How Many Languages do You Know?

I have mentioned before that each of my daughters speaks another language besides their native tongue, English. Let me clarify, Eldest speaks Spanish; Middlest speaks Latin (and is learning Spanish); and Littlest speaks French.

I must clarify further. Because these are young people, heading quickly into young adulthood, they are also quite fluent in the modern dialect of Mumble. For those not familiar with that dialect, let me explain. Young people are accustomed to speed: On every corner there is opportunity for fast food; access to the internet is at speeds of over 10 Mbps (I remember my brother demonstrating his first modem at a whopping 300 bps, that could barely keep up with what he typed.); and it is normal for high school students to take a number of Advanced Placement classes, so that when they graduate from high school, they already have college credit. (Eldest started her college career with a year’s worth of college credit.)

In order to keep up with this frenetic pace, young people have developed the dialect of Mumble, or as it is scientifically known, Speedglish, as opposed to my native tongue, which is apparently Sloenglish. The basic structure of Mumble is to truncate as many words as possible and to string them together into one fast paced word. An example might be, “Nahbraugodidalwrngudunderstan.” In regular English or Sloenglish that short burst of noise would be, “No brother, you have it all wrong; you do not understand.”

Do you understand? I hope so, because the concept evades me.

Having daughters fluent in Mumble was handy a couple of summers ago when we were flying from one coast of the United States to the other coast. As I was passing through the TSA check point, I found out quickly that TSA does not stand for “Totally Stinking Awesome”. A TSA agent issued a direction to me in Mumble. I responded politely, “Excuse me?” One of my daughters, seeing the awkward social situation I was in, translated for me, “Dad, he wants you to take your glasses off the top of your head and put them on right.”

I was glad for the translation, but baffled as to the reason. I mentioned to the kind TSA agent, “They are simply for reading.” He was insistent that the security of someone was dependent on my wearing my reading glasses while trying to walk through the security checkpoint. So, I lowered the glasses to the tip of my nose, arched my eyebrow and peered over the top of my glasses (everyone hates that) and asked, “Izdizbetterbro?”

He gurgled, “Yah”.

My daughter scolded me, “Dad, stop it, you are not doing it right.”

And I replied in the only real Speedglish I know, “Fuggedaboutit.”

What did You do for April Fool's Day?

Someone once said, "You can please some of the people, some of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time." l searched the internet and discovered that the quote is attributed to Abraham Lincoln, but he didn't say it, at least not exactly that way. It seems the poet John Lydgate penned that quote, and President Lincoln changed it slightly by saying, “You can fool some of the people some of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.”

I am not sure if President Lincoln gave proper attribution for the basis of his quote, but it would cast doubt upon his reputation for honesty if he did not.

The theme of fooling people came to the forefront of my consciousness this past Tuesday, April 1st. I don’t know what happens in other countries and other cultures, but here in the United States, April First, or April Fool’s Day, is a day set aside to afflict each other with all manner of practical jokes, followed with a loud declaration of “April Fool’s”. That is an important point to remember, since if you say “April Fool’s” it is understood that all must be forgiven and no grudge can be held past 12:00 AM on April Second.

For me, April 1st came and went with neither any jokes being played on me, nor my playing any jokes on anyone else. And I felt slighted at this oversight.

This is not to say that we do not like April Fool’s day. Our house is in a fairly constant state of laughter. I come from a long line of laughers. My grandfather once waited until a young female friend of my parents had a cup of hot tea to her mouth before he explained that his mother won him in a game of craps. He delighted in seeing her snort and splash her tea all over.

This sense of hilarity has passed to my daughters. When they were little tykes, we arrived home from an outing and I opened the door to the van and announced that the fee for riding in the van was a nose. Eldest, who has developed into an expert at ignoring her father, just walked by me. Middlest, tugged at her nose and declared, with a dry drawl, “My nose doesn’t come off." Littlest, took her thumb and put it between the fingers of her fist and with a bright smile, handed me her “nose.”

When I got inside, Middlest called out with overflowing excitement, “Dad! I finally got my nose to come off; it is on the kitchen counter!” Overcome with curiousity, and a vague sense of dread, I looked on the counter, and there, tucked inside of a tea towel, was a cheese-stick. The very tip protruding from the folds of cloth to look like a nose.

With those stories in mind, it is no surprise that when I brought the topic of playing April Fool’s jokes on people to my daughters. Eldest shared that a male student proposed to his girlfriend and when she accepted, he replied with, “April Fool’s”. Apparently, toying with the affections of a young maiden is unacceptable in the realm of April Fool’s jokes.

Littlest, who is quite practical, and does not see why there is all the hullabaloo over romance, said, “Proposing on April Fool’s Day is almost as dumb as proposing on Valentines Day, except worse!”

At this point, Middlest, unable to contain herself, chimed in furiously indignant. “There is absolutely no reason to wait until April First to prank someone. We don’t need a special day to play practical jokes. Any day of the year is as good as the next. Whoever waits for April Fool’s to prank someone is just stooooopid!”

Was it a Mouse in the House, or a Moose on the Loose

Middlest has been known to speak with a British accent, and at one time looked at the clock and out of no where said, “It’s Five O’clock? God Save the Queen!” So, she was not amused on Thursday when she discovered we had a surprise visitor to our house. That visitor revealed its presence to Middlest early in the morning as she was getting ready for school.

The visitor was a wayward field mouse, who had mistakenly wandered into our house and sought out the comfort of our kitchen. This greatly displeased all three of my daughters, and  Beloved as well.

I am puzzled by this attitude towards the small and lowly mouse. As my daughters grew up, they enjoyed watching a set of videos starring a country mouse and a city mouse. This dynamic duo of mousedom traveled all over the globe, had many fine adventures, and contributed greatly towards the good of mankind. This animated duo helped save people during the San Francisco Earthquake, preserve priceless ancient artifacts in Egypt, inspire Monet to paint water lillies, and even protected the crown jewels of England.

Despite this early education regarding the wonders of mousedom, my daughters do not like mice. They think they are evil.

And my phone registered their discomfort Thursday morning as it rattled incessantly with messages of grief, anguish, and disgust. Finally, after a bazillion texts, the phone heaved a sigh of quietness as daughters went off to school and Beloved was certain I would be home to take care of the situation.

The last set of texts went like this:

Eldest - I didn’t see the mouse when I left this morning,

but I also wasn’t looking for it.

Me - K. Thanks

Eldest - But I could feel its evil little presence watching my every move.

Me - Ha! I shall poison the evilness. And  

      let its carcass rot outside for all eternity

Eldest -  My ears rejoice at the sound of such an evil plan!

Me -  But soft, I am eager to slay the

        beast and return my domain to a    

       happier state

Later, Eldest once again texted:

Eldest - Has the enemy been vanquished?

Me - The trap has been laid.

        The enemy shall be caught

        unawares and sickened by its

         own appetite

Eldest - This Lady protesteth not.

Some people have the nack for taking a mole hill and turning it into a mountain; my family takes a mouse and turns it into a moose.

What Will It Be Like in Twenty Years

This was the last full week of summer. Next week school begins, at least in my neck of the woods. From reading comments on Facebook and Twitter, along with more traditional sources of news, I understand that for many of you school has already started. My daughters would say to you, “That’s ridiculous. Ain’t nobody got time for that going to school and listening to muddle-headed teachers yet.” Let me extend my apologies to all of you teachers, we really do appreciate you.

Eldest, being in college, has been back to school for a week. Monday, her first day back, was Convocation, a deeply symbolic service, celebrating the return of professors and students to campus.  Professors dress in full academic regalia, the Grand Marshall of the college carries the College Mace (a great big stick with some goo-gaw on top, like a royal scepter only for collegiate setting) and leads a processional down the main aisle of the auditorium. I have no idea how the Grand Marshall is chosen; I think perhaps the faculty chooses one of their members who isn’t afraid of walking down the aisle and carrying a big stick.

And so, during Convocation, the campus, dusty and bored from the summer absence of students and faculty, enfolds the new and returning students and faculty into it’s protective embrace, yet again.

I did not attend Convocation this year and haven’t attended since my years as a student. However, after Convocation I did attend a luncheon on campus, with Beloved. Prior to the actual luncheon there was a punch hour. Now, it sounds as if this college has a violence problem, what with Mace at Convocation and punch hour prior to a luncheon. I assure you that it is a very non-violent place and I saw no evidence of a pugilistic melee prior to the meal. At the punch hour, I ran across the college’s 

First Lady. To be clear, I did not literally run across her, that would be considered vehicular assault, and I am first, non-violent (despite playing violin from elementary school and into college. Yes, it is the same college where Eldest now attends.), and I am a professional driver.

The First Lady, although not imposing in stature, certainly commands attention with her warm spirit, keen intellect, and that warm Texas twang in her voice. As she made her way around the room, she stopped to share a funny story with me.

She shared a scene she saw in Convocation, this most pompous of circumstances, with the dimly lit auditorium, quiet music playing, the soft swishing of the robes as the faculty wait in the wings for the cue for the Grand Marshall to commence the procession. At the outset of this regal event, she watched as Eldest, and one of her biffles (my children tell me that biffle means, best friend for life) saw and greeted each other.

“Now mind you, these two haven’t seen each other for, what? All of twenty minutes. When they saw each other, they hugged and squealed and jumped up and down, like they hadn’t seen each other in years. I can only imagine what homecoming will be like for them in twenty years,” she said.

So, gentle reader, whether you are hugging this new school year and jumping up and down with glee, or you are entering it with all the seriousness of the Grand Marshall carrying the big stick, do it with all your heart.

Even Littlest, who suspects that all teachers are escapee’s from a lunatic asylum, have absolutely no idea how to teach, and who does not want to go back to school to sit under their tutelage, has decided to complain about this year with all her heart.

The PGA Championship is Here. HoHum.

The PGA championship is in Rochester, NY this week. The golfers on this illustrious tour have decided to make a swing through my hometown and every one is giddy. The press is out in force with sightings of Tiger Woods and Phil Mickleson. I saw one picture that appeared to show Mr. Woods putting on footwear while leaning against a van. Images like that almost bring me to tears; the elite and famous of golf, putting on sneakers the same exact way I do. Oh! The humanity.

The press has reported on which fine restaurants the golfers are visiting, who among them may be visiting Niagara Falls (a local attraction, if you don’t mind driving an hour to get there), and which among them have sampled Rochester’s world famous “Garbage Plate”.

I ate a Garbage Plate once and I also golfed once. Just not at the same time, nor in the same place. I golfed in Wisconsin, which is far away from NY. This was to protect myself against the paparazzi photographing my first, and only, feeble attempt at golf. It would not do to have my adoring public see me klutzing about that far away fairway.

I am not attending the championship at Oak Hill this week; instead I have elected to stay home and putt around the house. The shed out back needs to be painted, the basement needs cleaning, and with all the hoopla around town, the dust all seems to be settling in my living room.

Speaking of far away, Eldest is in the land of avocados this week. She left for Guatemala with Roberts Wesleyan’s Enactus  team this past Monday and will return next Saturday night. I think she chose this club to join, and this trip to take, to avoid the golf tournament. Her flight took her across the Gulf of Mexico, just about the time many of the golfers were flying into Rochester. On a side note, when she returns she has requested that we take a trip to the zoo.

I asked Middlest and Littlest what they thought about the PGA being in Rochester. Middlest responded with a laconic, “I really don’t care.” Littlest perked up just slightly and responded, “What golf tournament?”  

Neither is upset at missing a chance to see Tiger Woods out on the links, but they are excited to go with Eldest on a trip to see the lynx..and maybe a tiger too.

My Children are Growing Older, Thankfully, I Am Not.

My health care professional, in this case a Nurse Practitioner, tells me I have to lose weight. I have a couple of problems with that; first, she is just a practitioner. Now if she were an Expert, or even a Highly Trained Professional, I would feel better. I am reluctant to let someone ‘practice’ on me.

Secondly, I think her scale is broken. I have no evidence to support this belief; I just think it is broken. And I value my opinion quite highly.

Either way, I have decided I need to exercise more. When I was first married, I used to run quite a bit. By ’quite a bit’ I mean often, although not necessarily far. That was the only way I could keep up with my wife; she moves like a bolt of lightning. When I got a bit older, and my knees started to file complaints with the labor relations board about how I abused them while running, I began swimming.

I remember swimming with my girls as they grew up. They would splash in the shallow end and come over between my laps to tell me of the amazing things that happened while they played in the water. Then they grew older and would swim a few laps with me, before wandering off to the deep end to dive from the diving board.

I remember the amazement the girls would express as they swam hard to keep up with me. I would slow down and swim leisurely, but they were little and it was still difficult for them to keep pace.

Then, about five years ago, I started working a few extra jobs, and swim time went away. At least for me. The girls got involved with the synchronized swim club at their school.  And Middlest just recently took, and passed, her class to be a life guard.

Now, this summer, I decided to swim again. It has been five or six years, and a few extra pounds, after I stopped swimming regularly. After three or so laps, Littlest comes along side me at one end of the pool and asks how I am doing. I tell her it feels good to be swimming again. She grins, “Yeah, fun, isn’t it.”

I nod and start off on my fourth lap. I get to the other end of the pool and prepare to turn around, when I realize that Littlest is hanging on the edge of the pool, awaiting my arrival. I stop abruptly and take off my goggles, just to be sure I am not seeing things.

I look back to the far end of the pool, then back at my daughter, then around the pool and finally back at my daughter, who looks at me innocently, but with that twinkle of merriment in her eye that says, “ooooo, this is gonna be so much fun.”

“Where did you come from?!” I ask.

“I swam here,” she replied in a calm, un-winded voice, as opposed to my heavy gasps for precious oxygen.

I searched for a snappy come back, but my oxygen-deprived braincells were not firing properly. I just shook my head.

Eldest has celebrated her last birthday as a teenager and is going to Guatemala soon. Middlest, at sixteen, has completed her training as a life guard and is ready to save lives. And Littlest, at halfway through her second decade, can swim way faster than I can.

I am thrilled my daughters are growing into such wonderful young women. And I am proud to be their father who is holding steady at twenty-five.

The First Festival of Summer and it is a Geekfest - Part 2

Rochester is known as the Festival Capital of the World by those of us who live here. Last week I wrote about Imagine RIT (Innovation and Creativity Festival) as the first festival of the season. I made this claim, even though Imagine RIT seems, in general, to be overlooked as a festival.

To me the basic ingredients of a festival are food, music, and people. There was definitely food. In addition to the ice-cream I mentioned last week, there was a group of students who were making smoothies in a blender. This blender was powered by a bicycle. I didn’t try the smoothies, since there was a very long line and I am not patient. I did have a bicycle once and would have loved a blender on the back to mix up an ice-cold smoothie on a hot summer’s bike ride.

Besides these frozen treats, there was a portion of the campus filled with tents where foods from different countries could be purchased. Eldest, Littlest, and I went to an indoor eatery, that was air-conditioned, and sampled some American cuisine. We each had burgers and split an order of curly fries.

Boring, I know, but we were being patriotic.

There was music. Lots of music. Although RIT is known internationally for being a strong engineering school, there was lots of excellent student music. Everything from acapella choirs, to a faculty and student jazz band. Everywhere I turned, it seemed there was music.

That leaves the last, and most important ingredient, of a festival--people. There were many people that attended the festival. I lost track after having to take off my shoes to count them.

A wonderful thing about large numbers of people together is that it becomes easier to bump into people you know. As we were leaving one set of exhibits, Eldest burst forth with, “Grace!” Eldest was delighted to see a young lady she coaches who is named, Grace. The two young ladies greeted each other with a warm hug, like long lost sisters.

Grace was there with her father and two older brothers, Sam and Joe. I like these two young men. However, Joe has a special spot in my heart for a few different reasons.

First, because he would not be out-done by his sister. When he saw his sister and my daughter hugging, he ran up to me exclaiming, “Mr. D!” as he gave me a firm manly bear hug.

From left to right: Littlest, Sam, Joe, Grace, Eldest. Another reason I like Joe, his amazing hair reminds me of my hair.

Joe also holds a special spot in my heart from his time in my young teen Sunday school class. He is the only student in the almost twenty-five years of teaching, that I have had to admonish to stop playing tug-of-war -- with a chair.

Joe was at Imagine RIT with his high school robotics team. They were showing off a robot they had built that had won some major competitions. The picture above is of the robot. I do not know what it is designed to do, I think it plays tug-of-war with chairs against other robots.

The First Festival of the Summer and it is a Geekfest

Rochester is proud of its festivals and this weekend starts with our wonderful Lilac Festival, but this is not the first festival of the season. Imagine RIT was last weekend and officially starts our festival season.

Last weekend Eldest, Littlest, and I went, Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT), for the “Innovation and Creativity Festival”, otherwise known as Imagine RIT. I wrote about the same Festival last year, when Eldest and I visited.

One of the displays that caught my attention was an immense air cannon that RIT is working on as part of the “American Defense Against Uber Massive nerf Bombing”, or AmDUMB. This cannon launched nerf balls hundreds of feet into the air, hopefully shooting down any incoming nerf bombs.

One demonstration I wanted to see was the fencing demonstration. Having spent a great part of my youth in a rural agricultural community, I was keenly interested in the latest advances in putting up fences, which I remember as a painstaking, back-breaking process. Unfortunately, when I arrived, the demonstrators were playing a rousing game of Pirates instead of doing any fencing.

Eldest and Littlest went to see the science of making ice cream.  Scientists do it differently than normal people. They pour cream and flavorings into a bowl and add a solid form of carbon dioxide, or as Eldest says, “Dicarbon monolithic sulfate, but don’t quote me on that”. The result is a tasty frozen custard, scientifically speaking.  I tried some of Littlest’s treat and it was delicious.

One hidden display was this row of file folders with students name’s on them. This was how professors returned hard copies of assignments and such to the engineering students. I marveled out loud to my daughters that this was how things were done before the internet, email, and iThings. To which Eldest replied, “I know dad, I lived through part of the paper age.”

One last item of note, was some of the posters that were around the campus. Many of them pointed out some amazing exhibit that we should absolutely not miss. One poster, in particular, caught the eye of Eldest, who once posted on Facebook something along the lines of, “My boy friend told me he was going to break up with me because I live in a fantasy world. The jokes on him, he is a figment of my imagination.”

Help, I need Inspiration

There are times when I am intimidated by this space. I run out of ideas and inspiration. It is at times like these I turn to my family for help. I asked Beloved what I should write about and she responded, “I don’t know.” This is of no help, I am the one who really doesn’t know and really should.

This not knowing is unacceptable in the connected age we live in, and led me to do what every Internet junkie would do. I Googled “What should I blog about today?” I was less than impressed at the results. In the top ten results there were advertisements to purchase a system from Empower Network for driving traffic to my blog, so I can make more money from my blog. I don’t make any money in the first place, and in the second, I can fool the most fool proof of anything, even if it is only “Simple, 3-step Formula.”

I want inspiration, not a sales pitch.

The next result was a blog post from someone named Social Pro, who told me my problem was I hadn’t done my homework. Like I haven’t heard that before, from all my teachers, throughout my entire educational career.

Social Pro’s idea of homework was to take one or two days a month and dedicate them exclusively to brainstorming blog ideas. Not going to happen; I actually have to work too much  to pay the bills to take two days a month to sit around waiting for inspiration.

I need inspiration and I need it now.

Littlest, who is very supportive, said, “Daddy, you can do it. Just write about whatever you want; I believe in you.”

I need inspiration, not affirmation.

Middlest is my go to daughter for inspirational humor. This is the girl who, at the dinner table, said, “If I cried as much as I actually say I do, my tear ducts would pack their bags in disgust and exhaustion and move to my kidneys.”

When I asked her what I should write about she said, “Dad, I have trig homework, AP World homework (that is the class where they watch movies during class and do the learning at home on their own) and a synchronized swim show this weekend. I need to get my homework done. Do YOU know how to do infinite geometric series?”

I need inspiration and a mathematician.

Eldest, when I asked her what I should write about, threw her hands in the air and said, “Write about...ME!”

Finally, something to inspire me. Unfortunately, I have run out of my weekly allotment of words. I will have to write about her another time.

Finding Balance Part Two

In last week’s blog, I wrote about balance and pointed out Middlest’s enormous amount of homework during the week of break, all while they were watching movies during class time. Nature is designed to operate in balance; balance will happen.

One of my dad’s favorite phrases was, “Now the pendulum is swinging the other way.” He used this to illustrate how one group of people on one side of the center would hold power, until the power shifted to another group of people on the other side of the center. Even as a child, thinking concretely about this large pendulum swinging back and forth, I would think, “Why don’t we just stop the pendulum from swinging and stay right dead center?”

Staying right dead center will never work. Firstly, it will not work because it is boring. As people we crave stimulation. We thrive on new experiences. We demand difference. And so we are back to that pendulum swinging back and forth, or to the large playground teeter-totter trying to find balance.

Secondly, it will not work because different times and different situations require different approaches. Which brings us back to balance.

My kids, with Eldest setting the example, have seemed to innately master this concept of balance. I was frustrated with Eldest during her senior year in High School when I would see her supposedly doing homework at the computer, yet the computer seemed to always be on Facebook, where she read what her friends were doing, or on Tumblr, where she would look at pictures of kittens with inane captions, or viewing Youtube videos of people singing about some furry guy who made clay pots.

Then I watched her closely, and she did indeed visit these sites, but she would space those visits out with working on homework. Doing research on Google, writing a paper, even reading a text book, before going off into the world of social media to see what her friends were doing. She easily recognized balancing calculus equations with giggling over pictures of grumpy felines with silly captions.

That is how each of the three girls do their homework. Which I cannot fathom. Excuse me for a moment while I go check Twitter.

Littlest understood balance from a very young age, especially balance in diet. Not a diet of all one thing, but enjoying the rich variety of foods in creation. She demonstrated this as a tiny thing helping to carry in groceries. She was bringing in two bags from the van. She was so small the bottoms of the bags were dragging on the ground, (one bag in each hand, and if I may add, she was adorable.) She looked up at me and with her amazing grin she announced, “Look dad! A balanced diet.”

You Are My Favorite

I work with a gentleman who often announces that he “loves” someone “the best”.  Usually the person receiving his affection is the person closest to the coffee maker. I think he believes that if he bats his big brown eyes, gives a huge toothy grin, and butters up his target with shouts of sweetness from across the room, he may be rewarded with a cup of coffee.

Last week, Eldest hacked my Facebook. She took my phone when I was distracted, and updated my status to read, “Eldest is my favorite!” She then ceaselessly giggled when she told me what she had done. I didn’t say anything; I just plotted my next move. That post, by the way, received two likes and a number of comments about how I must have been hacked.

Any good parenting book will tell you not to play favorites with your children. But a few years ago I asked Littlest to put a load of laundry into the washing machine. She was deeply offended since she thought it was one of her sister’s turns to do that chore. She pleaded, “But daddy, why me?” I replied, “Because you are my favorite.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she rolled her eyes, “I know, but...”

I think I am still waiting for that load of laundry to be put into the washer.

This choosing of the best has been a tradition in our house since that time, with Eldest and Littlest each arguing between themselves as to who is really my favorite. Meanwhile, Middlest stays out of the fray, and when I tell her that she is my favorite, she replies with a stately and quietly dignified, “I know.” This is out of character for Middlest, who has made it a point to attack every moment of the day with enormous gusto, scathing sarcasm, and the wittiest of comments, such as, “What?! It’s 5 o’clock already?! God Save the Queen!”

So, on Friday, Eldest posted that she was my favorite when she hacked my Facebook. On Saturday, I posted, “Middlest is my favorite.” She remained silent, but her sisters argued back and forth in the comments that they were actually my favorite.

On Saturday, I posted “Littlest is my favorite.” By this point social media apparently had grown bored with my inability to pick one favorite and stick with it; that post only had two likes and no discussion. Littlest would say that there were no comments because it was the truth.

On Sunday I posted that my account had been hacked, and that “Beloved  is truly my favorite.” Now that post was greeted with great mayhem, with 14 likes and 5 comments.

Unlike my friend from work, I would never resort to underhanded complimenting in order to get something I wanted. I simply have a hard time making up my mind who is really my favorite.

Although, Littlest has been getting up early and making me coffee this week.

And the other day, Middlest had me laughing so hard my sides hurt.

Oh, and Eldest has been playing the piano lately.

And Beloved took me out to breakfast.

Crud, I cant make up my mind.

All I wanted to do was renew my driver's license

                I just renewed my driver’s license. I decided to upgrade to the enhanced version, in case I ever wanted to cross the border into Canada. Although, as I understand it, getting into Canada is not a problem, it is the returning to the United States that is troublesome. As Littlest states, “Canadians are such friendly people.” This sentiment shows maturation from our summer camping trip a few years ago where Eldest insisted that Canada was invading the US. 

                I went to the local Department of Motor Vehicles office with a huge stack of papers. The very kind woman at the counter pointed out that my certificate of live birth did not have a raised seal. I was dumbfounded and aghast. “A raised seal? why do I need a seal? What is the porpoise of that?” I inquired. She replied, “Without the seal the document is fishy, you need to go to the Office of Vital Records and get a certified copy, with the raised seal.”

                Off I went to the Office of Vital Records. Where I was greeted at the counter by yet another kind person. I told her I needed a copy of my birth certificate, with a raised seal. She replied, “Do you have your driver’s license?”

                “Yes, I am renewing it and I want the enhanced license, so I need a copy of my Birth Certificate. What do you need to prove I was born?”

                “Just your license.” She replied cheerily.

                Talk about fishy. I could not get the enhanced license without a copy of my birth certificate (with the seal) and to get that copy, all I had to do was produce my license.

                That is a perfect example of Governmental Notion. When the government gets a notion, it can only cause trouble. My father-in-law’s cousin was a victim of Governmental Notion. She served this country in the military as a nurse. When she did not receive her Veteran’s Benefits check, she called to look into the matter and was told she was dead. This came as quite a shock to her, especially with her medical training. She was told it was the Social Security Administration (SSA) that told the Veteran’s Administration that she was dead. A call to the SSA verified her death and that the SSA does not make mistakes.

                It would seem logical that the easiest way to prove she was alive would be to go to her local SSA office and have them take her pulse and temperature. This, however, is not how the Government operates. They needed paperwork. Lots of it. Preferably with raised seals.

                A major political theorist, yours truly, postulates that if everyone on earth instantaneously and mysteriously vanished, government would continue for x number of years due to the amount of paperwork already in queue; where x would be directly proportional to the number of seals raised by that particular government.

                I call this the theory of Governmental Motion, not to be confused with Governmental Notion.

                My father-in-law’s cousin has sent her pile of papers to SSA and I am waiting for my enhanced license to arrive in the mail. By the way, I found out while waiting at the Department of Motor Vehicles, that you can have anything enhanced for $42.50. I am working on collecting a stack of papers with raise seals to submit to the Government as an application for a grant for $42.50, so I can enhance my theory of Governmental Motion.

Illegal Aliens, not as bad as we think.

The state of Georgia has passed a law. The law criminalizes harboring or concealing an illegal alien. I say, “It is about time.” Anyone who has carefully monitored this situation realizes that aliens, illegal or otherwise, are an evil breed. The only two aliens known to have not been evil, vile creatures are E.T. and Martin, from “My Favorite Martian.” Every other alien has been blood sucking, laser shooting, humanity destroying, peanut butter and jelly sandwich stealing creature from other planets.

My youngest daughter, Littlest, has just read my first paragraph, over my shoulder and corrected me. Apparently, Georgia is not concerned with aliens from outer space intent upon harvesting our brains, they are more concerned with people from other countries in the US illegally, and who are here to harvest our crops.

The Georgia General Assembly, concerned about illegal immigrants taking jobs from citizens has taken these steps to preserve these jobs for the fine citizens of that state. There is only one problem. No one wants those jobs. Farming is hard work, which apparently Lawmakers know nothing about. I have spent some time tossing bales of hay around, up onto hay wagons, and stacking them in the barn. It was hard work and that was a few years ago. More recently, I have picked strawberries, not a large amount, just a few quarts. I am older, and it was harder. My back was so sore I had to lay flat on my back for months.

Tom Rivers, a fine, strong, young, journalist, has written a book, “Farm Hands”. The Georgia General Assembly would have done well to read. (I think that they should be able read, even if they do not know anything about hard work.) Tom nicely relates how difficult farm work is, and how hard agricultural laborers work.

Because of the new penalties against illegal aliens working, there are 11,000 to few laborers on farms in Georgia. Crops are going to waste. Fear not, the state of Georgia has a solution. Criminals. Yes, ex criminals, who cannot find work, are encouraged to toil under the hot Georgia sun, picking peanuts, cucumbers and other vegetables. I have observed that criminals have something in common with Lawmakers, besides the obvious penchant for breaking laws, neither like to work hard. Lawmakers become lawmakers to avoid toiling under the hot sun, and criminals commit crimes, rather than finding a job. Criminals are not flocking en masse to Georgia farms to labor, thankful that they have work and there is still 11,000 too few agricultural workers.

In other news, economists predict that we will all be paying higher prices for food…well no duh! The largest producer of peanut butter, when asked about the lack of peanuts, responded that they are “Watching this sticky situation closely.” The leading maker of condiments has stated, “We do not relish the possibility of higher cucumber prices.”

My sources tell me that NASA has been transmitting world maps into space. The maps have an arrow pointing to Georgia, along with the words written in 6 different languages, including Klingon, “Attention Illegal Aliens, You are welcome here.”

Spelling bee

GCMS held their school spelling bee this past week. Middlest was selected from amongst her classmates to compete. She was less than enthused; she was downright depressed. With all of her activities, she did not want to add another one. Mother asked, “Did you tell your teacher you didn’t want to compete?”

                “Another girl already tried that. The teacher told her there was not anyone else who wanted to compete. Like really? There is a whole class full of AP English students who could compete.” Middlest expressed her frustration with a roll of her eyes and a scowl. “Last year was more fun, when Littlest and I competed together!” Which they did; both of them made it to the last round. Being stumped on baccalaureate and annihilate.

                The preparation continued. Mother reading a word and Middlest spelling it. With scientific precision Middlest rattled off the proper spelling for each word. When she missed one, she would write the proper spelling on a sheet of paper for further review. Mother read the word, “similarity” and Middlest commenced, “S-I-M-I-L-A-R-I don’t understand why I have to do this!” Her transition between spelling and complaint was smooth and seamless.

                The next word was deceit. Which prompted a discussion of the ‘i-before-e-except-after-c rule and all of its corollaries, such as ones you can disprove with science and other weird options. Littlest piped in, “I thought every time I read that word in a book it was spelled, i-e-t.” to which Middlest responded, “I hate reading books that haven’t been written.”

                The evening of the spelling bee arrived. Middlest again expressed her unwillingness to compete. Littlest offered to take her place, “No one will know it is me.” Middlest rolled her eyes, “No, it is ok, I will do it alone. But I wish you were competing with me.”

                That night Middlest got out in the second round. The word that tripped her up? Loneliness.

               

                

Making Pizza

My youngest daughter, Littlest, and I, love to make pizza together. When she was younger, her job was to decorate the pies after I made and rolled out the dough.  Now that she is older, she makes the dough herself; even starting the yeast from scratch.

If you have baked using yeast, you are well aware of what it takes to get yeast to work properly. Sometimes it seems as if it requires a bit of magic. When I first started making my own pizza dough, I did not do such a good job. As Eldest would say, “Fail...EPIC fail.” She has such an encouraging spirit.

I went to one of the best chefs in the world for advice. Mom gave me some words of wisdom, make sure the water you put the yeast in is “just the right” temperature. I cannot tell you how many stores I went to, looking for a thermometer that listed “just the right temperature.” I still have not found one, and I have been looking since the invention of classical music.

She also told me to put a little sugar into the yeast to “prove it.”

“Prove what?” I asked her.

She explained that yeast is a fun guy, adding sugar not only makes it a sweet fun guy, it proves that it really is a fun guy. Now Littlest has a ritual when she starts the yeast to growing. She looks into the bowl of yeast and water and asks, “Are you a fun guy?” Then she dramatically throws sugar into the bowl, when it begins to foam and smell as yeast should smell, she declares boldly, “Behold the mold, it is a fun guy!”

When she does this, I am always a bit saddened. My Littlest is growing up and interested in other males, besides her father. It is no comfort that her newest fun guy is a slimy wet puddle of fermenting gunk in the bottom of a small bowl. I ask her, “What about your father? Aren’t I a fun guy?”

“Are you a fun guy?” she asks me.

Then she throws a handful of sugar at me and announces brightly, “Nope, you are not a fun guy.” As I growl and brush the sugar out of my thick mane of hair.

I make two contributions to cooking pizza. I help prepare some of the toppings; Littlest lets me fry sausage and cut up broccoli. I also am allowed to roll out the dough. Notice I roll the dough, I do not throw it in the air and twirl it around. I tried that once with disastrous consequences. I think I am still trying to get all of the sticky dough out of my hair!

In our house we have a variety of preferences when it comes to pizza toppings. One person only likes pepperoni, one prefers Italian sausage, another healthy individual wants broccoli on her pizza. In the effort to please everyone’s palates, by the time Littlest gets to the last pizza we have a little bit of all the toppings left. They go on the last pizza, along with some onion and jalapeno pepper. This pizza is christened the garbage pizza and the only two people who like eating it are Littlest and myself. This is a good thing; we do not have to worry about any leftover pieces disappearing in the middle of the night.

As we put the pizzas in the oven, Littlest remarks, “I love making pizza, it is so much fun.”

“You should,” I reply, “It is in your blood.”

“What do you mean?”  she asks.

“My dad’s uncle, who would be my great uncle, and I suppose then your terrific uncle, owned a pizzeria.”

“Why did he do that?” she asks.

“Well, he had a family to support and needed the dough.”