And He Said Unto Them, "BAWWWWWW!"

Happy Halloween, everyone!

I'm a Damn Fool

I haven't blogged in a while. You may think it's because I've been lazy, but actually, I've just been severely overworked biding my time.

Forty days have passed since my last post. It's like I gave up blogging for Lent, except it being the wrong time of year, and the fact that I'm a lousy, stinkin' Jew.¹

So, what have I been doing all this time? I'm glad I asked.

As previously mentioned, I've spent plenty of time working biding. And of course, now that The Professor is walking (and dancing (and toddle-running (and attempting to leap off of furniture))),² it's difficult to pull myself away. But when I have gotten away, what I've been doing is improv.

I've taken a couple of classes so far, and after the last one, a few of us decided to meet up weekly to keep at it. Although I have my blog and novel, I love having this creative outlet where I get to work with others. I always leave our improv sessions energized. Anyway, two weeks ago, we settled on a name for our fledgling group: The Damn Fools.

Sure, a couple days later two of our four members officially joined an established improv troupe as well. They hope to stick with both groups, though some might say they're damn fools for trying.

But hey, that's who we are. And I wouldn't have it any other way.


¹ I am a lousy Jew: I eat pork, don't believe in God, get the holidays confused, and — unless you count bar mitzvahs — haven't been inside a synagogue since I was 8. (Whereas, I stink because I haven't showered in two days.)
² I'll write a Professor-centric post once I get the chance to comb through the most recent pictures. (Not literally; there won't be a comb. I'll sift through them instead. (Not literally; there won't be a sieve. I'll scour through them. (Not literally.)))

The Inciting Incident

Three years and seven days ago, I brought forth in this content a new notion, conceived liberally, and dedicated to the proposition that, ah, man! I get a sequel!

For you see, on August 20, 2009, I slipped off a mossy precipice and hurtled nearly 30 ft into a narrow chasm as images of my death flashed before me. And then I wet myself.

Although I had yet to finish my novel (a familiar story),¹ I finally had a tale to tell. And I needed a place to tell it. Thus, one week later (three years ago today) I started this blog.

And the rest, as they say,² is history.³

I know I've been slacking in my bloggerly duties these past couple months, but as summer wanes and cool autumn breezes carry inspiration my way, I can promise you that's not going to change one bit. My son's just too dang cute.⁴ Plus, if I don't finish my novel sometime soon, I suspect Joseph Selby may shift from positive motivation to all-out threats.

Okay, fine, I'll try to slack less. After all, I love to entertain.⁵

But three years. Wow. Time sure flies when you're doing a bunch of stuff.


¹ Not familiar: the novel, with its assassination plot involving invisible monkeys. (Unless that's a thing. If that's a thing, let me know post haste.) Familiar: to this day, the book remains unfinished. I'm nothing if not consistent.
² Who is they and why are they always saying such things? You'd think by now they'd have learned to listen once in a while so they didn't repeat themselves so damn often.
³ Then again, everything that's ever happened in all of creation is history, technically speaking, so that phrase is as worthless as this simile.
⁴ He learned to walk this past Tuesday, and he does this adorable thing where he slips into the other room without the noticeable pit-pat-pit-pat he had when he crawled, and goes straight for the cat food.
⁵ The only chance I've had to entertain over the past few weeks was that time I was up on stage and valiantly saved that poor bat from the malevolent horde of shrieking 6-year-old girls. True story.

Will the Real Dada Please Stand Up?

For the past couple months, I've been telling people my son has mastered three words/phrases: "mama," "dada," and "uh oh". Only recently did I learn that when he says "dada" he's not referring to me.

I'll pause a moment and let you ponder the repercussions of that statement.

And then I'll ruin it by saying you're not pondering what I'm pondering.

Unless you were thinking his "dada" is a book.

That's right. A book. You see, when The Professor was born, we signed up to get a book each month from a Jewish organization called The PJ Library, because I thought my son should know more about our heritage than I do hey, free books!

The one we received before Passover this year was Dayenu, basically an illustrated (and Anglicized) version of the traditional Passover song of the same name. Of course, being such a devout Jew, I didn't remember hearing of it before. My mom, however, sang it to him when she babysat. And my son loooves music, so Denise and I learned the tune (via the Tube of You) and followed suit.

So, how does this book supplant me as "dada"? You might have already figured it out, but just in case, here's the chorus, which is repeated eight times throughout the book:

Da-dayenu,
Da-dayenu,
Da-dayenu,
Dayenu, dayenu!

It quickly became one of his favorites (only equaled by pop-up books), and was often the first one he pulled out of his box o' books to hand to us.

Yet I was slow (and/or willfully deluding myself); I didn't catch on for a while. Two weeks ago is when it clicked for me. I now realize when he's crawling toward me in the living room, smiling, reaching out to me and saying "dada," he's not calling for me.

He's calling for me... to sing.<sup>1


1</sup> In a related story, The Professor also started saying "nana" this past week. He's not looking for his grandmother, though. He's looking for his grandmother to bring him a delicious yellow fruit.

The Quotes That Never Were

I've messed with the English language many times before on this blog. Well, today I'm messing with it in the form of famous movie quotes. Why, you ask? Why do I do anything I do? (That's not a rhetorical question; I really want to know.)

I suspect others have come up with similar variations on some of the following, but as they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of laziness.

• "What we have here is a failure to—What I'm trying to say is we're having trouble—Are you even listening to me?"
   
• "Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates: pretty sweet, although nutty at times, and if you don't keep trying new things, it gets stale."
   
• "With great power comes ginormous electric bills."
   
• "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world its card was the eight of clubs."
   
• "All work and no play make Jack repeat himself."
   
• "I love the smell of napalm in the morning. In the afternoon, I prefer a really strong vinegar. At night, a burning sulfur is simply divine."
   
• "The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club. I'm already breaking that rule. I am Jack's raging hypocrisy."
   
• "You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow. But not all the way together, and you also have to do this thing with your tongue."

I hope you found these funny. But funny how, I mean funny like a clown? I make you laugh, I'm here to amuse you?

Yes. Yes I am.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

When our cat Calypso died in March, it left a kitty-shaped void in our home. We waited the requisite three months (as stipulated by our vet, to ensure the virus had left Schrödinger's system). Then, last month, we filled that void. You know, with a cat. Specifically, this one:

Her name was DarkWing. Which is a pretty stupid thing to call anything other than a duck, so we promptly changed it. And thus, she became Unnamed Kitty. (Just for a couple days. Now she goes by Penny.)

She's Penny because of Sheldon on Big Bang Theory. You see, when The Professor was even littler than he is now, the lullaby we sang to lull baby to sleep was "Soft Kitty," albeit with one slight adjustment:

Soft kitty, warm kitty,
Little ball of fur.
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty,
Schrö-ding-er.

Therefore, it only made sense for our new cat also to have a connection with Sheldon. And what better way than to call to her with a simple <knock knock knock> "Penny"?

She was fantastic with our son from the get-go, and she and our dog Sonya peacefully coexist (with the peace occasionally broken by a bark). She and Schrödinger, however, are like two peas in a pod—very spastic peas who wrestle and play in water and chase each other all over the pod that is our house. He shreds cardboard; she gnaws on actual boards. And wicker. (And plastic.)

Penny may not be the lap cat her predecessor was, but she's a perfect fit for us.

Family complete.

Professor Cupcakeface

The last two weeks, you may have noticed I've been ignoring my blog sweating profusely busy living. The highlight of the past fortnight: My son turned one.

Here are my answers to the most common questions concerning The Professor:

• No, he's not walking on his own yet. He is, however, an Olympic speed-crawler, a master xylophonist, an expert stair-climber, and the world's foremost daddy-climber. He also currently holds the record for fastest floor-to-mouth time, public toy division.
• Two and a half teeth.
• He is eating us out of house and home, and then house again for good measure. He eats anything and everything we give him, sometimes in greater quantities than us.
• Favorite food: Cherries. He'll eat them until he's purple in the face. And the hands. And the hair. And the ears. And the...
• Favorite phrase: "Uh oh."
• Favorite game: Going pell-mell for the dog bowls and trying to flip one over before we reach him.
• Favorite birthday gift: The card with the vibrating baby in it.*

* It's not a live baby. It's a picture of a baby holding maracas, shaking "what his mama gave him." I'm not sure if that's any less disturbing.

What's that? You're tired of reading my drivel and want to see the pictures? Well, here you go, you ingrate:

Bubbles!


He started off slow, taking one delicate pinch of frosting at a time...


...and then someone gave him a fork.


An aerial view of the carnage.


Fully sated, he cast the half-eaten cupcake carcass to the floor.


But then... remorse. Not over the devastation he had wrought on the unsuspecting cupcake, but because the rest of it was whisked away before the dog could share in his fun.


My son: The life of the party.