I have too little money and too much stress, the economy is falling of a cliff, and a clueless, cranky, senile dinosaur has a (dwindling, thank God) chance of becoming president. Yet I am as happy as I think I have ever been. Is it bad luck to say this? Will I jinx myself?
Cynthia grows ever larger. To the point where there is some small fear that she has gestational diabetes; her glucose test was done improperly the first time (thus its normal result is suspect) and so she has been retested. This worries me far more than the fact that we haven't started to paint the nursery yet. But not overmuch; she seems the picture of health (despite a stupendous, for seven months, belly) and from what I can tell, gestational diabetes is not a problem if detected early. As the chief cook, I can assure you that any adjustments to her diet will be accommodated.
A recent ultrasound of the baby was perfectly normal -- brain structures, renals, etc. The ultrasound machine has a feature which fills in the image so that the translucent blob looks more like an actual picture of an actual baby. The trouble is that the computer enhancement is rather clumsy. The picture they showed us of the baby's face looks like a blurry post-Impressionist portrait. The ultrasound technician pointed to the baby's very bow-shaped lips. "He has your lips," she said to Cynthia. He also seems to have her short, flat nose. Poor Cynthia. She wanted the baby to have her epicanthic folds, but her father's straight nose and full lips. (She's going to be disappointed in her desire for a green-eyed child, too; my German/English genes are no match for 5,000 years of Han hegemony.)
I truly could not care less what the child looks like, so long as he is healthy; life is hard enough without starting out unwell. Life is easier for a good-looking person, though. He'll get that from his mother.
We have collected a vast amount of baby clothing. The child will not be born for two more months, and yet he already has more clothing than I do, thanks to boxes of stuff from friends and family. Cynthia's brother and sister-in-law recently donated a large pile of baby stuff, too: two strollers, a car seat, a high chair, a crib, and some toys. They occupy our living room, at present. There are advantages to not having any furniture!
(Cynthia has decided that a laundry basket with a blanket in it is a suitable substitute for a bassinet. This, from a Manhattanite who had never set foot in a Target before she met me, who thinks $200 is a good price for jeans, who doesn't find anything odd about her friends hiring a gardener to water a few potted plants on the balcony of their condo in the East Village. She gets pregnant, and all of the sudden she's collecting tin cans on the street and stealing packs of Splenda from restaurants.)
A part of me wants to provide an update on the status of the home renovation. A part of me finds it too tiring to get into. I'm going to listen to this latter, paint-speckled, weary part.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
In which all my fiscal problems are solved.
Dear Mr. Paulson:
I pissed away all of my money on a preposterious Ponzi scheme that a brain-damaged fourth-grader would have seen through. Please give me $700 billion. Don't dare touch the multi-million dollar salary I pay myself for my brilliant stewardship, either.
XXXOOO,
Dingo English.
I pissed away all of my money on a preposterious Ponzi scheme that a brain-damaged fourth-grader would have seen through. Please give me $700 billion. Don't dare touch the multi-million dollar salary I pay myself for my brilliant stewardship, either.
XXXOOO,
Dingo English.
Friday, September 19, 2008
In which I recall the very recent past
Last night one of my mother's dogs died. He was a great big Golden Retriever, very personable and low-key. He was a handsome ex-show dog, an AKC champion. And very young to die -- not quite seven.
When I was single and living in Federal Hill, I used to volunteer to dogsit for him when my parents were out of town. She always refused.
The problem was not Federal Hill. There was a big park on either end of my street and plenty of places for us to walk. The problem was not with my dogsitting skills; before I lived in the city, I watched her dogs on many other occasions.
The problem was that he was such an attractive, friendly dog. My mother would say to me: you can't watch him. You meet too many women as it is.
When I was single and living in Federal Hill, I used to volunteer to dogsit for him when my parents were out of town. She always refused.
The problem was not Federal Hill. There was a big park on either end of my street and plenty of places for us to walk. The problem was not with my dogsitting skills; before I lived in the city, I watched her dogs on many other occasions.
The problem was that he was such an attractive, friendly dog. My mother would say to me: you can't watch him. You meet too many women as it is.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
In which I do some math.
On January 19, 1993, the Dow Jones Industrial Average was 3,255.99.
On January 19, 2001, the Dow Jones Industrial Average was 10,587.59.
That would be, unless I'm mistaken, an increase of over 225% in eight years.
As I write this, the DJIA is 10,609.66 (and falling). That's an increase of two-tenths of one percent since January 19, 2001.
On January 19, 1993, the S&P 500 was 435.13.
On January 19, 2001, the S&P 500 was 1342.54.
That would be an eight-year increase of over 208%.
As I write this, the S&P 500 is 1166.85 (and falling). That's a decline of just over 13% since January 19, 2001.
On January 19, 1993, the NASDAQ was 696.81.
On January 19, 2001, the NASDAQ was 2770.38.
The eight-year increase was almost 298%.
As I write this, the NASDAQ composite is 2,115.44 (and falling). That's a decline of nearly 24%.
At the end of the day, the duty of the President is to leave the country stronger than he found it.
Why would we reward this performance with four more years of the same?
On January 19, 2001, the Dow Jones Industrial Average was 10,587.59.
That would be, unless I'm mistaken, an increase of over 225% in eight years.
As I write this, the DJIA is 10,609.66 (and falling). That's an increase of two-tenths of one percent since January 19, 2001.
On January 19, 1993, the S&P 500 was 435.13.
On January 19, 2001, the S&P 500 was 1342.54.
That would be an eight-year increase of over 208%.
As I write this, the S&P 500 is 1166.85 (and falling). That's a decline of just over 13% since January 19, 2001.
On January 19, 1993, the NASDAQ was 696.81.
On January 19, 2001, the NASDAQ was 2770.38.
The eight-year increase was almost 298%.
As I write this, the NASDAQ composite is 2,115.44 (and falling). That's a decline of nearly 24%.
At the end of the day, the duty of the President is to leave the country stronger than he found it.
Why would we reward this performance with four more years of the same?
Monday, September 15, 2008
In which I ponder 10%
I taped plastic sheets and newspapers all around the baseboards to protect the floors. I removed the light fixtures and switchplates. I taped the window in the front hallway and hung plastic sheeting in the doorways to the living room and the dining room. I put a canvas dropcloth on the front steps.
I put two coats of oil-based primer on everything -- ceiling, walls, moldings. I used the low-pressure sprayer to get into the corners and the fluted moldings. I used mineral spirits to scrub off the droplets that wound up on the floor despite my best efforts. Then I used the sprayer again to put white ceiling paint on the upper trim and the curved edges of the ceiling. And followed with a roller on a long stick to paint the rest of the ceiling. The white was almost indistiguishable from the primer that was already there, but I knew the difference.
After much moving back and forth with different color chips in different lighting, and pondering other, future color selections for the living room and the dining room, Cynthia opted for a sort of dark salmon color for the main hallway.
I spent the first half of yesterday taping off the moldings and trim; Cynthia shored up the floor coverings where it had pulled loose from the baseboards. I spent the second half of yesterday coating the walls with the colored paint. I painted part of the hallway and proposed that I stop and let it dry so Cynthia could be sure she was happy with it. No, she said, I like it, it's a little more saturated than I thought, more colorful, but I like it.
The weather is hot and humid and I was dripping wet when I finished. I stood there pondering whether I needed a second coat, or just some touch-ups here and there.
That's when Cynthia said: boy, that sure looks more orange than I expected.
There was a pause. Then she said, do you like it?
Yes, I said. It's not as pink as I thought, but I like it.
I'm not sure I like it, she said.
Give it time, I suggested. The walls are still wet. Let it dry. Plus, there is navy blue tape bordering the whole thing. That makes it seem brighter than it really is.
Last night while we were walking the dog (we are dogsitting) she said, what would be involved in painting over that?
It was my turn for a long pause. Painting over it with what? I said.
Something that's not so... orange.
I would have to re-primer it, I said. It's so dark, I couldn't just paint over it with another color.
Would that be really hard? she said. Hard? It wouldn't be hard. It would erase the last two weeks worth of work, that's all.
I said, let it dry all the way and then decide. This morning she said, I like it better. But I still hate it about 10%. I can live with it 90%, I hate it 10%.
To the extent that I understand the way women communicate -- women who share my bed, in particular -- I interpret that 10% to mean that I am spending next weekend re-primering the walls.
I put two coats of oil-based primer on everything -- ceiling, walls, moldings. I used the low-pressure sprayer to get into the corners and the fluted moldings. I used mineral spirits to scrub off the droplets that wound up on the floor despite my best efforts. Then I used the sprayer again to put white ceiling paint on the upper trim and the curved edges of the ceiling. And followed with a roller on a long stick to paint the rest of the ceiling. The white was almost indistiguishable from the primer that was already there, but I knew the difference.
After much moving back and forth with different color chips in different lighting, and pondering other, future color selections for the living room and the dining room, Cynthia opted for a sort of dark salmon color for the main hallway.
I spent the first half of yesterday taping off the moldings and trim; Cynthia shored up the floor coverings where it had pulled loose from the baseboards. I spent the second half of yesterday coating the walls with the colored paint. I painted part of the hallway and proposed that I stop and let it dry so Cynthia could be sure she was happy with it. No, she said, I like it, it's a little more saturated than I thought, more colorful, but I like it.
The weather is hot and humid and I was dripping wet when I finished. I stood there pondering whether I needed a second coat, or just some touch-ups here and there.
That's when Cynthia said: boy, that sure looks more orange than I expected.
There was a pause. Then she said, do you like it?
Yes, I said. It's not as pink as I thought, but I like it.
I'm not sure I like it, she said.
Give it time, I suggested. The walls are still wet. Let it dry. Plus, there is navy blue tape bordering the whole thing. That makes it seem brighter than it really is.
Last night while we were walking the dog (we are dogsitting) she said, what would be involved in painting over that?
It was my turn for a long pause. Painting over it with what? I said.
Something that's not so... orange.
I would have to re-primer it, I said. It's so dark, I couldn't just paint over it with another color.
Would that be really hard? she said. Hard? It wouldn't be hard. It would erase the last two weeks worth of work, that's all.
I said, let it dry all the way and then decide. This morning she said, I like it better. But I still hate it about 10%. I can live with it 90%, I hate it 10%.
To the extent that I understand the way women communicate -- women who share my bed, in particular -- I interpret that 10% to mean that I am spending next weekend re-primering the walls.
Friday, September 12, 2008
In which I disavow hotness
Straight men should date a few really hot girls early in adulthood so that they can blithely turn their backs on hotness ever after. Once you've had a prolonged relationship with a hot woman, you will never have quite the same reaction to hotness, and it frees you up to be much more sensible about such things in the future.
(1) No matter how hot she is -- no matter how far your jaw dropped and your tongue protruded the first time you saw her -- it will wear off. You don't realize this if you only ogle hot women from afar, but trust me, there will come a time when the hotness is more or less invisible to you most of the time. At which point you are paying attention to character and personality and intellect, which are no more likely to be compatible with yours than with an average-looking woman.
(2) Hot women put a lot of effort and a fair amount of money into looking hot. The payoff is both feeling good about themselves and getting attention from men, which also makes them feel good. There's nothing wrong with this. But being hot is a talent, like being able to tango or play guitar or hit home runs. If you put a lot of time and effort into developing a talent, you like to be able to use it as frequently as possible. The use to which one puts "being hot" is: attracting members of the opposite sex. Thus, a hot girl in a steady, monogamous relationship has a much reduced incentive to continue to be hot. And her boyfriend has an increased basis for jealousy. This is neither rational nor fair, but let's face it, relationships are rarely rational and never fair.
(3) After you date a hot woman or two, your reaction to hot women changes. You still look. You still have an aesthetic appreciation and physiological reaction to hot women. But you have a much reduced desire to approach them simply for their hotness. It is much easier to say "no" to a hot woman once you've gotten it out of your system.
My advice to my son is that he chase really hot women (or men, if that turns out to be the case) in college so that by the time he's old enough for marriage, he'll be able to make a much more sensible decision not based upon looks. And will be much less likely to cheat on his partner simply because of an unsatisfied lust for hotness.
(1) No matter how hot she is -- no matter how far your jaw dropped and your tongue protruded the first time you saw her -- it will wear off. You don't realize this if you only ogle hot women from afar, but trust me, there will come a time when the hotness is more or less invisible to you most of the time. At which point you are paying attention to character and personality and intellect, which are no more likely to be compatible with yours than with an average-looking woman.
(2) Hot women put a lot of effort and a fair amount of money into looking hot. The payoff is both feeling good about themselves and getting attention from men, which also makes them feel good. There's nothing wrong with this. But being hot is a talent, like being able to tango or play guitar or hit home runs. If you put a lot of time and effort into developing a talent, you like to be able to use it as frequently as possible. The use to which one puts "being hot" is: attracting members of the opposite sex. Thus, a hot girl in a steady, monogamous relationship has a much reduced incentive to continue to be hot. And her boyfriend has an increased basis for jealousy. This is neither rational nor fair, but let's face it, relationships are rarely rational and never fair.
(3) After you date a hot woman or two, your reaction to hot women changes. You still look. You still have an aesthetic appreciation and physiological reaction to hot women. But you have a much reduced desire to approach them simply for their hotness. It is much easier to say "no" to a hot woman once you've gotten it out of your system.
My advice to my son is that he chase really hot women (or men, if that turns out to be the case) in college so that by the time he's old enough for marriage, he'll be able to make a much more sensible decision not based upon looks. And will be much less likely to cheat on his partner simply because of an unsatisfied lust for hotness.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
In which I get some work done.
I have started bringing my iPod to the office and I have found that it greatly increases my productivity. There seems to be some music that is more helpful in that department than others. Jimmie Rodgers is better for productivity than the Foo Fighters, for example. Lucinda Williams is better than KT Tunstall.
The productivity boosts don't seem to be related to the tempo of the music, or genre. When I get tired of being a lawyer I will get a grant and try to figure out what music actually makes people work better. Maybe it varies from profession to profession? Maybe what makes lawyers research and write briefs faster won't help accountants review financial records any more efficiently. Maybe a journalist will get a bigger efficiency boost from the (pretty good) new CD by The Roots than I do.
Speaking of hip-hop, the other day I found a Wu-Tang Clan onesie. As the third trimester nears, we have started getting gifts of baby clothes from people. We have yet to purchase a single baby-thing, and yet already the lad has more clothing than I do. (My favorite thus far: a tiny shirt that says "Lock up your daughters!" on it. Chip off the old block.) I found a place that makes onesies out of old rock concert T-shirts. Can you imagine dressing your baby in an old Foreigner World Tour 1982 shirt? Me, too. But I can't really justify buying one when we are getting crates of clothing from all over the world.
(Seriously. We've gotten stuff from Cynthia's friends in Hong Kong, Brussels, and LA. I needed to go online to translate the French on the Belgian outfits. Most of them are accompanied by notes to my bride, the former partygirl, that say something like "I cannot believe that YOU are reproducing.")
Anyhow, my point -- to the extent that I have one -- is that if I keep up the iPod in the office, I might actually update this site more frequently.
The productivity boosts don't seem to be related to the tempo of the music, or genre. When I get tired of being a lawyer I will get a grant and try to figure out what music actually makes people work better. Maybe it varies from profession to profession? Maybe what makes lawyers research and write briefs faster won't help accountants review financial records any more efficiently. Maybe a journalist will get a bigger efficiency boost from the (pretty good) new CD by The Roots than I do.
Speaking of hip-hop, the other day I found a Wu-Tang Clan onesie. As the third trimester nears, we have started getting gifts of baby clothes from people. We have yet to purchase a single baby-thing, and yet already the lad has more clothing than I do. (My favorite thus far: a tiny shirt that says "Lock up your daughters!" on it. Chip off the old block.) I found a place that makes onesies out of old rock concert T-shirts. Can you imagine dressing your baby in an old Foreigner World Tour 1982 shirt? Me, too. But I can't really justify buying one when we are getting crates of clothing from all over the world.
(Seriously. We've gotten stuff from Cynthia's friends in Hong Kong, Brussels, and LA. I needed to go online to translate the French on the Belgian outfits. Most of them are accompanied by notes to my bride, the former partygirl, that say something like "I cannot believe that YOU are reproducing.")
Anyhow, my point -- to the extent that I have one -- is that if I keep up the iPod in the office, I might actually update this site more frequently.
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