Do you know what separates us from the animals? Our ability to solve problems.
For instance, let's say that you like to eat peanut butter on your celery. After you cut the celery in half, and then smear peanut butter on it, you can have up to two dirty knives (one sharp one to cut the celery, and a butter knife for the peanut butter).
So I solved that problem using a typical human ingenuity: I just tear the celery apart and then dip it right into the peanut butter jar. See, this is why animals are in zoos instead of people.
Now now, before you judge me, let's just realize a few things about celery: it has no taste at all, it's mostly water, and it's already straight, like a vegetable knife (the cords in it are also just like floss).
Of course, there are some people (ahem: ANGELA) who think this is wrong. I don't really know why; I think maybe it has something to do with her general apathy towards progress. But at any rate, this is how she chose to express her displeasure with me at dinner tonight:
"Have you been sticking the celery directly in the peanut butter?"
I mean, how do you respond to this? So here's what I said: "No, why do you ask?"
"Because I almost threw away the jar today because I thought it was moldy," she said. "But then I saw it was hard, and not soft."
"Some mold is hard," I said. "Like cheese."
"Wrong road, dad," said William.
"This wasn't mold, it was celery," she said.
"Did you notice how nice the swirl design was in the peanut butter?" I said "You can't get designs like that with a knife. Wasn't it nice?"
"Wrong road, dad," said William.
"If you're going to do that, could you please make sure you don't leave any celery behind?"
"I don't think I did it," I said. "It was probably the children."
"Don't drag us into this," Victoria said. "You're on your own."
"I promise to be more careful in the future," I said. "Do you know where the celery is?"
But the joke's on her. I never did admit to biting the celery off of the stalk before I dipped it into the peanut butter, which really is gross. Not that I did that.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Revenge of Lucas
Although our grandchild might have gone, he left behind a powerful legacy, and not just the 94% that Victoria earned taking care of him. He also left behind a powerful urge to earn extra credit in some fashion that did not involve handling a howling electronic tether.
It involved the dreaded Empathy Belly.
If you've never seen one of these things, what they do is they take fat suit, fill it up six barbells, then they punch you in solar plexus and put it on you. Then they tell you that's what pregnancy feels like.
Back in my day, when Angela was pregnant and I said "so what does it feel like?" she just kicked me in groin. Repeatedly. With boots on. Angrily.
But I got the last laugh: I told the doctors she didn't want any painkillers when our children were born. Who's laughing now?????
So anyways, they put about sixty five pounds on Victoria, and she of course folds up like an accordian at the laundromat. So they took out some weight (about 60 pounds), and strapped her up, and away she went. All day the poor girl was waddling around school, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf at a Piggy Convention, only she had to go to the bathroom a lot, so it was more like Big Bad Wolf with Bladder Problems at a Piggy Convention with Inconvenient Toilets.
On the upside, it got her out of a day of flag football, so the Empathy Belly wasn't all that bad.
She has reiterated her desire not to have children any time soon, but I told her the big payoff was that when you're really pregnant you get to feel the baby kick and move around, like when I used to feel her kick me through Angela's stomach, and then Angela would be all "that hurt!" and I'd be all "but the baby kicked my head so you have to feel sorry for me!" and then the kicking would start again, only this time Angela would join in, and I would wake up about an hour later and the house would be all dark and stuff.
It involved the dreaded Empathy Belly.
If you've never seen one of these things, what they do is they take fat suit, fill it up six barbells, then they punch you in solar plexus and put it on you. Then they tell you that's what pregnancy feels like.
Back in my day, when Angela was pregnant and I said "so what does it feel like?" she just kicked me in groin. Repeatedly. With boots on. Angrily.
But I got the last laugh: I told the doctors she didn't want any painkillers when our children were born. Who's laughing now?????
So anyways, they put about sixty five pounds on Victoria, and she of course folds up like an accordian at the laundromat. So they took out some weight (about 60 pounds), and strapped her up, and away she went. All day the poor girl was waddling around school, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf at a Piggy Convention, only she had to go to the bathroom a lot, so it was more like Big Bad Wolf with Bladder Problems at a Piggy Convention with Inconvenient Toilets.
On the upside, it got her out of a day of flag football, so the Empathy Belly wasn't all that bad.
She has reiterated her desire not to have children any time soon, but I told her the big payoff was that when you're really pregnant you get to feel the baby kick and move around, like when I used to feel her kick me through Angela's stomach, and then Angela would be all "that hurt!" and I'd be all "but the baby kicked my head so you have to feel sorry for me!" and then the kicking would start again, only this time Angela would join in, and I would wake up about an hour later and the house would be all dark and stuff.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
More Vegetables I Don't Understand
I don't know why there are so many different kinds of edible plants. You really only need three kinds of edible plants:
1) Poisonous ones to feed your enemies
2) Ones you can put peanut butter in (like celery)
3) Bananas
But for some reason, there are like sixty gazillion kinds of edibile plants. And I don't know how to eat but about four of them.
Into this confusion steps Angela, who has joined this "Fruit and Vegetable Basket of the Month" club, which means that every other week she orders a big basket of edibile plants. Only, she doesn't get to pick the plants, it's completely random. And by random, I mean "there's one thing you recognize and bunch of other stuff that only vaguely looks edible."
Even worse, she orders 3 baskets, and gives two away. What kind of person gives stuff away that they don't even know what it is? It sounds communist, if you ask me.
(addendum: Angela would like it stated for the record that she sells them. Probably at a loss, like all good commies.)
This weekend is a good example. Here's what I thought we got in our basket:
1 Bananas (which is good)
2 Tomatoes (which I will suffer)
3 Celery (which goes great with peanut butter)
4 Avocado (which is poisonous, I think)
5 Apples (funny story: I used to be able to eat apples with no problem, but now when I eat them my eyes swell up and itch and I don't feel quite right, which I think means I'm allergic to them, and one day when I went all Quasimodo my boss told me he would fire me if I ate another apple at work, and I'm kind of always at work, so I stopped eating them)
6 Lettuce
7 Pears
8 Sweet Potatoes
9 Melons
10 Strawberries (which she got 83 pounds of, but that's okay because we love strawberries)
11: Fifteen limes (which you have to drink a lot of Cerveza to go through)
12: Carrots
I actually felt pretty good about this basket: unlike some weeks, I at least recognized all the edible plants in it. I could eat most of them, too.
In order to be supremely efficient, I gave away the avocado right off the bat. Then, I swapped all the apples for a melon with another person. I was so proud of myself, that when Angela came out, I bragged "I got rid of all those apples in exchange for a melon! See, now allergic reaction for me!"
She looks at me and goes "I'm not allergic to apples, and I like them."
D'OH!
Then she says "The children aren't allergic to apples, either."
DOUBLE D'OH!
Everything's good after that: we get home, I make a salad, it's tasty, I eat a lot of peanut butter and celery (which I think is why God created peanut butter: to go inside celery), and we have plenty of delicious strawberries.
Then tonight, she pulls open the fridge and she goes "hey, look, this is Collard Greens."
"You need a Chlorox Wipe?" I ask. "You know, to clean it up?"
"No, these," she says, holding up the lettuce. "They're Collard Greens."
"That's lettuce," I say. "I ate some yesterday. I ate some today. It's lettuce."
"Look at the label," she tells me. "It says Collard Greens."
Is that a kind of lettuce? Is it poisonous? Does that explain why it tasted weird? What the heck?
I reiterate: there are too many kinds of fruits and vegetables. There should be less. I shouldn't have to read to know what I'm eating!
1) Poisonous ones to feed your enemies
2) Ones you can put peanut butter in (like celery)
3) Bananas
But for some reason, there are like sixty gazillion kinds of edibile plants. And I don't know how to eat but about four of them.
Into this confusion steps Angela, who has joined this "Fruit and Vegetable Basket of the Month" club, which means that every other week she orders a big basket of edibile plants. Only, she doesn't get to pick the plants, it's completely random. And by random, I mean "there's one thing you recognize and bunch of other stuff that only vaguely looks edible."
Even worse, she orders 3 baskets, and gives two away. What kind of person gives stuff away that they don't even know what it is? It sounds communist, if you ask me.
(addendum: Angela would like it stated for the record that she sells them. Probably at a loss, like all good commies.)
This weekend is a good example. Here's what I thought we got in our basket:
1 Bananas (which is good)
2 Tomatoes (which I will suffer)
3 Celery (which goes great with peanut butter)
4 Avocado (which is poisonous, I think)
5 Apples (funny story: I used to be able to eat apples with no problem, but now when I eat them my eyes swell up and itch and I don't feel quite right, which I think means I'm allergic to them, and one day when I went all Quasimodo my boss told me he would fire me if I ate another apple at work, and I'm kind of always at work, so I stopped eating them)
6 Lettuce
7 Pears
8 Sweet Potatoes
9 Melons
10 Strawberries (which she got 83 pounds of, but that's okay because we love strawberries)
11: Fifteen limes (which you have to drink a lot of Cerveza to go through)
12: Carrots
I actually felt pretty good about this basket: unlike some weeks, I at least recognized all the edible plants in it. I could eat most of them, too.
In order to be supremely efficient, I gave away the avocado right off the bat. Then, I swapped all the apples for a melon with another person. I was so proud of myself, that when Angela came out, I bragged "I got rid of all those apples in exchange for a melon! See, now allergic reaction for me!"
She looks at me and goes "I'm not allergic to apples, and I like them."
D'OH!
Then she says "The children aren't allergic to apples, either."
DOUBLE D'OH!
Everything's good after that: we get home, I make a salad, it's tasty, I eat a lot of peanut butter and celery (which I think is why God created peanut butter: to go inside celery), and we have plenty of delicious strawberries.
Then tonight, she pulls open the fridge and she goes "hey, look, this is Collard Greens."
"You need a Chlorox Wipe?" I ask. "You know, to clean it up?"
"No, these," she says, holding up the lettuce. "They're Collard Greens."
"That's lettuce," I say. "I ate some yesterday. I ate some today. It's lettuce."
"Look at the label," she tells me. "It says Collard Greens."
Is that a kind of lettuce? Is it poisonous? Does that explain why it tasted weird? What the heck?
I reiterate: there are too many kinds of fruits and vegetables. There should be less. I shouldn't have to read to know what I'm eating!
Lion Illustrated - Catch It!
Did you know that William is a publisher?
No, don't worry, readers, he's not publishing some sort of horrible "Grade School Confidential" newsletter. And he's certainly not publishing some kind of inappropriate material. And so far as I know, he hasn't written any fart jokes on the wall of school restrooms.
But he did once draw a nasty charicature of Victoria, which he titled "Butt Hed." To this day, we still call her "Butt Hed." In fact, we don't even remember why he thought she was a butt hed, but it seemed so correct we've kept it as part of our family. It's like the Waltons, only with more potty humor.
So anyways, William is a publisher. His magazine is called "Lion Illustrated." He has published five so far, four regular issues and one "Special Issue" with a guest star. I would tell you who the guest star was, but occasionally this character appears on a channel which is well known for it's litigiousness and I don't want William to get sued and end up having to work in the bowels of Disneyland cleaning up vomit from Space Mountain.
Wait, was that too specific?
Anyways, there are two things about Lion Illustrated that make it really special.
#1 - It is full of corny jokes. For example, what do you call a Lion with a copy machine? A copy cat!
#2 - At the end of each issue, it says "Watch for more Lion Illustrateds and they'll come!" Which I think is great. I mean, unless you sit there and stare into empty space waiting for more to come, technically if no more come, then he can say "you just weren't looking for them." Which is beautiful. I figure he's got a great future in advertising ahead of him.
So if you want to see any of his work, just let me know and we'll send a copy. He's distributed them before and had good reviews on them.
He tells me that the price is 3 acorns, plus a $62 shipping fee. A subscription is 30 acorns (that's two issues free!).
No, don't worry, readers, he's not publishing some sort of horrible "Grade School Confidential" newsletter. And he's certainly not publishing some kind of inappropriate material. And so far as I know, he hasn't written any fart jokes on the wall of school restrooms.
But he did once draw a nasty charicature of Victoria, which he titled "Butt Hed." To this day, we still call her "Butt Hed." In fact, we don't even remember why he thought she was a butt hed, but it seemed so correct we've kept it as part of our family. It's like the Waltons, only with more potty humor.
So anyways, William is a publisher. His magazine is called "Lion Illustrated." He has published five so far, four regular issues and one "Special Issue" with a guest star. I would tell you who the guest star was, but occasionally this character appears on a channel which is well known for it's litigiousness and I don't want William to get sued and end up having to work in the bowels of Disneyland cleaning up vomit from Space Mountain.
Wait, was that too specific?
Anyways, there are two things about Lion Illustrated that make it really special.
#1 - It is full of corny jokes. For example, what do you call a Lion with a copy machine? A copy cat!
#2 - At the end of each issue, it says "Watch for more Lion Illustrateds and they'll come!" Which I think is great. I mean, unless you sit there and stare into empty space waiting for more to come, technically if no more come, then he can say "you just weren't looking for them." Which is beautiful. I figure he's got a great future in advertising ahead of him.
So if you want to see any of his work, just let me know and we'll send a copy. He's distributed them before and had good reviews on them.
He tells me that the price is 3 acorns, plus a $62 shipping fee. A subscription is 30 acorns (that's two issues free!).
Monday, September 17, 2012
Grandparents!
We are pleased to announce that we are now Grandparents! Our grandson, Lucas Roland Terrence Allauze, was born on Friday, September 14, 2012. He weighed 7 pounds, 4 ounces, and had shiny, glossy plastic skin and a synthesized voice box. His proud mothers were Victoria and her friend, J.
Here's the deal: for some reason our daughter, who had never until this point in her life shown even the slightest inclination to have anything to do with any babies at any time, decided that she wanted to take Infant Care. She was really excited about the whole "we get to bring home a robot baby and keep it!" thing.
You know those things: they're the ones that they give troubled teenagers to convince them that they don't want to have children too early. You see them on top-flight shows like Oprah or Maury Povich, and occasionally they're used as weapons on Jerry Springer (God rest his smutty soul).
It occurs to me that we had a live infant in our house once, one that she was even related to, and she did exactly two things during his infancy to help: diddly and squat. So where this feeling came from, I have no idea.
So on Friday the girls stayed over at J's house, and then on Saturday they came over to spend the day with us. I immediately noticed two things:
1 - Lucas was a handful, much as I remember our infants being (when I wake up in a cold sweat from one of my many nightmares that we've had a third). He cried for no reason, and was difficult to comfort. Except for the stink, and the fluid discharge, they pretty much nailed what it was like to have a baby.
2 - Victoria is a father, because she spent a lot of time watching J work, or saying "you do this because you do it better" or saying "you take care of it because I have to go to the bathroom." So apparently she was paying attention when her brother was a child, which makes me proud to have passed on some of the knowledge I picked up from my old man.
The best part of Lucas was that we weren't allowed to help - they had these ID bracelets that they had to scan him with before they helped him, which meant that as much as we might like to step in, we just had to watch dotingly as they struggled to succeed, like any good grandparent. Or at least, that's what I remember my children's grandparents doing (kidding!)
Want to see two pre-teens freak out? Have their electronic baby suddenly stop while they're fiddling with it, and when they wonder what's wrong, suggest "maybe you just killed it." Man, that was hiliarous. They spent about thirty minutes hovering over it, wringing their hands, until finally it cooed and they were so happy it was alive they forgot all about their desserts, which means I got three helpings.
On Sunday, William and I escaped to church, leaving a very exhausted group behind at the house (Lucas needs to be fed at 5 AM). I have never seen him more spiritually engaged - he asked if he could be baptized and then ordained and then if we could "shop around" to see if any other churches met during Sunday afternoon. But alas, eventually we had to go home, and then J had to go home, leaving us...
ALONE!
On the up side, after a day alone with Lucas, Victoria is not in any hurry to have children. I caught her looking up "sterilization" on Google, actually, and I had to intervene in hopes that I might be able to have grandchildren again someday. I think I've back-filled the damage, but I probably won't know for certain for another 2 years or so.
On the down side, man can that kid cry. I think he's got plastic colic or something.
This morning, after Angela finally dynamited Victoria out of bed, she laid back down fully dressed "just to rest for a second." Thirty minutes later Angela had to drag her out of bed again by the hair, and the only reason that Vic ever actually got up was that William threatened to flush Lucas down the toilet, and if he went down the tubes Vic would get a bad grade, and taht's a fate worse than death for her. So up she got.
That, and once she got to school she could put him in "day care" which meant that he wouldn't be with her any more. I'm pretty sure all my grandchildren will be latch-key kids, or at least raised in my attic.
So now he's over at his other mother's house, and our house is empty, and he's not coming back. I think we're all glad. But at least we got a picture:
ps: Victoria wants to know if, having had the first great-grandchild, she's now in line for a larger portion of the will. How about it, great-grandpa?
Here's the deal: for some reason our daughter, who had never until this point in her life shown even the slightest inclination to have anything to do with any babies at any time, decided that she wanted to take Infant Care. She was really excited about the whole "we get to bring home a robot baby and keep it!" thing.
You know those things: they're the ones that they give troubled teenagers to convince them that they don't want to have children too early. You see them on top-flight shows like Oprah or Maury Povich, and occasionally they're used as weapons on Jerry Springer (God rest his smutty soul).
It occurs to me that we had a live infant in our house once, one that she was even related to, and she did exactly two things during his infancy to help: diddly and squat. So where this feeling came from, I have no idea.
So on Friday the girls stayed over at J's house, and then on Saturday they came over to spend the day with us. I immediately noticed two things:
1 - Lucas was a handful, much as I remember our infants being (when I wake up in a cold sweat from one of my many nightmares that we've had a third). He cried for no reason, and was difficult to comfort. Except for the stink, and the fluid discharge, they pretty much nailed what it was like to have a baby.
2 - Victoria is a father, because she spent a lot of time watching J work, or saying "you do this because you do it better" or saying "you take care of it because I have to go to the bathroom." So apparently she was paying attention when her brother was a child, which makes me proud to have passed on some of the knowledge I picked up from my old man.
The best part of Lucas was that we weren't allowed to help - they had these ID bracelets that they had to scan him with before they helped him, which meant that as much as we might like to step in, we just had to watch dotingly as they struggled to succeed, like any good grandparent. Or at least, that's what I remember my children's grandparents doing (kidding!)
Want to see two pre-teens freak out? Have their electronic baby suddenly stop while they're fiddling with it, and when they wonder what's wrong, suggest "maybe you just killed it." Man, that was hiliarous. They spent about thirty minutes hovering over it, wringing their hands, until finally it cooed and they were so happy it was alive they forgot all about their desserts, which means I got three helpings.
On Sunday, William and I escaped to church, leaving a very exhausted group behind at the house (Lucas needs to be fed at 5 AM). I have never seen him more spiritually engaged - he asked if he could be baptized and then ordained and then if we could "shop around" to see if any other churches met during Sunday afternoon. But alas, eventually we had to go home, and then J had to go home, leaving us...
ALONE!
On the up side, after a day alone with Lucas, Victoria is not in any hurry to have children. I caught her looking up "sterilization" on Google, actually, and I had to intervene in hopes that I might be able to have grandchildren again someday. I think I've back-filled the damage, but I probably won't know for certain for another 2 years or so.
On the down side, man can that kid cry. I think he's got plastic colic or something.
This morning, after Angela finally dynamited Victoria out of bed, she laid back down fully dressed "just to rest for a second." Thirty minutes later Angela had to drag her out of bed again by the hair, and the only reason that Vic ever actually got up was that William threatened to flush Lucas down the toilet, and if he went down the tubes Vic would get a bad grade, and taht's a fate worse than death for her. So up she got.
That, and once she got to school she could put him in "day care" which meant that he wouldn't be with her any more. I'm pretty sure all my grandchildren will be latch-key kids, or at least raised in my attic.
So now he's over at his other mother's house, and our house is empty, and he's not coming back. I think we're all glad. But at least we got a picture:
ps: Victoria wants to know if, having had the first great-grandchild, she's now in line for a larger portion of the will. How about it, great-grandpa?
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Attack of the 50 ft Seagull
When we recently visited San Francisco, we did the usual itinerary: go to the Golden Gate Bridge, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz, Union Square, etcetera. It was all fun and we had a great time. As the only member of the family who had ever visited, I was the "expert." I am also committed to scheduling our vacation to the minute. No, to the second. Because everybody knows that to maximize family fun, you need to rigorously follow a schedule.
The plan for our last day was pretty clear: Catch boat to Alcatraz at 4:30, be back at the city at 6:00, drive out by 6:30, catch dinner on the way, grocery shop from 8:00 to 8:15, and arrive in Yosemite at 9:30. Easy peasy, right!
After we visited Alcatraz (which was awesome), we were strolling down the street when the children decided to totally jettison my schedule. It didn't help that everybody was all "our feet hurt" and "we're hungry" and "why haven't you let us pee for three days" and whatnot.
So they start with the "we want to eat" bit. Sigh. So we stopped at one of the many roadside carts that sells food, because nothing says "quality food" like a guy selling fried stuff on the side of the road. Our choices were:
Me: Sourdough chili bowl
Angela: Nachos
Victoria: Nachos
William: Big Hot Dog, slathered with Ketchup (or Catsup, if you prefer)
Being the most awesomest dad ever, I sent the family around the corner to a bench while I paid. Which is why I missed...the attack!
William had eaten about half of his hot dog (this estimate is controversial - he says he ate just one bite, while Angela estimates it was half; I go with Angela's estimate because this is the boy who often says he had to wait thirty million seconds for something), and was holding up his dog to take another bite, when a shadow fell over the entire group. As they began to look up, horrified, while time slowed and onlookers began diving for cover.
The thing, which I scarce can call a Seagull, for such expresses adequately neither its girth nor malice, dove with all force into the boy, battering him aside and seizing his hot dog and nearly his fingers with it. Cackling with malice, it then tore off into the sky, knocking over an old woman and battering aside a tour buss with the gale from its wings.
Angela, ever courageous, gave chase in an effort to deliver some sort of retribution to the horrid gull (this, actually, was an error, for if he'd had an accomplice she would have lost her food as well, but this gull was so evil that none of his ilk would work with him). Alas, all she could hit the gull with were curses.
The boy, understandably, was devastated. I, understandably, was devastated too: that hot dog cost $23, and to buy him another one would cost similarly (okay, I may overstate San Francisco food prices, but not by much).
I bought him another hot dog, and after much sorrow we finished our meal. Then, as we began our long, sad, stroll back to the cable cars, we found our first piece of evidence:
We were further up the road, debating the size of the thing, when William espied one waddling in the gutter and said "it was that big!"
"No," said Victoria. "It wasn't that big."
"Wait a minute," Angela said. "Is that ketchup on its beak?"
"I think it's pronounced catsup," I said.
"It is ketchup!" William said. "That's the gull!"
Once again, the chase was on! I, being fleetest of foot, quickly outpaced the others. Angela once again could only hit it with curses. But I did better: I got a picture:
If you zoom in on his vile beak, you see the telltale catsup:
And then I spit on it. Because no gull steals from my boy and gets away!
The plan for our last day was pretty clear: Catch boat to Alcatraz at 4:30, be back at the city at 6:00, drive out by 6:30, catch dinner on the way, grocery shop from 8:00 to 8:15, and arrive in Yosemite at 9:30. Easy peasy, right!
After we visited Alcatraz (which was awesome), we were strolling down the street when the children decided to totally jettison my schedule. It didn't help that everybody was all "our feet hurt" and "we're hungry" and "why haven't you let us pee for three days" and whatnot.
So they start with the "we want to eat" bit. Sigh. So we stopped at one of the many roadside carts that sells food, because nothing says "quality food" like a guy selling fried stuff on the side of the road. Our choices were:
Me: Sourdough chili bowl
Angela: Nachos
Victoria: Nachos
William: Big Hot Dog, slathered with Ketchup (or Catsup, if you prefer)
Being the most awesomest dad ever, I sent the family around the corner to a bench while I paid. Which is why I missed...the attack!
William had eaten about half of his hot dog (this estimate is controversial - he says he ate just one bite, while Angela estimates it was half; I go with Angela's estimate because this is the boy who often says he had to wait thirty million seconds for something), and was holding up his dog to take another bite, when a shadow fell over the entire group. As they began to look up, horrified, while time slowed and onlookers began diving for cover.
The thing, which I scarce can call a Seagull, for such expresses adequately neither its girth nor malice, dove with all force into the boy, battering him aside and seizing his hot dog and nearly his fingers with it. Cackling with malice, it then tore off into the sky, knocking over an old woman and battering aside a tour buss with the gale from its wings.
Angela, ever courageous, gave chase in an effort to deliver some sort of retribution to the horrid gull (this, actually, was an error, for if he'd had an accomplice she would have lost her food as well, but this gull was so evil that none of his ilk would work with him). Alas, all she could hit the gull with were curses.
The boy, understandably, was devastated. I, understandably, was devastated too: that hot dog cost $23, and to buy him another one would cost similarly (okay, I may overstate San Francisco food prices, but not by much).
I bought him another hot dog, and after much sorrow we finished our meal. Then, as we began our long, sad, stroll back to the cable cars, we found our first piece of evidence:
Guuuuuulll!
Aha! The gull had passed this way, for only William's hot dog would have had such a ketchup-soaked rag around it! For some reason, the finding of this wrapper made everyone happy, though I didn't quite know why: if it had eaten the wrapper, perhaps it would have choked, saving a small child from the fate of losing a finger. Plus, we might could have stomped on its body (from a safe distance, of course, in case we dislodged the paper and it sprang up and attacked us).We were further up the road, debating the size of the thing, when William espied one waddling in the gutter and said "it was that big!"
"No," said Victoria. "It wasn't that big."
"Wait a minute," Angela said. "Is that ketchup on its beak?"
"I think it's pronounced catsup," I said.
"It is ketchup!" William said. "That's the gull!"
Once again, the chase was on! I, being fleetest of foot, quickly outpaced the others. Angela once again could only hit it with curses. But I did better: I got a picture:
If you zoom in on his vile beak, you see the telltale catsup:
And then I spit on it. Because no gull steals from my boy and gets away!
Why This Blog Exists
You know how sometimes people want you to put up pictures? Like grandparents, and cousins, and friends, and the FBI? And you always mean to, but you never do? And then one day you finally do it, and everybody's all like "why don't you just join Facebook" only you don't want to join Facebook because you think it's a communist plot to track your whereabouts?
That, and you can't figure out where the dot button is on your computer?
That's why this blog exists. I meant to start doing something like this when the kids were born, and now that they're in Junior High I've finally gotten around to it.
But I have to generate content, because grandma is recovering from bunion surgery so she'll be checking this every day in a desperate attempt to have some contact with the outside world, and if nothing is here she'll be all depressed, and never heal, and it'll be my fault.
This blog is just way too much pressure.
Anyways, that's why it's here.
That, and you can't figure out where the dot button is on your computer?
That's why this blog exists. I meant to start doing something like this when the kids were born, and now that they're in Junior High I've finally gotten around to it.
But I have to generate content, because grandma is recovering from bunion surgery so she'll be checking this every day in a desperate attempt to have some contact with the outside world, and if nothing is here she'll be all depressed, and never heal, and it'll be my fault.
This blog is just way too much pressure.
Anyways, that's why it's here.
Stuff We Like: Gravity Falls
Have you seen this show? It's awesome! With a capital AWESOME! The best part is that it's full of little inside jokes and puzzles and stuff. Like this guy:
Who flashes by in about 0.2 seconds at the beginning of the episode so fast you have to pause it to see. And at the end of each episode there's an anagram puzzle that you have to decode! Since we're a family of nerds, we have of course decoded each one.
The latest episode (Fight Fighters) ended up being "Sorry, Dipper, your Wendy is in another castle." Which is a reference to Mario Brothers, which of course we knew right off (not Angela, of course, since she doesn't play cool video games, only things like Farm Frenzy, but now I digress).
So if you are a fan of Gravity Falls, huzzah for you! And congratulations for being on the bleeding edge of coolness. Or nerdiness. Which together are nerolness, which sounds like some kind of strange disease that ends badly.
FYI: The alphabetic code for the last few episodes is just the reverse (A=Z, B=Y, etcetera). It was a different code in the beginning, if I recall it was something like using the letter 3 slots back (D=A, etcetera).
Who flashes by in about 0.2 seconds at the beginning of the episode so fast you have to pause it to see. And at the end of each episode there's an anagram puzzle that you have to decode! Since we're a family of nerds, we have of course decoded each one.
The latest episode (Fight Fighters) ended up being "Sorry, Dipper, your Wendy is in another castle." Which is a reference to Mario Brothers, which of course we knew right off (not Angela, of course, since she doesn't play cool video games, only things like Farm Frenzy, but now I digress).
So if you are a fan of Gravity Falls, huzzah for you! And congratulations for being on the bleeding edge of coolness. Or nerdiness. Which together are nerolness, which sounds like some kind of strange disease that ends badly.
FYI: The alphabetic code for the last few episodes is just the reverse (A=Z, B=Y, etcetera). It was a different code in the beginning, if I recall it was something like using the letter 3 slots back (D=A, etcetera).
The First Post Ever!
This is our new blog. We used to have an old blog, but I can't seem to access that one any more. Google would let me in but they want my credit card number, despite the fact that they never had one before. It's not that I don't trust Google, but I don't really trust Google, so I think that I'll just skip giving them anything and start a new blog.
I mean, it's free, right?
This is really just a test post, though, so don't get all excited.
I mean, it's free, right?
This is really just a test post, though, so don't get all excited.
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