The cake is a lie.

Paul — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 11:59:45 +0000

All my favorite candies around the border!

Today is my birthday. My wife sent me a cake…she knows I love Reese’s peanut butter cups and Hershey bars, though I really don’t think 45 is all that old, do you?

Apart from being, uh, apart from my family it’s been a really good birthday. In addition to the cake I got fabulous expressions of love from Louise (written in a different card this time) and the kids, letters, a drawing from my daughter showing her waiting at the airport for me, and the book “Horse Soldiers”. It’s about Special Forces soldiers who rode into battle against the Taliban in 2001 and captured the city of Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. Thanks to my nightly study of Afghanistan and its terrain I now know where that is. Yes, I’m bragging. Take that Ken Jennings!

It doesn't get any better than this.

My Scottish mother-in-law, having no clue about my penis size, sent me a batch of her divine homemade Scottish shortbread cookies. Wait a minute…shortbread? Hmmm… They were carefully packaged and arrived in pristine condition. I don’t ever recall her making these other than at Christmas so it’s a rare treat to have them now, like fresh corn in December in the northern hemisphere. I’ve tried making these cookies and I’ve failed…you’d think sugar, flour, and butter wouldn’t be that hard to mix up but it is. I shared some cookies with my coworkers at, uh, work, and they all raved about them. Only one per customer though, except the woman who noticed I’d lost weight and asked if I was 29…she got 2 cookies.

Last night I was back on shift with my usual cohort (he having moved to swing shift for a couple of weeks) and the Stanley Cup finals were on TV live. Just for my birthday, the Penguins defeated the Red Wings, tying the series at 2-2.

Shortbread on the top, the surviving snickerdoodles out of the last package from home on the bottom. In the time since this picture was taken, 20 minutes ago, the snickerdoodles have become extinct.

After work and a workout (fat never sleeps), three of us hit the bar for bingo (yes, at 10 am, no, we didn’t win anything) then on to the chow hall for pasta bar day. Next to gyro bar day, pasta bar day is my favorite.

Tonight at work I’m having some ice cream and I’ll top the day off with a call to the family. The Internet was misbehaving the other night so our webcam chat didn’t happen.

I don’t need a fancy party or gifts to have a great birthday, just some love…and sweets. As a double bonus, since I work nights I sleep during the day, when I get up for work it will still be my birthday. Two birthdays in one day…how cool is that?!

Wait…does that mean I’ll be 46?

In which my six-year old son ponders the nature of breasts

Paul — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 17:17:16 +0000

The source of my son's curiosity. Mine too, for that matter.

The other night we were all hanging out watching West Side Story on TV(because when you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way…we’re cool like that). Really not the most appropriate movie for a six-year old but you know how it is. You’re so careful with the first child, playing classical music in the car, making your own baby food, and by the time the last one rolls around all the standards have gone out the window…you’re letting him stay up and watch Broadway gang musicals past his bedtime.

It’s the point in the movie right after the rumble in which a couple of guys were stabbed to death (sorry if this is a spoiler, but the movie’s been out for nearly 50 years…have you been that busy? I won’t tell you who got knifed, just the same). The scene features Maria (Natalie Wood) and Anita (Rita Moreno). Cole, my young quarter-swallower, asks, “What happens if you get stabbed in the boob?”

Rare is the occasion I’ve got no response – this was one of those times. Louise picked up pretty quickly what was on his mind.

“They don’t pop, if that’s what you’re thinking”, replies my wife dryly.

That was indeed what he was thinking.

“Oh”, he says, and pauses to adjust his world view to this new bit of information. “What are they made of?”

Since we were on a subject near and dear to my heart I found my voice. “They’re like two blobs of fat”. (If I can ruin things for my daughter I owe the same to my son) “Sort of like having a butt on your chest…except your butt’s made of muscle.”

And thus ended that discussion…whenever “butt” enters the conversation with my kids, civility takes a powder.

Boob. It’s curious that he used that word. We’re really good about using proper names for body parts…penis, vagina, ulnar nerve (“if I hear you call it ‘funny bone’ one more time mister, you’re grounded!”) I guess “boobs” is our word of choice for “breasts”, not by any conscious decision though.

My kids should count their blessings. Back in my day, when I was a wee (ahem) lad we referred to the penis as a “rinky”.

I know! I’m just as surprised as you that it didn’t catch on. “Dude, why the fuck did you put your cigarette out in my beer? Sometimes you’re such a rinky!”

I’m sure the Richards of the world would rather have it that way.

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The cake is a lie.

In which my six-year old son ponders the nature of breasts