got it together.  I'm not really sure why - I could blame Facebook, but that would be purely theoretical, as I don't post much.  At least one item which would have been a Not a Christmas Letter entry appears on this blog. So here it is, the last of the Not a Christmas Letters.

This is not a Christmas letter, even a late one.  Rather, it is a brief window into the chaos that is our lives in the past year or so.

Hundredth Day

The boy’s school has a yearly event they call Hundredth Day – to celebrate the one-hundredth day of class of the school year, they generally have some sort of commemorative festivities.  This year, the students were encouraged to dress up as old people.  Huh?  I can only assume that the boys would wear white beards or something.  After some coaxing and threatening, we convinced him to don the following ensemble:

• T-shirt
• Unbuttoned flannel overshirt
• Grey sweatpants, pulled up high at the waist
• Black socks with sandals, and
• Baseball cap

I thought he looked awesome.  He was less than thrilled.  When we insisted on taking his picture, he wouldn’t smile.  After some unsuccessful coaxing and joking, I finally said “Okay then, just look like all your dreams have been crushed and you didn’t turn out to be quite the man you thought you’d be.”  So that’s pretty much what he did. All day.

Later that evening, Rowan came down five minutes before bedtime, asking for cake which had been promised but forgotten.  Cue parental difference of opinion as to whether cake was still appropriate.  In a rare concession, after an initial show of opposition, Jan did not object when I got the daughter the cake.  She was eating, and we were talking about the Hundredth Day outfit, when she started laughing about the “all your dreams have been crushed” line and inhaled some of the cake.  This of course triggered a coughing fit, while still laughing.  When the choking/coughing/laughing eventually resolved, Jan, without even bothering to look back, said “That’s why you don’t eat cake right before you go to bed.”

         

Still Life with 8 year-old Boy

Part I.

          So one of Connor’s friends had a birthday party at the movie theater – meet for the movie and snack, followed by pizza and cake – a pretty nice setup.  I drop him off and arrive to pick him up a couple of hours later.  I’m a little early, so I sit down and wait for them. 

          All of the boys are clustered around a few tables, eating their pizza.  There is a flatscreen above their heads, showing a loop of trailers and commercials.  One of the commercials has a guy in a shaving commercial on TV, who, failing to spot his target audience in front of him, steps out of the TV into real life, wearing only a towel, and goes in search of him.  During his brief quest, a sprinkler system soaks him.  When he drops his towel to wring it out, twelve eight year-old boys simultaneously throw their arms up in the air and yell “WOO HOO! NAKED GUY! “ As it was on a loop, they did this every five minutes or so – it never got any less entertaining.

Part II.

          Nutcracker season began this year with auditions in April.  Despite having previously been in four Nutcrackers, including a stint as a co-Fritz, Connor has never has to audition.  Why? He’s a boy.  Boys do not usually volunteer for Nutcracker – they are more or less shanghaied, then bribed and threatened to get them through the rehearsals and performances.  There has probably never been a Nutcracker party boy whose older sister was not dancing a role.

          This year, however, they actually have a handful of boys who not only dance, but are probably getting a little bored with just being party boys.  So, although it’s anybody’s guess what they’re planning to do with them, they tell the boys they have to audition – show up in dance attire, with a headshot.  After dutifully getting suited and booted, Connor disappears into the studio with the other boys, then comes out a while later.

“So Connor, what did they have you do?”

“Well, they had us do some combinations, then we had to freestyle for an eight count”

“So what did you do for your freestyle?”

“Coffeegrinders.  Then I spun on my back.”

Yep – the boy breakdanced at a ballet audition.  The company may be rethinking that whole “boys dancing in the Nutcracker” idea.

Twelve Little Girls in Two Straight Lines, or how I was Ms. Foldetta’d into submission

This year, Rowan transitioned from dancing with Lone Star Jazz to dancing with the McCullough Jr. High School drill team.  No, strike that, it doesn’t entirely capture it – this year Rowan became a Highland Girl.  There is practice and tradition and little sister gifts and metric tons of candy.  Somehow it goes beyond high-kicking and high ponytails, and extends to such areas as posture, etiquette, relations with the opposite gender, world political and cultural affairs, and Newtonian physics. Actually, I’m a little fuzzy on those last two, but suffice it to say that I’m pretty sure that the cross-country team has never been lectured, as they stretched, on table manners and exactly which fork to use when.  Or maybe they have – maybe there is now an entire generation of female junior high school athletes who could throw on a dress after practice and head to a formal dinner without breaking a sweat, and knowing exactly which fork to use once they got there – but I somehow doubt it – I think that the Highland Girls are unique in that and other regards.  I would have loved to have been on the street downtown when 75 girls paraded from Zilkha Hall after seeing The Nutcracker to the Aquarium for lunch, each with their umbrellas, high ponytails, ribbons, smiles, and perfect bearing – it must have been quite a sight.

Twelve little girls in two straight lines – a Mouse Army marching into the future.  I find it all rather enchanting, which is probably totally the wrong response, if you asked any of them.

The Difference Between Boys and Girls II

As I write this, everybody but me is playing some form of Animal Crossing, an odd little game that we have on at least three platforms.  Rowan is exclaiming “Oh my gosh – I just made a dandelion wish on Animal Crossing” as her character picks and blows a dandelion on the DS screen.  In contrast, Jan is presently fussing at Connor for running through all the flowers onscreen.  This has been an ongoing issue here.  He doesn’t really seem to care much, perhaps realizing that they are just pixels on a screen. He also doesn’t bounce.

I have come to believe that bouncing is endemic to 12-19 year old girls.  And squeaking at the slightest provocation. And planning endlessly for the smallest of things. I have actually threatened to get matching T-shirts for Rowan and a friend of hers – “Rowan and Sarah –making simple things really, really complicated since 2007.”

THE STORM

Due to the sheer magnitude of the event, I feel that I would be remiss if I did not at least mention Hurricane Ike in passing, so here is a brief description:

I came from the hills with a tear in my eye
The winter closed in and the crows filled the sky
The houses were burning the flames gold and red
The people were running with eyes filled with dread
Ah aaaaaaahh…
They didn't have to do this
We chased them for miles I had hate in my eyes
Through forest and moors as the clouds filled the skies
The storm broke upon us with fury and flame
Both hunters and hunted washed out in the rain

Oh wait – that’s not me – that’s a Big Country song.  The truth for me is that I missed most of it, except for the disruption to Indiana and the Chicago suburbs.  Oops.  As such, I will attempt to report the highlights as per Jan – Sarah G. asking if they had to go over to the Chaves’s for dinner, weren’t we having fajitas?, the Monopoly game on the living room floor, Kaitlyn’s mother eventually calling her and saying “you have to come home – your father misses you,” and the mouse buffet the grey cat was presented with as many, many mice completed the transition from homelessness to snack.

As usual, rock on.

J.

The Not a Christmas Letters, Part 3

This is the third entry in the Not a Christmas Letters series, published to family and friends.

Preface

It has been inferred by some, from the title of previous missives, that I do not celebrate Christmas.  That is incorrect – I do – after all, if it’s capable of coming without presents, tags, boxes, or bags, what choice do I have, really?  I just don’t write a Christmas letter.

ROBERT PIRSIG IS NOT DEAD

I’m standing in line at a Kinko’s at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday, holding in my hand a printed sheet for them to perform their arcane magic on it and turn it into an overhead.  Of course, it is not my sheet of paper – it is Rowan’s.  So why am I standing here while she is sleeping peacefully at home?  Because Robert Pirsig is not dead, and it’s all my fault.

This started sometime the previous week, when I noticed Rowan writing a brief report on Robert Pirsig on the computer.  “Hey” I said “Don’t forget to mention that he died last week – I heard it on NPR the other day.”  I think I also mentioned that the bio she was using as a basis for the report seemed to seriously downplay the extent of the mental health issues that serve as a precursor to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance or something.

Fast forward a week – Jan has obtained the overheads and there is a final fact check in progress.  Funny thing – none of the online sources seem to show a date of death for the fabulous Mr. Pirsig, and his death has not been reported in any online news sources. Hmmm…..  Immediately the accusations and recriminations begin.

“You told me he was dead!”

“Well, I thought I heard it on the radio – can’t you just mark through the year of his death or something?”

“No – I’ll get points off for neatness!”

“Okay, print the change and I’ll have a new overhead by morning.”

I am no longer a credible source in my own house.  I blame the liberal media.  I think Robert Pirsig should come in for a share of the blame, too.

THE ERA OF MAKEUP

This year we entered the era of makeup.  The hard part about makeup is not the actual application of the stuff, but the protracted negotiation regarding what is appropriate and what is not, what is okay to wear to school vs. on stage vs. to a large party thrown in a warehouse in a remote part of town…

“How about fire-engine red lipstick?”

“I’m sorry, did you say clear lipgloss?”

“Tinted lipgloss?”

“Done”

And so on through the basic ingredients.

This all started one ordinary evening - I’m walking past the study and the Daughter is on a chair.  The question is posed to me “How does this look?”

After sufficient contemplation, I set forth a brilliant critical analysis – “Well, the liner is a little wavy, but I like the brown, and you could maybe use a little more eye shadow.”

I then walk upstairs, leaving the Daughter in puzzled silence.  The wife walks up behind me and whispers “She’s asking you if it’s okay for school.”

Oh.

Crap.  I’m never going to get this.

THE CALL WENT OUT

From up by the blackboard, out toward the desks, burning into the brain of every 7^th grade Algebra student.

“Doo doo de doo doo”

and again, low and insistent..

“De doo doo doo”

a stream of melody emanating from the teacher, almost unknowable, intense and primal -

“Doo doo de doo doo”

“De doo doo doo”

and one lone voice, echoing back…

“Mahna mahna”

I’m so proud of her.

 

MAN vs. HIS ENVIRONMENT

In 2006, Connor pulled off one of the greatest feats heretofore known to man.  Sometimes hours of research and logistical analysis can pay off – well, at least theoretically – around here, we usually just wing it.

“Okay – wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…”

“Now?”

“Wait…OK GO!”

And with that, he was off – feet pumping, face belying the effort and concentration necessary for such an attempt.   Up, up, up, past a rather bewildered couple who shouldn’t have been a factor if I had timed the attempt better…a few feet more, a few feet more…GREAT SUCCESS!!!

He made it up the down escalator at Barnes and Noble.  Needless to say, we go to Borders a bit more these days.

This year, he and a few compatriots made it up the Pipeline at a YMCA camp which will remain nameless.  I cannot comment further on the circumstances of this attempt, because, well, I like going there.

The women reading this will wonder why he did it.  I could probably launch into an extended justification involving biological drives, competitiveness, and the inherent struggle of man vs. his environment, but the truth is that boys are just weird.

I recommend that you keep your daughters away from them.

THREE POLICE CARS, A FIRE TRUCK, AND AN AMBULANCE

From time to time, I hear accounts of non-responsiveness of emergency services.  An earnest news anchor is interviewing someone who is angry that the police failed to respond quickly enough to his reports of alien abduction, or a Bigfoot sighting or something.  I used to listen with a sympathetic ear and shake my head at the dilatory habits of the responders.  No more though.  Why?  Because the list of emergency vehicles above is an exhaustive, wholly-inclusive list of the response to a Bobcat stuck in the ditch behind my house.

Picture it – the Bobcat heads back to the safety of its trailer for a well-deserved rest after digging a really, really big hole.  Going across the ditch, a tread parts company with the drive wheel.  For a Bobcat, this is basically the equivalent of catching your spike heel in a crack and breaking it clean off.

Soon traffic starts backing up.  Then the emergency vehicles start arriving.  All for a Bobcat with a slipped tread.

I’m starting to wonder what would happen if there was an actual emergency around here.

“Hello, 911? I heard a strange noise outside my house.”

“Sir, don’t worry about a thing – can you hold?”

“Uhh – I guess…” (da da da da da da da, da da da da DA da da da da da)

“Sir – thanks for holding – we’ve called in an airstrike.”

“WHAT?!”

APPARENTLY, I ROCK

And what did I do to deserve this distinction?  Did I nail a great riff?  Accomplish some great feat of athleticism? Get a verdict in my client’s favor?

Nope – I cut the head off a squirrel.

A family friend has a daughter in the 9^th grade.  Apparently a key part of the 9^th grade curriculum is to gather all manner of flora and fauna, get all Linnaeus on them, and turn it in.  Most people end up with a lot of different weeds and maybe a ladybug or something.  While the friend was over to pick up a nettle or thistle or something, Jan offered one of the cats’ recent trophies – an ex-mouse.  But wait – since the cats hunt competitively with each other, there was something even better on the back porch – an ex-squirrel!

I should point that that turning entire dead animals is frowned upon – but turning in just a skull is dandy.  When Jan and her friend next saw me in the garage, I was attempting to remove the head from a dead squirrel with a pair of hedge clippers.  Squirrel heads are surprising well-attached.  I supposed I shouldn’t have been quite as surprised as I was, seeing as I’ve never actually seen one detach by accident.  Anyway, I did finally succeed in removing the head, and wrapped it attractively in a flowered sock and sandwich baggie for transport.  The daughter later got a text message saying “Your Dad Rocks!”  My contribution to secondary education for the year, thank you.

Rock on,

Jerry 

The Not a Christmas Letters, Part 2

This was the second of the Not a Christmas Letters, published to family and friends.

THIS IS STILL NOT A CHRISTMAS LETTER

I am hurtling through the air upside down. I can see the finish line, but I know that I will never reach it. I’m not totally sure what happened – a moment ago I was leading, cruising to victory. Now I’m going to end up third – the daughter has blown me up. She actually hung back in second place so she could blow me up right before the finish line.  Mario Kart Double Dash is the crusher of dreams. There’s probably a metaphor in here somewhere. I expressed incredulousness at Rowan’s newfound cunning to Jan – she just looked at me, kind of rolled her eyes, and said “Dear, she’s been playing with boys”.

Crap.

A couple of snapshots from the year:

vacation

In October, in a shocking display of bad parenting, we took the children out of school to go on vacation to the Caribbean.

“Mr. Walrath, we noticed that Connor wasn’t in school last week – is something wrong?”

“Ummm – he wasn’t feeling well?

“He seems fine. He also seems to be sporting a tan and a puka shell necklace.”

”Ummm…hey, that reminds me – we got you a carved stone stingray and a coconut bead necklace and bracelet set. I really have to run, but we’ll see you at the next conference!”

the difference between girls and boys

On cruises, they make you towel animals at turndown service. It’s one of those weird cruise things, like the over-the-top elaborate Gala buffet, which seem neat in context but which would be incredibly weird in real life.

“Look honey, it’s a scale representation of the Temple of Syrinx carved entirely from radishes!”

“Look dear, they make us a, ummmmm, I think it’s an anteater out of towels!”

Anyway, we finish up with dinner and head back to the cabins. The daughter and the boy run ahead to see what towel animal they got today. They open the door, and….

Daughter: “Ooooh, it’s a bunny!

The Boy: “Soon to be a mutant bunny!”

And then he put nine more eyes on it.

pursuits of leisure

The boy will not ride the bicycle without training wheels. Actually, he’s not so thrilled about riding it with training wheels either. It’s kind of like those Calvin and Hobbes cartoons where Calvin would try to sneak up on the bicycle and it would tackle him – kind of like Snoopy and the lawn chair in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

There has been a lot of dancing this year. The daughter is dancing. The boy is dancing. Twice, I swear I saw two of the cats start to break into a choreographed routine. Up to six days a week are spent at Boni’s Dance Studio and Black Hole of Performing Arts. There are Nutcracker rehearsals and competition dance thingies and lots and lots of emails about the best place to buy purple Lycra bellbottoms and things like that. I now know what a snood is.

I think I have a hotel room booked at the Galleria sometime in January for an assorted dance function. I work down the street from the Galleria – I don’t think I should have to stay in hotels there on weekends too. I’m going to go to the hotel bar while I’m there – I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a bunch of middle-aged guys hunched over their beers, looking slightly downcast, nostalgic for the days when they could just mow the lawn or work on the car on a Saturday or something.

Jan managed to work her way into Mitchell this year by designing and leading a team to do a full-on pirate-decorating theme across five walls at LC5. I think that the hardest part was probably keeping the wretches chained to the wall –apparently there’s a whole bunch of labor standards which apply to wretches. The hermit Kraken was a hit, though.

On the Powell front, she did co-design and set up the stage design in the spring and again in the fall. The tradeoff was as follows – in exchange for countless hours spent on the stages, we got to jettison a whole host of fabric and related materials we had accumulated.

“Dear, where’s the Prince Greatest Hits CD?”

“I think it’s under a pile of fabric.”
”And the cat?”
”Try under the pile on the right. And why do you need the Prince Greatest Hits CD?”

“Ummm…I want to party like it’s 1999?”

Probably one of the stranger moments of the Year in YMCA came at Camp Cullen. The Makah tribe was at dinner, thinking as a group how we could maybe get out of doing a skit at the campfire.

“Maybe would could fake a stomach virus!”

“No, we did that last year”
”Darn.”

Suddenly, a boyish voice – then another, then another. Out of nowhere, they’re singing:

Who woulda thought that a girl like me
Would double as a superstar
You get the best of both worlds
Chill it out, take it slow
Then you rock out the show
You get the best of both worlds
Mix it all together
And you know that it's the best

You get the best of both worlds
Without the shades and the hair
You can go anywhere
You get the best of both girls
Mix it all together...oh yeah
It's so much better
'Cause you know you've got
The best of both worlds

Yes, all of the boys are singing the Hannah Montana theme. I look around and raise my eyebrows. Carey volunteers, “Zachary watches a lot of Disney Channel!” Go figure. They then decide to do, as their skit, as much of a Jesse McCartney song as anyone can remember. They go outside to practice. They’re figuring out their look, their moves - they’re a boy band. They perform the song as their skit at the campfire to applause (everybody) and puzzled looks (me). The following Monday, a girl at Connor’s school asks him if they were really singing that. Sometimes I’m just waiting for the hidden camera to pop out.

Intellectual pursuits

Early this summer I became the proud recipient of the “Why I should get a pet hermit crab for my birthday” essay, authored by the Daughter.  This was followed by the acquisition of a big tank-thing, a lid for said tank-thing, and various bags of loam, pieces of wood, shells, and one potential occupant of said shells. Things don’t always go quite as planned – about a month later, I received the “Dwarf Hamsters” Powerpoint presentation. At least it’s good for her marketing skills. I promised her I wouldn’t tell the vet school admissions people about the hermit crab. Or the frog. Or the fish. It’ll just be our secret – shhhhhh. I know that every 11 year old girl wants to be a vet, but if by some miracle she doesn’t shake the idea, I think she should do large-animal stuff – it seems like they’d be way harder to kill.

Last night was “Read books about dragons stealthily by a concealed light source until 12:30 a.m. and be rather cranky the following day” night for the Daughter. She has been sporadically working on her own literary opus, also about dragons.  She takes this seriously, even doing background research. A couple of months ago I came upon her in the study, clicking through websites and making notes.

“Honey, what are you doing”
”I’m researching dragon facts”

“Ummm…. Okay honey, have fun”

Dragons – so hot right now. They’re like pirates for 2007.

I think that children today are probably two years ahead of where I was in school growing up. I have to constantly think of the Daughter’s stuff as being more like eighth grade than sixth grade work.  Soon, we will come to the point where she asks for help on her work, and when she describes the problem, only wah-wah wah-wah noises will come out, like the adults in a Charlie Brown holiday special. I will then exit the room, clutching my head and mumbling, “I was told there would be no math”. I’m pretty sure she’s already started to make up questions just to mess with me

“Dad, if two trains leave the station at the same time, and one’s in Philadelphia, and one’s in Tucson, and they’re each traveling at the speed of light, what color will they refract?”
”Ummm – turquoise?  Is there an example?”

Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle at all times,

j.

The Not a Christmas Letters, Part 1

This is the first widely distributed "Not a Christmas Letter"- it was originally sent out to a collection of friends in early 2006 by email. There was a predecessor, but it had an audience of one. I probably like this one least of the four in the series - portions of it seem a little forced. Nevertheless, it's probably worth putting out there.

This is not a Christmas letter, either. 

For one thing, we didn’t send out a Christmas card this year. We have not lost the holiday spirit, we simply looked around and said “What the $%^*! How’d it get to be December 20^th?

I have no clue.

I’ll try to spend a couple of minutes hitting some highlights of the year as I see them, as well as a brief description of some of the characters involved. Some of the names have been changed to protect the allegedly innocent.

In November, everything we owned blew up.

Jan ordered the semiannual HVAC evaluation from Rick, our trusty HVAC guy. He dutifully came out, looked in the crawlspace, and said “Umm, there’s a problem with your heater boxes.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind of problem where the insulation starts coming off and it burns your house down.”

“Oh. Rick, is there any kind of really, really expensive pimp heater boxes you could get to match the really, really pimp a/c units you installed which are roughly the size of a Fiat?”

“No problem – we’ll get on that right away”

Actually, it helps to have a seriously pimp HVAC system when you run the heat and a/c on consecutive days. Such is the lot when you live in Houston.

“There’s a cold front coming! No, wait, it’s a warm front! No, wait, it’s not a front at all? Did I hear tornado warning? There’s a risk of Oldsmobiles flying around? Oh wait, that would be Toronados. Darn.”

Anyway, if you ever see a headline that says something like “Woodlands man assaults Weather Channel anchor”, that’s probably me. Just the bald guy, though – not any of the pregnant blonde chicks.

Anyway, after that, I was sitting peacefully in the driveway, replacing non-functioning BMW parts, when Jan walks up. “What are you doing?”

Jan sits down on the tire. I’m done explaining, yet she’s not leaving.

“What?”

“Sparks just shot out of the stereo receiver and it’s not making any sound now – is that bad?”

Did I mention I’m really not a huge fan of November?

Actually, that was balanced out somewhat by Camp Cullen – Connor and Rowan both attended this year again. This was not the plan – I was only going to take Connor, but Rowan was so excited about Cullen I couldn’t say no. Classic Y camp stuff – archery, riflery, crafts, poker after the kids go to sleep… This was definitely the last shot for her for Cullen, though – the older girls have some more opportunities planned – stay tuned. As Rowan gets older, I am shifting more of my focus to Connor’s group with the YMCA Parent-Child program – Rowan’s had her shot, right?  I’m kind of kidding but it is difficult balancing the demands of two groups – fortunately, I couldn’t as for a better bunch of guys – the campouts have become like mini-vacations to me.

Rita

We stayed in town for Rita – after much agonizing, and watching the storm to see if it would turn North, it did. It was amazing to see the number of people who were leaving the city – I drove out to the freeway and looked South on that Thursday – it was stopped cars as far as you could see. Everything was shut down – no food, no gas, no water – we had a good deal of stuff on hand so we would have been okay either way. Probably half of the neighborhood evacuated, and maybe two or three houses put boards up. For the rest of us, the preparation consisted of pacing nervously and wondering whether we should cut out. Fortunately, my mother and brother were in San Angelo, so they just stayed there. We never lost power during the storm but were subject to rolling blackouts afterward.

Vacation

This year we went to Disneyland for the 50^th anniversary. I went to Disneyland every year from about 1967 to 1990, and it was always a high point for me. The trip was always ostensibly for my father’s birthday – it never clicked until I was much older that it was something he did for us, rather than the other way around – and even in the 70’s when no one had any money, we always went, we never had any restrictions on what we could eat, and we always got a souvenir.

This time around we stayed on the property, at the Disneyland Hotel – the whole crew went, including my mother and brother. I would recommend staying there if you go – having everything in the room, even down to the wallpaper, be Disney-themed really adds something. Everyone had a good time, even if we were somewhat sleep-deprived at the end of the stay.

Vacation 2

Jan turned forty (40) years old in October. She started groaning about it about a year ago. I’ve tried to be sympathetic but I genuinely not understand the fascination with age and numbers. It’s not like something magical happens on your birthday, you go from being a nubile young maiden to an old crone in an instant.

“Dude, what happened to her – I saw her last week and she was hot, like smokin’ hot.”

“Yeah man, she turned 40 last Friday”.

“Bummer.”

Anyway, to ease her pain, I took her on a 4-day cruise to Cozumel. We slid between the storms and were probably some of the last people to see Cozumel in a somewhat intact configuration. On our out trip, we rented a Jeep, drove to San Gervasio, and hung out for the rest of the time at a beach club and ate ceviche. Driving in Mexico is always an experience. On the way through San Miguel there were families of nine on a single moped dragracing us at stoplights, and on the way back we followed what I can best describe as the only trash truck driven by a WRC driver. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve seen a trash truck in a 4 wheel drift at 65 kph. Oh, and if you ask a Mexican policeman for directions in Spanish, he will courteously give you a detailed answer – also in Spanish. You will not understand them.

Random Connor

This summer, Connor caught a bass in the pond in the adjacent neighborhood – it was pretty good sized. Connor always pretty much acts like the world should come to him, and it pretty much does. It’s never a surprise when he catches a bass on the first cast or wins the free Coke by looking under the cap 4 times out of 8 purchases. He is in Kindergarten this year – his good nature and imagination make him kind of a favorite. He’s been hanging around Powell since he was 2, so this year he pretty much walked in like he owned the place. He seems adept at mathematics but has resisted reading with any degree of facility – I fear he will eventually become an engineer. He’s kind of a big kid, but not really chunky or lanky – he basically looks like a scaled-down 15 year old.  He also possesses a rather quirky sense of humor. On an unrelated note, Connor’s birthday party was delayed this year because of Rita, and he would not admit to being 6 until he had his “friend” birthday in October – “okay, who’s six here?”

-Connor, not raising his hand

“Connor, come on, put your hand up”

“Mom, I’m not 6 until I have my friend birthday party”

In honor of his 6-ness he has adopted the appellation Con6nor.

Random Rowan

Rowan started middle school this year. When I was growing up, there was no such thing as middle school – 5^th and 6^th were just the highest elementary school grades. Best I can figure, it’s kind of a junior version of junior high school – you have a locker, and rotate between different classrooms, but it’s all on the same hallway. I guess you have to train for two years to go to junior high school for two years. So far, the largest single benefit of middle school is that Rowan got to take the class guinea pig – “Senor Pablo” – home with her. We celebrated by buying $50 worth of accessories for its 2 ½ week stay. It turns out that guinea pigs love cilantro – he just hoovers it up by the bunch. Other than that, his main tricks seem to be

a)    walking through a length of pipe, and

b)   looking kind of furry

This seems to be enough for Rowan, though, so I guess it’s good enough for me. We do have a new Y camp coming up in late January – Camp Hamann Ranch – and a few other things to do together. Oh – she was outed this year as a dancer since this was a show year and she did the Nutcracker -  she can no longer keep the fact that she’s been dancing since she was 3 a secret. She always looked kind of dancy just standing there; now she’s actually trying – her instructors seem pleased. Since she is a 10 year-old girl, everything is cuuuuuuute! The first time I heard the high-pitched squeal, I thought that perhaps something heavy had fallen on her. Nope – turns out they all talk that way. Go figure.

The PTO Mafia

Jan would tell you about this herself, but the first rule of the PTO Mafia is that you don’t talk about the PTO Mafia.

Let me put it to you this way – last spring, they sold me six seats and a parking space at a free school event – the fourth grade graduation – for nearly two hundred dollars. I’ve probably said too much already.

From my totally disinterested and detached observations, I can say the following:

a)    It takes a lot of time

b)   They do a lot of stuff  - including, this year for the first time, mentoring another PTO in CISD

c)    Starbucks would go out of business without their continued patronage

She also serves as an academic room mom for Connor’s class.

In short, she spends enough time at Powell that she has her own access badge, and there are a lot of people who would be surprised to find out that she does not work there.

The rest of her time is spent trying to prevent me from buying more cars, or at least from modifying the ones we have.

“You know, I think the BMW would look good slammed on bags”

“No, it wouldn’t”

“Okay……..how ‘bout just a really big stereo, then?”

 

Interlude

Rowan and Connor are currently eating lunch and arguing about who has a better memory. If I remind them of this conversation tomorrow, they will have no recollection of it.

More random stuff

Jan volunteered me for a band this year. Keep in mind I had essentially not played for 15 years. I have asked her to refrain from volunteering me for anything else I used to do. “Oh, you need someone to climb an 800 ft, 5 pitch vertical wall with you? I’m pretty sure Jer’s free this Saturday!”

Anyway, we played a pretty successful neighborhood party, then they played a pizza place without me when I was at Cullen with Rowan and Connor. I spend a lot of time during practice saying things like “you know, if I threw in an excerpt from the Peanuts theme instead of the guitar break, I think that’d sound really cool”. They spend a lot of time looking at me funny. Art is representational by its nature anyway.

I also mostly shuttered my practice to go in-house with a client in the fall in a Business Development position. Some of you may be saying “What would he do in a business development position? He was a psychologist before he was an attorney.”

To you I say “Shhhhhhhh!”.

Move along, nothing to see here

I hope that your 2006 is at least not boring. Sometimes, that’s the best we can hope for.

j

A Sort of Homecoming

I wrote this almost a year ago. It seems disingenuous to say I don't know why I didn't post it, because I know exactly why  - I am a shark in the water, and I must keep moving forward or die.

A Sort of Homecoming

"Miles Davis and the Cool’ was playing when I got to the airport," she says. "I think it was kind of appropriate." It was. It also seemed like an incredible coincidence that it should be on the airport PA - mostly it's just announcements about things that were misplaced - relatives or luggage or dignity.  It turned out that the song was just on her iPod.

The song says "Don't wait too long to come home, my how the years and our youth pass on." Very true, of course.  I have been thinking lately how few homecomings lie ahead.  It sounds downcast, but that's just the way of it.  I'm just glad she recognizes it too.

A Sort of Homecoming Pt. 2

36 hours. One viewing of The Lego Movie. One attendance at the Nutcracker Tea to see the boy perform. One birthday party. One very sleepy ride back to the airport on Sunday morning.  

I spent the rest of the day trying to stave off the thought that at least we had 36 hours of being complete again.

Me and the ACA down by the schoolyard

The following is not an endorsement or condemnation of any particular policy - this is simply my experience.  

As my firm provides health insurance to full-time employees, we met with our insurance adviser  to discuss our annual renewal . The result - a 32% increase in the bill.  I've been both anticipating and dreading this meeting, but I have been primarily interested in what would happen to our premiums due to the insurer's response to the Affordable Care Act.

This is where it gets interesting - our insurer, a major carrier, uses individual rates for all enrollees rather than leveling the premiums after a certain number of enrollees. So, I can see how it breaks down.  Here's what happened:  

The rate for our youngest male enrolled employee more than doubled.  The rates for the rest of our male enrolled employees under 40 increased markedly, although not quite doubling.  In contrast, the rates for our oldest enrolled male employees stayed pretty flat.  The rates for the female enrolled employees stayed pretty flat too. 

So what happened? Did some of our staff members suddenly get way more likely to get sick? No,  it would seem that the culprit is the ACA mandate that gender can't be considered.  And, it's pretty well-settled that females use more healthcare dollars than males. So, rates for the younger males go up, but the rates for the females do not come down by a corresponding amount - they stay flat.  This means that the present state of the world is as follows -  the rates are individual in the sense that we get a different one for each of our staff members, but they are no longer individual in the sense that each rate reflects the person's likelihood to avail themselves of medical care.  The actuarial tables are out the window.

Ultimately, as the (co-)employer, I only care about the fact that the check we have to write is 32% larger.  And, because we foot the entire bill for the premium for full-time employees, they don't really have to care either.  If, however, I was a 30 year old male who had to pay some portion of the premium under an employer-sponsored plan, and my share suddenly doubled, I'd be more than a little cranky, and maybe not really be so enamored of the brave new world where political mandates override statistical realities.

Preview of the senior ad for the recital program.