It happened again this morning. It's happened every morning for about three weeks (or more), but today was especially bad. My eyelids lifted to the grinding of our alarm clock and my wife mumbling, "Paul, are you getting up? It's 7:03." I tried to lift my head and my neck let me know, in no uncertain terms, that my moving was not going to fly. I tried again and pushed through my body's protests. "I don't think so, my neck is killing me." "Oh, okay."
I tried going back to sleep with my neck in a better position, but the pain was so lopsided that I couldn't be sure if my neck was straight. Every time I tried to readjust it would only feel more like my head was leaning to one side or the other.
Finally, in frustration and agony, I got up, slathered on some Icy Hot and put the long bean bag in the microwave. And sat in front of my television, trying to keep my neck as still as I possibly could while occasionally rubbing it. Eventually, it got a little better. Better enough for me to freeze some peaches, so long as I moved my body and not my head, but I still don't feel good enough to go running. I can't imagine it would actually do any damage to run, but it sure feels like it would, which makes me think I'll not go through the pain and just eat a little less today. Anyone know any cures to morning neck aches, because they seem to be getting worse instead of better and it's getting old.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
I'm a Heartless Murderer
I've been approached by a couple of people (my mom and sister) who said they want me to start blogging again. What about you ask? My daily/weekly life. I told them it was boring, but they said that's what they wanted to read... so here it goes.
When I was on my two year religious sabbatical I gained a firm belief in God and his love for His creations. Even down to centipedes that we found in our shower who I took outside in a cup to set free, and spiders, to which, if they didn't crawl on me, I also released into the wild. I'm still a pretty firm believer in that. I believe life, all life, is precious, and I want to defend it... except for flies.
I went out into the mud room to weigh myself (trying to lose weight so I don't hurt my back again) and found - I would guess - 50 flies on the window of the door going outside. I immediately turned around, closed the door found the fly swatter (a tool that was made for literally one purpose), went back out and began hacking away like a blind-folded kid swings at a pinata. When they were all gone from the window (who knows how many I actually hit) I turned to the ceiling, where I assume several went for refuge, then I was more like a little-leaguer swinging at balls well above the strike zone. Back to the window, back to the ceiling, window, ceiling, window, ceiling, until none flew around me anymore. Up to this point I'd only been working with the light coming in through the window, so I turned on the incandescent and found several more that I missed, "swing away, Paul! Swing away!". I didn't count, but the floor was littered with flies.
Somewhere in the frenzy, and especially after I'd seen my handiwork, I thought, "Why don't I care about flies?" I care about spiders, centipedes, humans, and even small dogs to a degree. Why don't I care about flies? They help in keeping our planet from filling up with waste, they have very short lives, and I really don't think they cause as much disease as we all think they do. And still, I killed dozens of them today in the mud room, basically a mass-murder, and I feel nothing. Let's just say that if God cares a great deal about flies' lives, I'm pretty much screwed, but I'm pretty sure all of you are too, so I'll have company.
See you two, boring.
When I was on my two year religious sabbatical I gained a firm belief in God and his love for His creations. Even down to centipedes that we found in our shower who I took outside in a cup to set free, and spiders, to which, if they didn't crawl on me, I also released into the wild. I'm still a pretty firm believer in that. I believe life, all life, is precious, and I want to defend it... except for flies.
I went out into the mud room to weigh myself (trying to lose weight so I don't hurt my back again) and found - I would guess - 50 flies on the window of the door going outside. I immediately turned around, closed the door found the fly swatter (a tool that was made for literally one purpose), went back out and began hacking away like a blind-folded kid swings at a pinata. When they were all gone from the window (who knows how many I actually hit) I turned to the ceiling, where I assume several went for refuge, then I was more like a little-leaguer swinging at balls well above the strike zone. Back to the window, back to the ceiling, window, ceiling, window, ceiling, until none flew around me anymore. Up to this point I'd only been working with the light coming in through the window, so I turned on the incandescent and found several more that I missed, "swing away, Paul! Swing away!". I didn't count, but the floor was littered with flies.
Somewhere in the frenzy, and especially after I'd seen my handiwork, I thought, "Why don't I care about flies?" I care about spiders, centipedes, humans, and even small dogs to a degree. Why don't I care about flies? They help in keeping our planet from filling up with waste, they have very short lives, and I really don't think they cause as much disease as we all think they do. And still, I killed dozens of them today in the mud room, basically a mass-murder, and I feel nothing. Let's just say that if God cares a great deal about flies' lives, I'm pretty much screwed, but I'm pretty sure all of you are too, so I'll have company.
See you two, boring.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
The True Gamer
So, what is a 'True Gamer'? How often do they play? What do they play, and maybe more importantly, what don't they play? What hardware do they use? How long do they have to have played to be in the 'True Gamer' club? Super Nintendo? Earlier? Should they have to know about Indie games, or are the heavy-hitters enough? Does genre, difficulty setting, multi-player or single player matter? If you don't play Dark Souls are you even in the running? And the question I'd really like to put forward with this post: Why do we care?
I've been heavily gaming for about two years now. I'm talking a few dozen games, most of which I've beat, some I've beat multiple times, several forums about specific games and gaming in general, listening to developer interviews, spending a good deal of time on Gamespot, and a program on my computer called Raptr that tracks my gaming progress. And in these two years I've noticed something about the gaming community as a whole that baffles me: Elitism.
I would say that the majority of people whose sole or primary form of entertainment is playing video games have an earned stereotype (I can say this because I've earned it too). We were outcasts in school because we were interested in things that no one else was. When we talked we noticed that no one knew what we were talking about (both about entertainment and academia) and how we noticed it was that people would make comments about how they didn't know what we were talking about, to which most people would laugh. Those of us in this category did one of two things, either we kept talking how we wanted and told ourselves we were just smarter than most people (though the ridicule got worse as time passed and while our minds felt superior, our hearts sure didn't), or we realized that people don't like smart people and dumbed ourselves down so we wouldn't be made fun or anymore, hiding our real interests from everyone except our true friends (this was me). It was like people were part of these clubs that we were either not invited to, or that we faked our way into and then felt uncomfortable once there, because we could tell our kind weren't supposed to be there. It was a struggle, or at least it was for me.
And then, after I got married, I found gaming, and more importantly, I found gamers on the internet. It was like all of us found each other and became friends online. There weren't many of us in our own communities, but when we made a worldwide community there were really a lot of us, and that idea intrigued me. Finally, a large group of people who shared my interests and knew what I was talking about, and it wasn't just my group of friends I was honest with, there were a bunch of them.
After a few months though, I noticed how little gamers learned from high school. I started seeing cliques. The first I noticed were the hardware cliques (mostly PC vs. Console). "Games are made for consoles, which are really just old computers so we never get to use our rigs to their full capabilities." "Consoles are for casual gamers." ('casual gamer' is an insult in the gaming community) and, "Real gamers play on PCs." I was originally a console gamer, I have some games on the PC, but when it comes to shooters, I need my paddle, I just do. So console gamers would come back with "If it wasn't for consoles we wouldn't have the quality of games we have because there wouldn't be as much money in the industry." "People with PCs just need to stop getting such powerful rigs, as it's obvious they don't need them for the games that exist." but I never heard console gamers say PC gamers weren't 'True Gamers', but I think that comes from the fact that games started on the PC.
Which leads into the next clique: "'True Gamers' have been playing since Atari." or Nintendo, or Super Nintendo, or started on the PC and have never left it. Somehow, having played for twenty years just makes you better than other people, kind of like being Vegan. It just makes you better.
Then there are the genre wars. Mostly it's people saying that those who play Call of Duty (or other multi-player shooters) aren't real gamers, even if they play something else. The other big one is making fun of those who play facebook games because, you know, they aren't 'real games'.
I could go on, but my favorite are the Dark Souls/Deamon Souls players. If you don't play and enjoy that game you aren't a 'True Gamer' in their minds. I don't know what it is about that fan base, but I remember staying away from that game literally because the fans were so bat crap crazy that I didn't want to be numbered with them. I've decided to try it eventually, but if you talked about any other game to any of them it was as if you were a twelve year old boy in Victoria's Secret, you just didn't belong talking to the grown ups about video games.
It's all so childish though. It's as though we've finally found our way into a club we belong in and what's the first thing we do? Try to keep as many people out as possible, by saying they aren't as good as the rest of us because of what they play, or how often they play, or that they don't play every single game on the hardest difficulty possible. Don't we remember what that was like? They mention a game on facebook and because that's not our cup of tea we make sure they feel like they don't belong, or because they haven't spent hours reading every book in all of Skyrim they aren't really playing the game. Why aren't we better than this? Why can't we seem to be better than this? A gamer is anyone who enjoys playing video games with some or all of their free time. We all have different tastes, and that's okay. All of our tastes are valid, and all are invited to enjoy at least a facet of our past time. It's brought us a lot of happiness, and we believe it can bring others happiness too. So, lets invite them in, and make them feel welcomed instead of shunned. I know we can do it, and we owe it to our fifteen year old selves to at least try.
I've been heavily gaming for about two years now. I'm talking a few dozen games, most of which I've beat, some I've beat multiple times, several forums about specific games and gaming in general, listening to developer interviews, spending a good deal of time on Gamespot, and a program on my computer called Raptr that tracks my gaming progress. And in these two years I've noticed something about the gaming community as a whole that baffles me: Elitism.
I would say that the majority of people whose sole or primary form of entertainment is playing video games have an earned stereotype (I can say this because I've earned it too). We were outcasts in school because we were interested in things that no one else was. When we talked we noticed that no one knew what we were talking about (both about entertainment and academia) and how we noticed it was that people would make comments about how they didn't know what we were talking about, to which most people would laugh. Those of us in this category did one of two things, either we kept talking how we wanted and told ourselves we were just smarter than most people (though the ridicule got worse as time passed and while our minds felt superior, our hearts sure didn't), or we realized that people don't like smart people and dumbed ourselves down so we wouldn't be made fun or anymore, hiding our real interests from everyone except our true friends (this was me). It was like people were part of these clubs that we were either not invited to, or that we faked our way into and then felt uncomfortable once there, because we could tell our kind weren't supposed to be there. It was a struggle, or at least it was for me.
And then, after I got married, I found gaming, and more importantly, I found gamers on the internet. It was like all of us found each other and became friends online. There weren't many of us in our own communities, but when we made a worldwide community there were really a lot of us, and that idea intrigued me. Finally, a large group of people who shared my interests and knew what I was talking about, and it wasn't just my group of friends I was honest with, there were a bunch of them.
After a few months though, I noticed how little gamers learned from high school. I started seeing cliques. The first I noticed were the hardware cliques (mostly PC vs. Console). "Games are made for consoles, which are really just old computers so we never get to use our rigs to their full capabilities." "Consoles are for casual gamers." ('casual gamer' is an insult in the gaming community) and, "Real gamers play on PCs." I was originally a console gamer, I have some games on the PC, but when it comes to shooters, I need my paddle, I just do. So console gamers would come back with "If it wasn't for consoles we wouldn't have the quality of games we have because there wouldn't be as much money in the industry." "People with PCs just need to stop getting such powerful rigs, as it's obvious they don't need them for the games that exist." but I never heard console gamers say PC gamers weren't 'True Gamers', but I think that comes from the fact that games started on the PC.
Which leads into the next clique: "'True Gamers' have been playing since Atari." or Nintendo, or Super Nintendo, or started on the PC and have never left it. Somehow, having played for twenty years just makes you better than other people, kind of like being Vegan. It just makes you better.
Then there are the genre wars. Mostly it's people saying that those who play Call of Duty (or other multi-player shooters) aren't real gamers, even if they play something else. The other big one is making fun of those who play facebook games because, you know, they aren't 'real games'.
I could go on, but my favorite are the Dark Souls/Deamon Souls players. If you don't play and enjoy that game you aren't a 'True Gamer' in their minds. I don't know what it is about that fan base, but I remember staying away from that game literally because the fans were so bat crap crazy that I didn't want to be numbered with them. I've decided to try it eventually, but if you talked about any other game to any of them it was as if you were a twelve year old boy in Victoria's Secret, you just didn't belong talking to the grown ups about video games.
It's all so childish though. It's as though we've finally found our way into a club we belong in and what's the first thing we do? Try to keep as many people out as possible, by saying they aren't as good as the rest of us because of what they play, or how often they play, or that they don't play every single game on the hardest difficulty possible. Don't we remember what that was like? They mention a game on facebook and because that's not our cup of tea we make sure they feel like they don't belong, or because they haven't spent hours reading every book in all of Skyrim they aren't really playing the game. Why aren't we better than this? Why can't we seem to be better than this? A gamer is anyone who enjoys playing video games with some or all of their free time. We all have different tastes, and that's okay. All of our tastes are valid, and all are invited to enjoy at least a facet of our past time. It's brought us a lot of happiness, and we believe it can bring others happiness too. So, lets invite them in, and make them feel welcomed instead of shunned. I know we can do it, and we owe it to our fifteen year old selves to at least try.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
A Little Too Much
The lines on the tiles aren't perpendicular to the floor board. This room isn't square... no, not square and the tiles are moving. I know they are. I can see them... move. Why are they moving? Oh, no. The tiles aren't moving. Squint my eyes, see what's real. There, back to normal. I shouldn't have taken that much; I just wanted to impress her. Her. What was her name again? Dammit, I've been dating her for three months. What is her damn name?
Amber. Yeah, that's her name. Amber. Oh, squint again, oh man, the room's not moving, but it is. I've got to focus. Focus on something that won't make me feel so sick. This tile's like ice on my butt. No, nothing painful. Ugh, there, what is that? A hole in the sheet rock. Just, yes, it's just big enough for my fingernail. I wonder if I could see behind it? Dig. Dig. Dig... yeah, something's behind here, something red. More. A little more and I can fit my whole hand in. There it is, and, yes: A big piece.
It's not just red; it's... furry... soft. What... what's behind my wall. Let's see. Grab more pieces. Pull. Pull. Pull... Oh. Oh, no. Dammit, I didn't know that's where it was. Shit. Amber will see it. Cover it up, but, its eyes beg me not to. "You're mine." Shit, I'll wake up Amber at that volume, "You're mine. I'm not sharing you with Amber. She'll dump me if she knows about you." There it stands as a perfect oxymoron, the pleading, the soft red fur, the cushiony belly, all thrown around the gaping mouth full of yellowing spikes and horns jutting out of an over-sized head. The monster. The lovable, cuddly, soothing, shaming, hating, embarrassing monster.
"I have to cover you up." Shit, the alarm. Oh, Amber's going to be here any minute. Um... okay, maybe she'll be too tired to notice him. "Be cool, man."
"Mmmhmmm, what? What in the hell are you doing in here? After what you did to me last night I thought you'd be sound asleep."
Stand as big as I can, maybe she won't notice it behind me. "Oh," laugh... oh, not like that, she'll know you're hiding something, "I just went to the bathroom right before the alarm went off."
Good, she's popping zits in the mirror, maybe she won't see him. "Hmm, okay, well, I'm going back to bed. You're more than welcome to join me."
"O-okay. Yeah, I'll be there in a minute." She didn't notice it, thank heaven, but what am I going to do with it before she wakes....
"Hey, you haven't been doing drugs again have you." Shit, she's staring right at us. She has to see him now, we're so screwed.
"No... no, of course not. I told you, I gave that up a year ago."
How can she not see the monster standing right behind me? "Okay. You just seem a little weird this morning. You'll tell me if you ever do, right?"
"Oh, absolutely. But, that won't ever happen because I am so done with that stuff."
She doesn't look convinced. "Okay. Well, come to bed would you? We stayed up late last night."
"Yeah, just a minute." Good, she's gone. "Look, buddy, you've got to go... now, don't look at me like that, Amber will leave if she ever finds out about you... Okay, you can stay, but you've got to stay out of sight okay? I have no idea how she didn't see you this time. Stay in the closet or something. Somewhere she won't go. You know I love you, I just can't let her know you're still around. Now, I'm going to bed; you fix this wall before we wake up. You've done it before; do it again. Goodnight."
Amber. Yeah, that's her name. Amber. Oh, squint again, oh man, the room's not moving, but it is. I've got to focus. Focus on something that won't make me feel so sick. This tile's like ice on my butt. No, nothing painful. Ugh, there, what is that? A hole in the sheet rock. Just, yes, it's just big enough for my fingernail. I wonder if I could see behind it? Dig. Dig. Dig... yeah, something's behind here, something red. More. A little more and I can fit my whole hand in. There it is, and, yes: A big piece.
It's not just red; it's... furry... soft. What... what's behind my wall. Let's see. Grab more pieces. Pull. Pull. Pull... Oh. Oh, no. Dammit, I didn't know that's where it was. Shit. Amber will see it. Cover it up, but, its eyes beg me not to. "You're mine." Shit, I'll wake up Amber at that volume, "You're mine. I'm not sharing you with Amber. She'll dump me if she knows about you." There it stands as a perfect oxymoron, the pleading, the soft red fur, the cushiony belly, all thrown around the gaping mouth full of yellowing spikes and horns jutting out of an over-sized head. The monster. The lovable, cuddly, soothing, shaming, hating, embarrassing monster.
"I have to cover you up." Shit, the alarm. Oh, Amber's going to be here any minute. Um... okay, maybe she'll be too tired to notice him. "Be cool, man."
"Mmmhmmm, what? What in the hell are you doing in here? After what you did to me last night I thought you'd be sound asleep."
Stand as big as I can, maybe she won't notice it behind me. "Oh," laugh... oh, not like that, she'll know you're hiding something, "I just went to the bathroom right before the alarm went off."
Good, she's popping zits in the mirror, maybe she won't see him. "Hmm, okay, well, I'm going back to bed. You're more than welcome to join me."
"O-okay. Yeah, I'll be there in a minute." She didn't notice it, thank heaven, but what am I going to do with it before she wakes....
"Hey, you haven't been doing drugs again have you." Shit, she's staring right at us. She has to see him now, we're so screwed.
"No... no, of course not. I told you, I gave that up a year ago."
How can she not see the monster standing right behind me? "Okay. You just seem a little weird this morning. You'll tell me if you ever do, right?"
"Oh, absolutely. But, that won't ever happen because I am so done with that stuff."
She doesn't look convinced. "Okay. Well, come to bed would you? We stayed up late last night."
"Yeah, just a minute." Good, she's gone. "Look, buddy, you've got to go... now, don't look at me like that, Amber will leave if she ever finds out about you... Okay, you can stay, but you've got to stay out of sight okay? I have no idea how she didn't see you this time. Stay in the closet or something. Somewhere she won't go. You know I love you, I just can't let her know you're still around. Now, I'm going to bed; you fix this wall before we wake up. You've done it before; do it again. Goodnight."
Monday, August 13, 2012
Watch for Motorcycles
To start off with, let me get one thing straight, I have nothing against 'Watch for Motorcycles' stickers, or billboards, or signs, or whatever. I have a lot of family and friends who ride motorcycles (some of which have been in some bad accidents) and I like the idea of people trying to see them while they ride so that I don't have a premature funeral to attend.
That being said though, I think this 'Watch for Motorcycles' thing has only half for its story being told.
Here's what I mean: I try very hard to 'Watch for Motorcycles' (like I said, I have some buddies who like to straddle the engine) but today, as I was driving home, a motorcycle suddenly cut me off. No amount of 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing was going to stop me from almost hitting him. So, I'd like to add my 'car driver's caveat' to the 'Watch for Motorcycles' thing. That is, 'Don't expect me to watch for you if you're driving like a moron.'
So, I've compiled a few examples to help the motorcyclists. First, know the conditions, and ride (or don't ride) appropriately. How many times have we as motorists been driving down a highway or freeway in some heavy wind when we suddenly come up on a motorcyclist driving twenty below the speed limit? How many times has it been raining and a motorcyclist is driving super slow on the freeway? Look, man (or woman, whichever the case may be), you made a choice when you bought that bike. You knew the tradeoffs. You were buying a vehicle that would surpass mine in both gas mileage and badassery. The drawback though: It won't drive well in adverse weather conditions. I'm all for 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing, but if your vehicle can't drive the speed limit because of adverse conditions, it's time to be smart and pull it over until those conditions have changed. It's part of the trade off. I can keep driving, but will never look like a badass in my Ford Focus.
Another thought, you're driving a vehicle too, that means that you get to follow the same rules that we do. This means that in traffic, you can wait in line with the rest of us. I know that some motorcycle motors overheat easily and could explode if they aren't moving. Two options: Pull over and turn the bike off, or get out of the traffic. Any motorist will tell you that when they see a motorcycle flying up the dotted white lines when they're in traffic, they get the sudden urge to open their door to 'see what's going on up there.' And those who honestly haven't will start thinking about it. It's rude, and kind of dangerous, so again, drive smart so we can 'Watch for Motorcycles.'
Just a few other things: Drive the speed limit (or thereabouts), don't weave in and out of traffic, and don't hug the line. All of us motorists get nervous when you do any of this. We're not sure how stable the two-wheelers are. We rode bicycles and remember falling over, or weaving a little more than we meant to. Give us some space around you so we have the opportunity to 'Watch for Motorcycles.'
Anyway, that's my rant. Bottom line: if you really want me to 'Watch for Motorcycles' then please try to drive as safely and as cautiously as you can. If you don't, then I can't feel too bad about not 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing.
That being said though, I think this 'Watch for Motorcycles' thing has only half for its story being told.
Here's what I mean: I try very hard to 'Watch for Motorcycles' (like I said, I have some buddies who like to straddle the engine) but today, as I was driving home, a motorcycle suddenly cut me off. No amount of 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing was going to stop me from almost hitting him. So, I'd like to add my 'car driver's caveat' to the 'Watch for Motorcycles' thing. That is, 'Don't expect me to watch for you if you're driving like a moron.'
So, I've compiled a few examples to help the motorcyclists. First, know the conditions, and ride (or don't ride) appropriately. How many times have we as motorists been driving down a highway or freeway in some heavy wind when we suddenly come up on a motorcyclist driving twenty below the speed limit? How many times has it been raining and a motorcyclist is driving super slow on the freeway? Look, man (or woman, whichever the case may be), you made a choice when you bought that bike. You knew the tradeoffs. You were buying a vehicle that would surpass mine in both gas mileage and badassery. The drawback though: It won't drive well in adverse weather conditions. I'm all for 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing, but if your vehicle can't drive the speed limit because of adverse conditions, it's time to be smart and pull it over until those conditions have changed. It's part of the trade off. I can keep driving, but will never look like a badass in my Ford Focus.
Another thought, you're driving a vehicle too, that means that you get to follow the same rules that we do. This means that in traffic, you can wait in line with the rest of us. I know that some motorcycle motors overheat easily and could explode if they aren't moving. Two options: Pull over and turn the bike off, or get out of the traffic. Any motorist will tell you that when they see a motorcycle flying up the dotted white lines when they're in traffic, they get the sudden urge to open their door to 'see what's going on up there.' And those who honestly haven't will start thinking about it. It's rude, and kind of dangerous, so again, drive smart so we can 'Watch for Motorcycles.'
Just a few other things: Drive the speed limit (or thereabouts), don't weave in and out of traffic, and don't hug the line. All of us motorists get nervous when you do any of this. We're not sure how stable the two-wheelers are. We rode bicycles and remember falling over, or weaving a little more than we meant to. Give us some space around you so we have the opportunity to 'Watch for Motorcycles.'
Anyway, that's my rant. Bottom line: if you really want me to 'Watch for Motorcycles' then please try to drive as safely and as cautiously as you can. If you don't, then I can't feel too bad about not 'Watch for Motorcycles'-ing.
Monday, July 16, 2012
My New Sport
Let me just start out by saying that CB is small for her age. Not worryingly small. She's a bit over a year and still wears nine month clothes (six month in some brands). On top of that, of her body I mean, her head is just a little big for her age, seventieth percentile or so. Her legs also look a little short for her body (I'm sure her diaper isn't doing her any favors in that department). So when I say that she looks kind of funny walking now, it's not me being a mean father, it's that she really does look like a short-legged bobble-head with its hands to its chest (like how a chimp walks).
Now, we're spending a little time here at Grandma's house, who also lives close to Great Grandma, and CB has decided recently (we're talking the last couple of weeks) that crawling is old news. We entered her in the crawling diaper derby, in which there were three heats for her to compete and she won, and I think the victory got to her head, because soon thereafter (I think the next day) she learned how to stand up without the use of anything. That's right, CB has learned to pick that huge melon up onto her toothpick body without anything to help balance it.
What does this mean? Well, it means that my wife and I have taken up a new sport. We're calling it, "Run Really Fast and Catch CB Before She Falls or Goes Somewhere that will Inevitably Lead to a Hospital Visit;" it's a working name. Thus far she's fallen down the stairs once (I wasn't present, we're pinning that one on everyone upstairs at the time), constantly trips on stuff (though that doesn't make us lose points), and last night she tripped and plowed right into Great Grandma's banister. So, this morning, she has a great big purple bruise one her cheek. The saddest part of it all though, is that even with the clear and present danger, I can't help but chuckle when I see her walk (and to be honest, trip), because she looks like an orangutan (short legs, raised hands, and all) who's had a few too many. I'm going to go and ask God for forgiveness, if you'd pray for me (and for CB), that'd be great.
Now, we're spending a little time here at Grandma's house, who also lives close to Great Grandma, and CB has decided recently (we're talking the last couple of weeks) that crawling is old news. We entered her in the crawling diaper derby, in which there were three heats for her to compete and she won, and I think the victory got to her head, because soon thereafter (I think the next day) she learned how to stand up without the use of anything. That's right, CB has learned to pick that huge melon up onto her toothpick body without anything to help balance it.
What does this mean? Well, it means that my wife and I have taken up a new sport. We're calling it, "Run Really Fast and Catch CB Before She Falls or Goes Somewhere that will Inevitably Lead to a Hospital Visit;" it's a working name. Thus far she's fallen down the stairs once (I wasn't present, we're pinning that one on everyone upstairs at the time), constantly trips on stuff (though that doesn't make us lose points), and last night she tripped and plowed right into Great Grandma's banister. So, this morning, she has a great big purple bruise one her cheek. The saddest part of it all though, is that even with the clear and present danger, I can't help but chuckle when I see her walk (and to be honest, trip), because she looks like an orangutan (short legs, raised hands, and all) who's had a few too many. I'm going to go and ask God for forgiveness, if you'd pray for me (and for CB), that'd be great.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Sally, Part 44
Sally, Part 43
Or at least that's what Stacey kept telling himself. The farther they went into the wood, the more eyes appeared along the side. They varied in size, shape, and color, and Stacey couldn't stop his mind from imagining what kind of ugly creature would have red slits for eyes. Something with fangs and horns, maybe? But Stacey still said nothing. Mattias and Syrin were still unfazed and so would he pretend to be.
Syrin stopped for a moment and squinted at something ahead. Stacey was so preoccupied with the eyes that he nearly bumped right into Mattias's back. He barely stopped himself in time and Syrin started walking again without a word or gesture. Mattias followed and Stacey held until there was space between them. What had Syrin seen? Or thought he saw? It made Stacey uneasy, and if he were forced to be totally truthful, a little afraid. Syrin never stopped for anything, so whatever he saw must have been something to be feared. Thought he saw, Stacey continued telling himself, he only thought he saw something.
The uneasiness still didn't go away though. Syrin didn't stop walking, but kept looking ahead like he was expecting something. An owl hooted, Mattias and Syrin never flinched, but Stacey almost jumped out of his skin. Why did they have to go in this wood? Why did they have to go anyway? Slavers or savers, Stacey no longer wanted to be a part of it.
Syrin stopped again. This time, Stacey was ready and tried to see what he was seeing. The stop was longer this time and Syrin cocked his head to look from different angles. Still focusing, Syrin made his hands into an odd looking fist and blew into it, making some kind of call Stacey didn't recognize. Mattias had his hand on the hilt of his sword, making Stacey start reaching for his carving knife. Syrin made the noise again and started walking. Mattias quickly followed, and just as Stacey was about to do so, something dark gripped him by the shoulders and carried him into the black of the forest.
Or at least that's what Stacey kept telling himself. The farther they went into the wood, the more eyes appeared along the side. They varied in size, shape, and color, and Stacey couldn't stop his mind from imagining what kind of ugly creature would have red slits for eyes. Something with fangs and horns, maybe? But Stacey still said nothing. Mattias and Syrin were still unfazed and so would he pretend to be.
Syrin stopped for a moment and squinted at something ahead. Stacey was so preoccupied with the eyes that he nearly bumped right into Mattias's back. He barely stopped himself in time and Syrin started walking again without a word or gesture. Mattias followed and Stacey held until there was space between them. What had Syrin seen? Or thought he saw? It made Stacey uneasy, and if he were forced to be totally truthful, a little afraid. Syrin never stopped for anything, so whatever he saw must have been something to be feared. Thought he saw, Stacey continued telling himself, he only thought he saw something.
The uneasiness still didn't go away though. Syrin didn't stop walking, but kept looking ahead like he was expecting something. An owl hooted, Mattias and Syrin never flinched, but Stacey almost jumped out of his skin. Why did they have to go in this wood? Why did they have to go anyway? Slavers or savers, Stacey no longer wanted to be a part of it.
Syrin stopped again. This time, Stacey was ready and tried to see what he was seeing. The stop was longer this time and Syrin cocked his head to look from different angles. Still focusing, Syrin made his hands into an odd looking fist and blew into it, making some kind of call Stacey didn't recognize. Mattias had his hand on the hilt of his sword, making Stacey start reaching for his carving knife. Syrin made the noise again and started walking. Mattias quickly followed, and just as Stacey was about to do so, something dark gripped him by the shoulders and carried him into the black of the forest.
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