Long Shrift

well, there might be one little thing

fleeced

I can't explain the popularity of Snuggies. Maybe there are a lot of people who don't realize that fleece blankets and scissors are widely available. Don't get me wrong; in our drafty house, fleece blankets are very nice to have. But I have never worried that I couldn't get my arms free if the phone rang. If you can't extricate your arms before the fourth ring or so, I daresay you have bigger problems.

And battle lines are apparently being drawn between pro-Snuggie and pro-Slanket factions. Oh, the soft, cuddly horror.

When a friend sent me the news about the Snuggie Pub Crawl, I shook my head, picturing crowds of drunken monk-like figures wrapped in burgundy, royal blue and sage green, stumbling around dark Chicago streets. I'm glad the proceeds are going to aid children in Tanzania, but if you really want to do them a favor, buy a Snuggie and send that.

If the Snuggie isn't cutting it for you, there are alternatives (thanks, Coudal Partners). And make sure the kid doesn't feel left out (thanks, bb).

knowing where you stand

It had been a good, lazy Saturday morning. We slept in (which meant that Quinn slept all of half an hour later than his usual wake up time), we watched a movie, and then we all went outside to shovel and sled on the snow that had fallen overnight. We settled down for lunch.

Quinn looked at me across the table and smiled. "I like Mommy."

"That's very nice of you to say."

"I like you too, Daddy."

"I like you a whole lot, buddy."

"And I like toots."

sympathy for the server

Encountered this error today. Sometimes I feel the same way.

TITLE: Connect to Server
------------------------------

Cannot connect to sdb04\production.

------------------------------
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

A connection was successfully established with the server, but then an error occurred during the login process. (provider: Shared Memory Provider, error: 0 - No process is on the other end of the pipe.) (Microsoft SQL Server, Error: 233)

not a car guy

My Jetta is almost nine years old, but it's held up fairly well, probably because the mileage is very low (less than 60,000 miles; when I say I don't get out much, I'm not kidding). But I'd been overdue for an oil change. When the 'check fluids' light came on, I figured I should make an appointment and take it in, but I procrastinated.

Then I saw a light on the dashboard that I had never seen before: an airbag warning. That's not cool. I had a vision of bumping into the side of the garage and having the bag go off. I expect my glasses would leave a nice raccoon-like pattern on my face. Quinn would probably think it hilarious.

There are a couple of mechanics around me that I trust, but I figure the airbag warning necessitates a trip to the dealership. The service department warned me that the airbag might need a simple fix or something very complicated. He suggested I come in as early as possible, so I said I could be there at 7 when the shop opened. He then suggested that I come in at 7:45, so he could be sure a technician would be there. It didn't occur to me until later... if the technicians don't come in until 7:45, who the hell is working on the cars? I suspect angry German apprentices, shaking off the beer hall effects of the previous night, listening to Rammstein.

I drove very carefully to the dealership and pulled around to the service department doors. I was embarassed by my dirty car; I had also been procrastinating a trip to the car wash. The previous evening some goofball had written 'PLEASE WASH ME' in the grime on the trunk. I stepped out, and I was face to face with a guy who looked like the stereotype I hold of modern VW drivers: Van Dyke, peacoat, horn-rimmed glasses, carefully messed-up hair framing a pale face, spaghetti arms. In other words, practically my twin. I shuddered when I realized I would not have looked all that out of place at a VW rally.

I took a seat in the waiting area, next to the showroom. Brooke Shields stared at me, and her eyes followed me as I wandered over to the Routan. Less than impressive. And if you're going to get a VW minivan, you just have to commit.

Service desk guy came to get me. The airbag repair would set me back about $200, but what choice did I have? It got better: while doing the oil change, they discovered that my car was leaking coolant through a flange - a 'small plastic part that gets cracked sometimes.' I breathed a small sigh of relief, expecting a relatively cheap and easy fix. Turns out that the engineers at VW had decided that this readily cracked piece of cheap plastic was a good place to put a couple of very expensive sensors. Suddenly my repair was going to be $1,200. Apparently it's a complicated repair job, and requires several hours of effort by specially trained experts.

The courtesy car would be available to take me somewhere, if I didn't care to wait. Damn straight I didn't. I went in to work, feeling grateful to have a job. I figured I'd done my part to stimulate the economy.

The service department called back mid-afternoon. By the way, they said, did the engine ever run roughly when it rained? Not like I'd know, necessarily, but yes, sometimes if I left the car in my damp garage for a couple of days, my car would be sluggish for a few minutes after starting up. Apparently this is a due to the ignition coil failing in one of the cylinders, and for a mere $700 more, they could take care of that, too. But I'd had enough. As the courtesy car took me back to the dealership, I wondered if my mileage would improve now that I'd be driving a 5.5-cylinder car. Somehow, I doubt it.

And the worst part was... they did a crappy job washing the car.

words fail me

After leaving the funeral home, we all went out for dinner. After the drinks came, my brother said that I should make a toast. I balked for a dozen reasons: I hadn't a clue what I could say. Anything I would say would be trite or cliche. There were others around the table who would have more to say, would have more of a right to say something. Finally my younger brother made a toast instead, and called her a good sister, a good wife and a good mother.

I could have talked about the untouchable bookshelf. The six of us - my parents, my three brothers and I - lived in a trailer home. We didn't have much in the way of furniture, but in the room I shared with my brother, there was a small bookshelf of hardcover books that belonged to my mom. We were forbidden from reading them, or even touching them, which of course made me want to read them. They were pretty weighty titles in both heft and content, and I couldn't make sense of them as a child. As a kid, I figured there was some naughty, grown-up stuff in those books that my mom didn't want us to read. (My wife points out, wisely, that my mom probably just didn't want us kids to put our grubby hands on her nice books.) I was a voracious reader as a child, which continued into my adulthood. I still treat books carefully, and I always look over my shoulder when I'm reading any naughty parts.

Another thing was the tuna poulet, a dish served frequently when we were growing up: a mixture of cream of mushroom soup and tuna served over white rice or perhaps egg noodles. In the long years since, I've learned that while it's not the healthiest dish, it's cheap, easy to prepare and filling. I realize now that my mom cobbled it together out of necessity, because money was tight and she had a family to feed. I also learned that poulet is French for 'chicken,' and I understand that she made up the name after the four billionth time we asked her what was for dinner. (Now that I have a kid of my own, I understand a lot of things.)

I had the chance to talk to my mom a few days before she died. She was tired and didn't talk much, and I babbled on. When I started to run low on things to say, I handed the phone to Quinn, who never has a problem in that department. He described in detail the toys he had gotten for his birthday. I think my mom was fine with just listening to him talk.