Pater Familias

Happy Mothers' Day

2010-05-10T16:53:00.003-05:00

Happy Mothers' Day to all.

We had a delightful one, and so many tweets came out of our little girls' mouths as they enjoyed the day, my honored cara spoza begged them to slow down because she couldn't compose then send these pithy epigrams as the girls continued to delight and to amaze us with the innocence of their child-like observations.

We went to a performance of the President's Own of a whodunit: "A composer has stolen Beethoven's Fifth Symphony!"

Ho, hum and yawn, right?

Or so I thought.

How it actually turned out was that their selections were an appropriate synopsis of the spectrum of Classical music (from Baroque to Contemporary), and they had special guest stars, including Old Man B himself (very well played) and ...

And the composer who stole the Fifth Symphony motif, for David Rakowski composed a piece that had its World Premier at the very performance we attended. And he was there, participating in the program, and then chatting, so happily, afterward, with the parents and children who attended.

That was very nice, and what else was very nice was that the conductor and musicians, who were so proper and imposing in their bright red uniforms, were in actuality so kind and sharing with the children, signing programs and letting the children grab their instruments to pluck at the strings.

I thoroughly enjoyed that afternoon, but I think the children enjoyed it more, for Elena kept working on piecing together who the culprit was, and Isabel's face was rapt, asking her mother after each piece was performed "Was that the one?"

Yes, the children and I enjoyed the concert, and I could see that Mommy enjoyed it so much more, because it was such a bit hit with us.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of eating and reading (um, yes, actually, that's an accurate statement) as we whizzed off to La Madeleine for "brunch" (at Four PM) and then to Borders to spend their gift cards that they received for their joint First Holy Communion.

At the end of the day, we came home, pleased and exhausted, a full day out and about town, together, as a family on Mothers' Day.

I then called my own momma down in Louisiana, who herself sounded tired, but pleased that I called, and then my little sister Beki to wish her a Happy Mothers' Day.

This Mothers' Day was the best that our family has had, and it's all due and thanks to the person in question celebrated. My cara spoza, that every kind, patient, and gracious lady, made this Mothers' Day memorable.

I hope you and your family had a Happy Mothers' Day, too.

Moments in Time

2010-05-10T16:06:00.003-05:00

Moment 1: this past week

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp!

Shucks, I think to myself, I fell asleep on the couch!

My cara spoza looks at me with bleary eyes, having just been jolted awake herself, too.

She garbles out something that my addled brain eventually translates into words that says: 'Elena's bleeding.'

I rush to the scene. Mother is helping child in the banyo, child has bloody mouth and lips and is gently holding her nose closed.

Whew! It's just a nose bleed.

I tell my cara spoza I will wash the sheets and clothes right away.

Li'l Iz is asleep on the big bed.

"Isabel," I whisper, rubbing her tiny back gently, "get up, honey, I have to wash the sheets."

Eventually she comes to, too, and the first thing she sees are the black splotches on the sheets.

"What happened?" she asks anxiously.

"Elena got a bloody nose," I answer gently.

Terror enters Li'l Izzy's eyes.

"It's okay," I say quickly. "Elena's okay."

My reassurance works as the terror is replaced by relief. Li'l Iz, fully awake now, runs off, shouting "Mama!"

But the first thing she does it to confirm that her older sister is alive and okay.

...

Moment 2: one week prior.

Li'l Iz was upset and crying, holding her mother's hand during on of the daily outings.

EM walked up to her. "It's okay, Isabel, would you like to hold my hand?"

Isabel looks to her Até being so kind to her. "Yes," she whispers.

Li'l Iz lets go of her mother's hand and places it in the palm of her older sister's. Off they go, skipping gleefully, with each other.

Carefree.

Another Milestone

2010-05-03T16:51:00.002-05:00

Very tired. Very happy. That's how we feel, on this, the day after the girls' First Holy Communion. But we haven't gone back to the school routine yet. We're busy remembering the little and big things from yesterday, and from this past year. It hadn't been a journey just for them. We learned much from teaching the girls, and though they could have learned well in CCD, we were happy to be right in the thick of it at home.

As the pictures show, we celebrated, and how! There was lunch with the godparents and dear friends, who have served as our surrogate parents. Then there was dinner with friends and relatives, who are also members of our parish, and who have witnessed the girls' increased participation at Mass.

It was certainly a milestone for the girls. But for us, it was another step in our faith journey.

Yes, we are friends

2010-04-13T10:50:00.006-05:00

So, I've joined a forum my wife has joined so I may see or participate in the activities she does. I was even flagged by the forum leader, as the forum seems to be addressing more feminine concerns, perhaps?

So, it appears I'm getting in touch with my feminine side.

*ahem*

But one of Diane's (real) friends asked: "Aren't you and your husband friends?"

You see, you become (virtual) friends on the forum with people that, I guess, you feel consonance with in the various topics addressed in the forum.

So, am I friends with my wife?

Hm.

I am happy to report that, yes, I am indeed friends with my wife. That, yes, in our 14th year of marriage, "we are still friend." I'll go a step further to add that in our 400th year of marriage, I am looking forward to that same friendship, even a deeper one than what we have now.

Yes, my wife and I are friends.

So, must there be membership then? Must we sign up as 'friends' on a forum to declare our real, deep, abiding friendship?

I guess, for others, this is the case.

So, for me to be smart, I must be in Mensa.

So, for me to be tolerant, I must be in the ACLU (one of the most intolerant and litigious organizations in the world).

So, for me to be free, I must be an American.

So, for me to be enlightened, I must be a Zen Buddhist.

Because life is very much an enrollment and membership thing.

Or is it?

Are my wife and myself, well, are we friends?

Well, how do we behave toward each other? Do we talk? Do we listen? Do we hug? Do we comfort? Do we strive? Do we try? Do we fail? Do we forgive?

Do you know?

Do I need you to know?

No, I don't need you to know.

But do you see something about us that's ... different? Weird, even? Isn't there an affection there, a childish affection that is 'only' seen in newlyweds?

Isn't there a calm, peaceful assurance each has in each other that you 'only' see in couples that have been together past their golden anniversary?

Why is that?

Well, obviously, because I've married a saint in training (just waiting on her death, a couple of miracles, and the universal acclaim of the Church in accord with the Trinity to make her a saint in fact), but I'm also trying, too. I'm trying to listen, and I'm trying to be.

Sometimes that works, sometimes that doesn't.

But I am grateful for one thing, declared or not.

Yes, we are friends.

Just a little thing

2010-03-30T14:28:00.004-05:00

So, ...

Well, called Mom, and she sounded ... wonderful. From her latest email, she has been super-busy, but I was so glad that she could talk, and I heard the smile in her voice and her laugh, and that was such a relief to hear.

So, we, that is, my cara spoza, myself and my little girls, went to Five Guys for lunch, and had lunch. And, after eating, I noticed just a little thing. Three 'tween or teen girls where enqueued; girlfriends, obviously. A blond, a brunette, and a I-don't-know-what, because the middle, olive-skinned, girl is Muslim, as she was wearing the حجاب (hijab), or head-scarf.

And they were chatting away, as easy as you please. Just friends, you know? Just friends. Not a Muslim and two 'Infidels': just friends. Three American girls, one of them who just happened to be Muslim.

Now, I'm not going to go into the screed of what people should or shouldn't be in their adoration of God (or their beliefs concerning the presence or absence of 'Big Juju'), but I am going to say this.

Seeing that, three friends at ease with each other, where things this last decade has been more strained between the Worlds of Believers (and Nonbelievers)?

Well, do you remember when Christians and Jews couldn't talk? And I'm not talking about the Exodus/Expulsion from Spain in 1492, I'm not even talking about the Pogroms and the Holocaust (השואה), I'm talking here, just decades ago. Driving Miss Daisy, anyone? And now we can, and it's not a big deal ... it is, for we are different, but we can talk and we can listen to and with each other, גוים (goyim) and Jews alike.

Those three girlfriends? Seeing them, smiling and laughing and easy?

They give me hope for the future.

Parting is such sorrowful sorrow

2010-03-28T21:38:00.005-05:00

It was hard to leave Mom.

I mean, in the last chemo treatment, Mom mentioned that she was hit hard the day after and then the third day after, but this time, the day after, she seemed hardly affected at all, so I was just pleased as punch, thinking that two days later when I would fly out, things would be peachy keen.

They weren't, not for Mom, that day. The chemo hit her hard on the third day, and she put up a brave front, but she pretty much had to go back to bed, because that's what she did do. She asked if Sissy, her cousin, could take me to the airport instead of Mom going with us, and I countered that I was going to suggest that to her. This eased her worry a bit, but I hurt, leaving her in this state, and I think she hurt, having me leave.

Then the American Airlines debacle consumed the rest of the day.

It wasn't a pleasant travel experience for me, going home, and I gave a blow-by-blow on my tweets (late flight from Lake Charles AP (that had free internet? Wow!), two gate changes and a terminal change at Dallas/Ft Worth AP, at the last minute, and back to the terminal from whence I deplaned? So I spent the whole layover at a sub par terminal only to have to race to the terminal where I started?) but what I didn't cover in my tweets was that I was the lucky one: there were three American Airline gates of long lines of angry customers whose flights had been canceled for one reason or another. Looking at Mommies with strollers trying to get another flight? Ick. But then, on the other side of the counter? Remind me not to apply to be a flight attendant or ticketing/gate attendant. They took all this heat and anger from (justifiably) irate customers, customer after customer, with sympathy and a smile, where it wasn't even their fault. Our airline stewardess, Tricia, a lady of a certain age, had a very sweet smile that I complimented, and she admitted that it had been a very long day, for when I deplaned from that flight, there was a long line of people waiting to get on the plane, again, for we had landed late, again, so we were running to get off the plane as others were rushing to get on.

We say: "Say thanks to our service men and women," and, indeed, we should, but there's whole sectors of service people we take too much for granted, like Rachael, my waitress at TGI Fridays at Dallas AP trying to get the meals out to many, many people gulping down their meals before skyhopping, and I mentioned Tricia and the gate attendants getting all that heat.

But then there's a whole 'nother category that Mom and I talked about at length at McDo's as I ate my single (not double) fish fillet.

School teachers.

I mean, we homeschool, so you would think I have nothing to say on the matter, nor possibly nothing good, and perhaps, reading my following screed, well ...

Well, we get our school supplies from somewhere(s), and several of the 'somewheres' is that Diane has more than three close friends who are public and parochial school teachers, and I, myself, once looked at becoming a parochial school teachers, and I have to say the following.

Wow!

I mean, do you know how much we pay our school teachers? I do, and it's a simple thing for you to look up and find out. But do you know this? 'Underpaid school teachers' is only one problem of the more than few problems that face educating our children today. But even that: what does it mean? It means, we, the people, pay our teachers so little because that is the value we place on education ... on our children's education ... on our children.

But the problem is endemic.

For not only are our teachers paid a pittance, but then, in the DC area, and I hear, too, in California, there's not enough in the budget to procure essential school supplies for our teachers to teach with (hand outs, posters, chalk/dry erase pens, erasers) or for our children to learn with (pencils, pens, crayons, paper, notebooks, ... books ... books as required by the curriculum). So what do teachers do? In Diane's friends' case, and I hear elsewhere, they take money from their salary, and go buy the supplies themselves.

And so Diane's friends own a lot of school supplies, including text books, which they have bought from their own lack.

And here's the thing, they, these school teachers and principals, are so generous. So, for example, Diane and I get more than a bit of our home schooling materials from teachers and principals that Diane has as friends, including text books, all for free and primarily due to the generosity of spirit that these teachers have (recall, that we, as homeschoolers, can very easily be viewed as 'the enemy' by traditional educators).

But it doesn't stop there. Be a foreigner here. Like from the Philippines. Try imparting your culture and its values to your children here. What happens? It gets drowned out by the message that every interaction here has, playing with playmates, (not) watching the TV, etc, etc, etc. So somebody decided to set of a school to do just that, taught on Sundays (if you are thinking 'My Big Fat Greek Wedding' you are right on the money).

Who teaches these classes?

Yes.

The public/parochial school teachers. On Sunday. After a very full work week doing exactly that.

And who creates these classes, right down to the pedagogy?

Yes, again. The school teachers, spending hours each week to impart their culture in novel and interesting ways.

And who buys the supplies, paper, pencils, handouts, and snacks like juice brix, cookies, and chips, nutribran bars? Every week?

But what do these teachers get in parent-teacher conferences? A hug? A 'good job'? A 'thank you'?

Maybe they should? If you know a school teacher ... and if you have kids, I think you may ... maybe you can do that? Go to school and set up a parent-teacher conference just to say 'thank you'? Where 'parent-teacher conference' is the real deal, or taking them out to lunch/supper, or something?

I do try to say please and thank you to the people who provide me service, and this day of travel yesterday, seeing these people put up with all this pressure, but keeping their cool?

Thank God! and ... thank them for doing jobs I'd really rather not do myself.

So, yes, I made it home, with my baggage, even through a rather difficult and trying travel day, and it's thanks to people who helped me to get where I was going.

And, so now I am home, and I could complain, I guess, how my entire Sunday was just shot with not even playing catch-up, but playing 'unpack'-church-hospital run, but I won't.

Nobody likes a complainer, not even the person complaining.

Besides, I got to give and to receive lovely hugs with my cara spoza and my darling daughers.

... AND I gave Diane back rubs that helped her relax into sleep (sorry, I just had to put that in there)

And I got to spend a little time with Dad and Jan and try to make him coffee and watch him play with the girls.

And I got to visit Mike and Malou and my just born god-son Michael David Wuerthele.

And I got to breathe, and to compose a summary of my day, that is I had the breath in me, and the cognitive and physical capacity to do these things, and the material available that allowed me to, and in that regard, I am so very blessed. And that is the case in many areas in my life: I am so very blessed.

Immunization Booster and Pop-tarts at the Hospital

2010-03-26T19:32:00.000-05:00

Another good day, my last day, so as we wind it up, a bit of sadness for both me and Mom. We started out the day by going to the hospital for Mom to receive an immunization booster shot (?). By 'starting out' I mean Mom dragging me out of bed ("I'd like to leave in five minutes, here, huh, Doug?") So I persuaded the nice ladies there to give me a strawberry pop-tart for my missing breakfast. Which they were happy to do, and even toast for me, but Wendy didn't quite know toaster controls, so one burnt set later, Mom and I left the hospital with a fresh package of pop-tarts in hand.

But we didn't have pop-tarts right away ('we' being the royal we. Mom eat pop-tarts, no thank you). Because Mom treated me to fish fillet at McDo. It was supposed to be a DOUBLE fish fillet (I'm lovin' it), but at the counter Mom made a joke to the girl ringing up our order, "I'll have a hazelnut coffee, and for my boyfriend ..."

Mom and I got a lot of mileage out of that one, because I rejoined, "Now, gramma, why you call me your boyfriend all the time?" And then, to the girl: "She's not really my gramma, I'm really her boyfriend."

So both of us were giggling so hard with embarrassment at our foolishness that we messed up the order and only got the single fish fillet, not the double ... oh, the horror!

We stayed at McDo and chatted as I worked on my 'fresh catch of the day' (rectangular fish, it's amazing what the bounty of the seas produce these days). Talking about politics and education and the politics of education, and love, and (real) grandchildren (not silly me, who is, after all, not Mom's grandson).

We returned home and then it was Spring cleaning day. I started doing the dishes and started doing the laundry, but then I got too engaged in some online stuff that time passed and Mom took that over. Oops! I did do the vacuuming, which was a big choir for Mom to get done, including cleaning the vacuum pump/filter (icky job, so I was glad to do it for Mom). Then I had a pop-tart.

And shared some of my writing thoughts with Mom. See, I don't eat pop-tarts, but a certain (fictional) teenage girl, named Bella Swan, does, and I write about her in my stories, so I shared with Mom some of the thoughts eating (one, single) strawberry pop-tart brought to mind in me, and how those thoughts affect some of my readers. Mom was kind and listened. I then finished off the salmon salad Mom had made a couple of days ago (pop-tarts and salmon salad, a well-balanced meal, yes, I know).

Mom called Sissy, her cousin, to see if she'd like to walk with us. Sissy's a senior now, but she looks 35-ish to my eyes, very youthful and cheerful appearance, and she's taken a shine to our family when she visited with Mom a few years ago. Sissy was not available, but she will accompany us to the airport tomorrow afternoon and I think spend some time with Mom after I take wing.

So after chatting with Sissy, Mom and I went for a walk.

We walked around the part of Lake Charles near the boardwalk (which is made of brick, but, oh, well), and it was a rather sunny and warm 70° day, so we stayed mostly in the shade as we walked the streets (such as Pithon (pron: pee-toahn)) and byways.

Then back home, and lounging time. Received a nice call from Beki, and Mom's resting on the couch as I write this missive beside her.

Storm then Sunshiny Day

2010-03-25T13:33:00.001-05:00

Mom took the chemo treatment really well. What helped, besides her, was the that staff was so friendly and funny, and her doctor really took a lot of time talking with her about her previous treatment and how she did in the weeks that followed.

I don't know if the doctor was younger than me, but he had a twinkle in his eye and he was kind and patient, a good listener.

I spent chemo with Mom, and she watched TV, the news. Not the best thing for her in my view, because the news was full of the death threats against law-makers in the House for passing health insurance reform, so she really cringed through those reports, but she wanted to watch that, so I didn't get all whatever ... but then she worked on her sudoku and she lent me a sudoku book, too, and we did that, which I think was very relaxing for her, as first one set and then another set went in.

After that, I took Mom home, and she cooked this turkey-leg spaghetti thing for supper and we had that (she had a little bit of that), and we sat and watched more news and did more sudoku.

Sigh! I messed up my puzzle but good: I needed a 4 in two places and that finally caused me to call it a night.

A thunderstorm swept through town, and it was thundering and raining so hard Mom worried that it would crash through the window, and the wind was so hard that the Cathedral bell went clank-clank all through the night. The only remnant of the storm this morning was a few puddles on the sidewalk to the trash bin, however.

Mom's not really up for talking with anybody today; she doesn't like talking about the treatment at all, so I'm trying to field phone calls. But there were some good news that brightened up her day. Malou just gave birth to Michael David Wuerthele at 9 lbs 13 oz, and Diane forwarded a very cute baby pic. AND my family forwarded a care package for Mom and me, including shortbread cookies (for Mom?) and nutty bars (definitely for me!) and letters and pictures from the girls.

Mom was just so happy to see those news(es?).

So she's nesting on the couch now, but I have word that we'll go for a walk today ... it's a bright, sunshiny day, so I hope it's a nice walk for us.

Lunch at Chilis with Mom

2010-03-24T12:49:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was a good day. Really. Mom and I went for a walk, we went to the thrift store to donate stuff, went to Chilis, where she's never been before ... she liked the grilled salmon lunch, but the virgin margarita that I ordered was just too sour to be drinkable ... she does like the Hazelnut coffees I make her when she (rarely) requests (I just had to add that).

After Chilis I was out. Fifteen hours straight, and got up this morning woozy. Ick.

Mom and I had a heart-to-heart talk this morning. She's more worried about me than she is for herself, and we talked about life. I told her how things were going with me and family and life and she listened. I also told her how proud I am of her, how she's facing these treatments and losing her hair and being just so brave, so cheerful and assured about it, even as she may be facing her mortality. After our talk she demanded one, no, two hugs from me.

I showed her the picture of our little Elena Marie in braces, smiling like all get-out, and Mom laughed and laughed and laughed, just so delighted for her granddaughter.

We're off to chemo in a bit. It takes two-plus hours, what with the set-up and breaks, and then home for her to recover, where I will wait on her hand and foot.

Sunshine-y Day

2010-03-22T19:13:00.000-05:00

My last report was rather grim, with mom pulling out handfuls of hair and trying to be strong about that, emotionally. This one, thank goodness, is chipper-er.

Mom is still pulling out handfuls of hair, as she did not get her hair cut off yesterday as planned (it was very cold in LC (Lake Charles) yesterday and this morning), but her disposition is much sunnier. It was sunny yesterday but kind of forced sunny. Today, because the temp went up to 70 deg and the sun, itself, came out as well, well: that also seemed to lift her spirits, too.

Diane sent a private clip of Isabel practicing for a dance, and Mom complained fiercely about the back-only view (sorry, Sweetie), but nearly cried with joy when Isabel flashed a smile at the camera. Good thing Diane archived the girls' "Do the Hokey-Pokey" dance, because that really made her morning and she was laughing with joy through the whole dance (particularly with Diane's instructions to the girls 'Other left leg, Elena').

We usually go out for a walk, then an outing to see friends. We didn't go on a walk yesterday (too cold for Mom), but we did see Sissy.

Today we went out on an extended walk (for Mom), but no outing. She 'threw' me out of the house so I could get some more exercise, and I had a lovely walk to myself on the boardwalk.

I made her some Hazelnut coffee which she enjoyed and we'll be having some gumbo that I cooked for her yesterday.

A business-like report, but that's actually good, because she wasn't very stormy emotionally today, and when she was, it was cheerful stormy. Like her pleased-angry reaction to the news (and please don't get political, my lovelies, with me or Mom ... I'm just passing on Mom's moods, not judging them, okay?) of the passage of the Health Ins Bill in the House.

Mom, complaining: "And not one darn republican voted in favor of it!"
Me: "Aw, poor Momma! Do you want a hug from a Republican?"
Mom, angrily: "No! I don't want a hunk of a republican, thank you!"
I looked at her quizzically.
Mom, confused: "Wait, did you say 'hug from a republican'? Well, then, sure!"

We hugged and she was happy.

She mentioned she loved the upscale Pujo St Café that I passed on my walk, so I was planning on taking her to that tonight, but she deferred that outing for tomorrow. And she like Chilis, so maybe we'll go there? She has an appt near a Lebanese place (Zeus' (?)) before her chemo, so we're sure to go to that. Just trying to let her nest on her couch when she needs to and get her out when she is able.

Her next chemo is 24 March (this week). I'll be with her for that and am staying until 27 March. Beki and Sof are coming in for a wedding in Texas 8 April, then vising Mom for her next chemo. Lynda? Still a go?

So, that's the news for today. "No news is good news" I suppose. We'll see how tomorrow goes. I'm so glad I decided to stay with her. I don't bug her (really, honest) but I can see she likes me here, and I offer company, food, drink, hugs occasionally and spoil her by letting her nest on the couch. Maybe not the best plan or care, but I think she's happy with the arrangement, and that's what I want her to be.

Pulling Out Handfuls of Hair

2010-03-22T19:12:00.000-05:00

Mom had a not-good morning. She was still asleep maybe? And she was moaning as she was breathing. I asked how she was doing as she 'nested' on her couch doing soduko watching the news, and she said she felt nauseous a little bit.

Just a few minutes ago, after she noticed that she had some hair in her bonnet, she pulled out a handful, and she's been finger combing her hair to get out the loose hairs. She's being strong about it, but I think she's a bit scared, so she's angry at other stuff ("I don't wanna read this book, why did I suggest it to the book club?").

She's trying to be chipper, and she gave me a hug and told me how glad I was here now, and I'm so glad I am here during these 'in-between' days, but we'll see how things go.

She seriously freaked out when another woman told her the extreme measures someone else went through for her breast cancer, so sometimes she doesn't want to talk about things, fyi.

... update: the hair just keeps coming out. Mom: "I'm not crying." She's planning to have Sissy cut her hair, perhaps this morning, perhaps later today. It isn't helping that we've had a cold-snap this morning, because otherwise Mom would've gone outside to brush out her hair. She's annoyed that she's getting her hair all over her stuff.

All for now. I'll update later when I have something good or bad to share. Chemo is March 24, and I'll be headed back to D.C. March 27th.

Mom Has Breast Cancer

2010-03-22T19:09:00.001-05:00

So, my mom has breast cancer, and she had surgery, and she's going through Chemo now and Radiation down the road. So, I'll be writing about that.

Mom's next chemo is next Wednesday, 24 March, and no family will be with her at home before, during and after that time, so I offered to stay. So I'm staying in Lake Charles another 10 days. I'll be there until the 28th of March at which time I'll be back in Washington D.C.

Mom is looking wonderful ('cause she's a fighter, you know) but she's not up for much, and is grateful for the day-to-day help. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

I am adjusting appointments/schedules as best I can, if there is something you need from me or something you wish for me to pass to Mom, please contact me: email here or my cell, which you all have.

"Can't you simply be an X and ..."

2010-01-22T19:50:00.003-05:00

My answer: no.

Or yes. Yes, I can simply be an X. It is possible in some PU ("parallel universe" ... boy is that term going to get a scathing blog entry!) and it may be possible here. Here's the recipe:

1. Remove frontal lobe.
2. Simply be an X.

I am an Auclair. We Auclairs are simply NOT simply anything. Everything we undertake is hard, in all its aspects, or we do not undertake it. When we stop to smell the Roses it's to pull off the interstate and to stop traffic in both directions and demand everyone pay the toll of smelling the roses.

Don't believe me? Ride in the car with me, or my father, or my father's father. We pull over to stop at cemeteries, and read every single gravestone.

"Can't you simply be an X and ..."

No.

And here's the other problem with 'being a moderate.'

If the other side is wrong, then compromising one's position means compromising one's position. I'd prefer not to have other people see my compromising positions.

Case in point.

Ayn Rand: people are material. You are either a producer or moocher. Bullets or dollars, those are the only true motivators. How many children to existentialists/objectivists/materialists have?

Buber: I and Thou.

Where is the compromise there? "I'll treat you like shite, but lovingly?"

That is the compromise today, isn't it? The consumeristic philosophy has reduced people to numbers, but we sure love our customers, don't we.

To be holy is to be separate. I am not holy, but I am wholly separate.

How many philosophers are moderates?

Zero.

Socrates? He'd rather die for his views then be made to alter them one iota. And he was condemned not for what he said, but because what somebody thought he said could possibly offend a rich citizen.

How would your "Can't you simply be a moderate and ..." work on Socrates?

It didn't.

I am an unreasonable man. Reasonable men see how the world works, and work within that world.

It is the unreasonable man that changes the world, and for that, we have light bulbs and penicillin. Because I am an unreasonable man, three children have found their way back home to their families.

And other things have, and have not, happened.

Also, the moderate, reasonable man does not write this messed up tale of angst and what the hell is this anyway piece of fiction called MSR, because the reasonable, moderate man does not write nor does he create.

And create what? Moderate, reasonable shite that more than 90% of the stories are on ffn?

Or beauty. Or truth. Or faith, hope, and love.

Benjamin Franklin chose the speckled ax, but he didn't. He was irascible, uncompromising in his principles and politics. Thomas Jefferson was a ... and John Adams ...?

I may or may not respect their causes or principles, but I do respect that they stood for something, against everyone, against the whole world.

I find when I don't stand for something, ... well, I'll fall for anything.

And that's the sad statement that reflects the much more than 50% of the "citizens" of the U.S.A. who do not vote nor write nor march nor anything.

"The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire" happened not because of lead pipes, it happened when their "citizenry" stopped participating as a warriors, senators, and started becoming entitlement-centric slobs attending the daily circus and letting the barbarians at the gate to crash the orgies.

Hm. Decline and Fall of which Empire?

No. I can be simply an X and ... but I choose not to be simply an X.

Twelfth Night

2010-01-05T18:49:00.004-05:00

Christmas is still going strong in our home, as we happily enjoy Frank Sinatra's Jingle Bells and Bing Crosby's White Christmas over the internet through Pandora, and open a present each day from dear friends. No, there's no wanton ripping of gifts on Christmas Day here. Yes, we make the girls write their thank-you notes each day after opening each present. (We keep sane the best way we can.)

Tonight, we'll finally get to roast the chicken-in-brine-that-got-frozen-out-on-the-deck to celebrate Twelfth Night. The girls have started on the annual gingerbread house. As we wait for it to be ready for decorating, they do other decorating: Baby Jesus' crib is done up like a royal throne. With little pompoms, of course.

The roast chicken is almost done. The girls have laid the gold-colored table cloth on the table and brought out the Royal Albert china. Baby Jesus has his scepter and crown. It is time for some merry-making!

Father, you revealed your Son to the nations by the guidance of a star. Lead us to your glory in heaven by the light of faith. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Merry Christmas to all of you!

Portents of a Cold Winter

2009-12-30T11:38:00.003-05:00

When grandparents are far, we revel in the warmth that others shower on us and our girls. When they give us handmade presents, we bask in the love they send in a special way. But perhaps they just knew that it will be an unusually cold winter for us. Or that little girls need colorful tents and forts as they spend many hours indoors.

From the hands of an adopted Grandma and Aunt (don't we call all of them nice folks, aunts and uncles?) Wanda, crocheted blankets with signs of spring: yellow tulips.

And from Anda's sister, not ever called Lola, and forever called Tita Femme, granny square blankets in colors that complement the receivers' personalities.

Thank you for your wonderful works and gifts!

Happy Santa Lucia Day!

2009-12-13T17:42:00.004-05:00

It was a cold morning (--the heater broke and we didn't have heat through the night!) Yes, it was very cold, and the Parents were hiding in layers of blankets and a comforter. Then lo! Two barefoot Daughters dressed in white, walked in the room to warm us up with mugs of hot drinks and a big plate of cranberry bread. They were aglow --mostly from the big smiles they sported, as the candles on their wreaths were made of paper, because this year, they finally pulled off a Santa Lucia morning breakfast. All on their own.

Next year, they hope to walk in singing this song --

Now 'neath the silver moon ocean is glowing.
O'er the calm waters soft winds are blowing.
Where balmy breezes blow, all things invite us,
And as we gently row, all things delight us.

Hark! How the sailors' cry joyously echoes nigh:
"Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!"

Since they're part Italian, maybe they'll learn it in Italian instead! Their Grand-Nana would have been proud.

DDR: Blow by Blow

2009-12-13T13:49:00.003-05:00

Some of you know my tweets. Some of you don't. Well, now you will. Here's a rundown on yesterday's work-out, because you, my readers, demanded to know!

Working out. DDR Ultramix2. Excuse me? B? on Jet World? I DON'T THINK SO. Bumped that puppy up to an A. Now, movin' on!

You know, as much as I like to rag on it & it is ripped, there's nothing like Red Octane dance pads. Parallel Floaters on anything else? No.

Diamond Jealousy: C? No: A! Guilty: B? No: A! Done. I guess I haven't played DDR Ultra2 in a (long) while.

What is this, an old game save? Helpless C⇒A. Yes, please, and done.

You know what I hate? I hate FCing a song in practice mode but not in score mode. Well, who is better? The song or me? Me. Waverer A⇒AA.

Of course, they just have to put Real right next to R5: two 40+ kcal songs in a row. Like'm both, but I think Real is my favourite today.

Well, that was the frist time I ever FCed Era ... in practice mode. Let's try score mode. And, yes, 'frist' is for realz, yo. A 'net meme.

Oorah Kiruv Rechokim! (um: how do you spell that in Hebrew?) Yup: first time ... aced that Era in score mode.

DDR done: 173#; ~600 kcal (recorded, more like more than 800 kcal). More leftovers eaten. Back to work.

(okay, seriously! Nobody has written Oorah Kiruv Rechokim in Hebrew on the 'net? But they've written Shemhamphorasch in Hebrew? The word itself (שם המפורש) and what the word actually is? All seventy-two words of it? But not the Oorah? What's with that?)

Rules for Pancake Breakfasts

2009-12-13T13:46:00.002-05:00

Rule#1 of protein powder enhanced pancake batter: cook it all; do NOT store in the ref for the next day (ewww! green!)

Rule#2 of protein powder enhanced pancake batter: when it calls for buttermilk, use BUTTERMILK, not just plain old 2% milk! (ewww! flat!)

Rule#3 of protein powder enhanced pancake batter: DON'T make rules while cooking (ewww! burnt!)

Rule#4 of protein powder enhanced pancake batter: Don't recook the sausage-i ("Papa! The cooked ones are too peppery!")

Squaring the Rectangle

2009-12-10T13:43:00.004-05:00

Some of you know that I am a mathematical philosopher, so you may be surprised at the title. After all, all squares are rectangles.

But some rectangles are not squares, ... but they can be made thus, and here's how.

Let's take a rectangle that's 8½" x 11".

If you fold it in half one way, you have a rectangle that's 8½" x 5½".

Turn the rectangle so it's "standing tall." Fold the top right corner down to the center left side. You now have a quadrilateral. Fold the top left side down to the left center, joining where the top right corner was folded, you now, again have a rectangle, but now it's 5½" x 2¼".

This fold, by the way, is called the "I love you" fold, and many letters of love are sent folded this way.

Now, seal that love closed for your beloved by folding the bottom half up into the triangular lip. You now have a 2¼"x2¼" square from an 8½"x11" rectangle.

How do you make a rectangle into a square? It's neither instant nor easy, but, the recipe is simple: just add love to a piece of letter writing paper, and then seal that love in.

Letter to EM on St. Nick's day

2009-12-10T13:39:00.001-05:00

Dear EM,

Happy St. Nicholas day! I hope you enjoyed yours. By your huge smiles as I opened the presents you and Li'l Iz gave me, it looked like you did.

But do you know what was my favourite present of the bunch? My favourite present ws not for me, but the one you gave to Mama. Remeber it? It was the heart of hearts that showed that you do love her.

I see that it's heard for you sometimes, trying to do the things you'd like to do, trying to be the person you are. Just remember no matter how difficult things or times become, we love you. Mama and Papa love you, and we are so happy to receive your love in return.

It is hard doing what you do and being who you are, but remember and know that we love you, and we are very proud of you: what you do and who you are.

Keep being you and discovering who you are.

Because we love you.

Doug (that's "Papa" to you, Miss EM)

Letter to Li'l Iz on St. Nick's day

2009-12-10T13:32:00.002-05:00

My dear Li'l Iz,

Happy St. Nicholas Day! I hope you enjoyed your St. Nicholas day this year. Thank you for the presents. It was very sweet of you and Até to wrap them for me.

This letter is my St. Nicholas Day present back for you. And, this past year, you've come quite a long way. What, with all the learning and adventures you've had, the travel to the Philippines and Connecticut and Amhert, the performances you've put on with Até, ... and now dancing with Nuns! Wow!

As much as you've done this past year, this coming year is filled with much more: much more promise, and activity. I hope this new year will be as adventurous and as exciting as this past year.

But I hope something more than that for you: I hope it's better than tat. I hope that this new year is so much better than what you hoped, so much so that you are just wowed by it.

That's what I hope for you.

All my love,
Papa

It's THAT Time of the Year

2009-12-01T23:57:00.003-05:00

Because her godparents wanted to know, I casually asked Lizzie what type of gifts she'd like to receive for Christmas.

Lizzie replied, as casually too, "Oh, you know, dolls, toys, whatever... (paused here) ... or $5."

Hmm, that seemed too easy. So I asked what she'd do with the money.

"Of course, I'll put it in my purse. So when you need money, I can give you some."

Of course.

So there, dear godparents. $5 to help her Mama will be perfect :-)

(O.K. If the photo gives you any indication as to her preferences, a $5 Starbucks card will reward her with her favorite bagel and chocolate milk breakfast. Until such time when she can pay for her own expensive habits!)

Thanks for asking.

Paalam, Tita Norma

2009-10-25T20:51:00.003-05:00

Lizzy visiting with Tita Norma last January in the ancestral home.

The most feared telephone calls are those that, though sometimes expected, come early in the morning.

Today, we learned that my mother's 79-year old sister, Tita Norma had died. Which makes me even gladder to have made the trip home early this year with the girls. We saw her dance on the street with the old ladies at the Sto. Nino fiesta, her flirty old self peeking through the shell of illness slowing her down. We heard her demand to have a photo taken -- and please make sure she looks great in it! The excellent cook that she is, she will have her best party in the next few days because as she requested, and as our culture dictates, there will be plenty of food to feed family and friends at her wake.

Sadly, we'll have to miss the party. But we will always remember you fondly, Tita Norma.

Give her eternal rest, O Lord, and may your light shine on her forever.

I'm a twit now.

2009-10-12T13:00:00.003-05:00

Do you twitter that you are twittering? I'm sure this thought occurs to all twits. twitists. twitterers. Whatever they are called.

Oh, my; I've joined the Twenthieth Century ... um.

What a feast!

2009-09-24T20:15:00.007-05:00

When my dear mother visited us some time ago, my daughters continually echoed her exclamation of: "What a feast!" whenever we served a meal.

Hey, we cannot allow our guests to go hungry.

Well, this is the week where the exclamation has earned its way into the record book (the record book's name? "Clichés we know and lov-... well, we know"). Why?

Well, we just had our anniversary, and my cara spoza said it was the best one yet. Why? Because, instead of her prepping the roast chicken, I basted it with the mustard and butter and put it into the oven that I preheated, and I opened that bottle of Dom ... even though we were saving it for that big contract signing ... and it was she that found out that the bottle was vintage 1996 ... the year we were married.

And Até had the presents all figured out, and she did drag me to the store so she could buy these self-same presents, wrapped them, and then presented them when I opened the box holding the moccha cake from the Swiss bakery inscribed with "For My Sweetie."

Yes, my sweetie enjoyed the surprises, thought and effort.

Well, of course, the next day brunch had stuffed baked potatoes, hard-boiled eggs and corn beef hashi.

"What a feast!" my little one exclaimed.

Tomorrow is the little one's birthday, and the mama has already begun the preparations, sending the thoughts of sleep miles from the little kiddies heads as they helped unpack the groceries and found jell-o pudding and marshmallows.

Marshmallows, from my cara spoza?

"Who are you?" I demanded of the personification of the Mary Cassatt.

Her answering smile was small, sweet and cryptic.

It is funny in a way. This post has got me thinking about topics further afield ("What's funny about you getting off topic, geophf?" you ask. My answer is editted to keep the kid-friendly rating for this blog). And that is: words. Funny how we (cultures) adopt and transform words to describe the oddest things. We hinglish types call an article of clothing used for support a "bra" ... which means "arm," and when we wish to rave on through the night we go to a "party."

Ever think about that one? I never did, until I learnt the Swedish word for it: "fest," which is equally inaccurate. Our word means "group of people" (at restaurants you hear all the time: "geophf, party of four; geophf, party of four"), and their word means "food." Neither captures the essence: a "party" is not a mundane group of people, and people don't go to "fests" for the food (even though they say that's what brought them).

But, then again, what word captures the essence of the thing described ... I mean besides the word "abstruse" ...

abstruse: n. 1. abstruse.

Hm. Somehow we started with feasts, went to a garden party, and ended up with a meditation on the game of go.

Wait a minute, geophf, I was with you up to the go thing, but then ... ?

Come on, now, it's a `pataphor! For, after all, the word "abstruse" is defined as "recondite," and "recondite profundity" is the term Fujisawa Shuko (藤沢秀行), one of go's three crows

(which I wrote about ... tangentially ... to nothing) and a noted calligrapher often took to study. Apparently, the term "recondite profundity" has a koan-like significance to professional go players attempting to grasp than ineffable essence of what it is to grok the game.

You do know, don't you, that "to grok" means "to eat" ... right? So that puts us back right where we started:

What a feast!

Well, this post was more a feast for the mind's eye, as opposed to something that would delight a gourmand or epicure ... but sensuum defectui ... and all that.

It hit me

2009-09-16T20:36:00.002-05:00

Yes, I miss the puke and the poop.

Not really in the "Oh, I miss stepping in and then cleaning poop and puke." No, I don't miss it that way. It was always annoying when we had it, and one of the few good things I can say about it was that it enforced a habit of vigilance.

Watch where you step.

Visitors learned that, almost to a person, the hard way. We would invariably forget to pass on that tidbit of vigilance, and, in the early morning, we would see perfect footprints of people's "chinellas" (outlined in ... well, Mr. Darcy leavings) as they had (invariable) awakened during the night for a sip of water and tracked much more through the house.

No, I don't miss the smell; I don't miss the mess; I don't miss the following cleaning and scrubbing and disinfecting and washing and bagging and ...

I don't, but I do. For I've caught myself a few times already. I would walk into the house, and I would test the air for that unmistakable smell that told me I needed to get out the paper towels and cleaner. I would catch myself looking around a room to see where Mr. Darcy had marked his domain. I would close a door behind me to make sure Mr. Darcy doesn't go downstairs and run amok.

But none of these things are now necessary. By his dying, Mr. Darcy has given our house back to us.

This "gift" of his dying doesn't make things less arduous ... no, it makes things emptier.

Yes, I miss the puke and the poop, because I miss him, that "don't hold me" cat that would lie on his back, not for belly rubs, but oh, the better to eviscerate you (your arm would do just as well). That cat that would chase squirrels as far as the tree (at 21 pounds at his biggest he'd climb the first meter of the tree, maybe, before thinking about other things).

I hate death. It casts such a pall over so many other important-to-keep-going things. Important to keep going, yes, but death makes one ask: "why keep going if this is your end, too?"

And the sun still rises and the sun still sets. Interminably; relentlessly. Life still goes on, whether you elect to participate ... or not.

And in spite of all of that ... and despite all of that ... I still miss the puke and the poop, 'cause I miss me some warm, furry, claw-y, feisty Mr. Darcy.

Lucky 13

2009-09-11T17:00:00.006-05:00

He was the cat who got locked in the cat food closet overnight almost 13 years ago. We found him the next morning, a few pounds heavier, next to the ripped cat food bag. Since then, he's the cat who ate when he was stressed. Just like his humans.

If you've ever been a guest at our house, then we are sure you will remember him. You may actually have helped us clean up after his *mess* for he shows his affection that way. Puke here. Poop there. As if to tell us that THIS is home. All of it.

Life without him will be different. Doug and I will find out how much different in the next few days, and it will hit us. We've lived all our married life with this cat. Thirteen years with cat hair all over our stuff, our children, our selves.

Goodbye, Mr. Darcy.

You will be sorely missed.

Time of death: 4:12 PM

2009-09-11T16:59:00.005-05:00

Our cat, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy ("Mr. Darcy" for short) has been fading away this past six months very slowly, but this past week he's just went away.

Cancer.

But he was still spry, even though he could barely pull himself out of the bed. He was still there, seeking attention and affection, even though his mews were faint and complaining. The rheumatism.

Last night, he couldn't make it to the litter box anymore, and today, all he could do is lie beside me in the big bed, he couldn't manage an escape when my cara spoza came in to check on us (cats on the bed is a no-no).

It was time.

I brought him into the clinic, and, wouldn't you know it, he worked up enough energy to try to hide from me when it was time to go. I held him as the tranquilizer took effect, and it did so expeditiously. And then he got the shot. He was gone before I even felt him go. He was still warm, but his chest wasn't moving anymore, but I could only tell by looking into his eyes.

"He's dead?" I asked the doctor who looked like he was about to cry, too.

"Yes," he answered quietly, "he may gasp, but his heart's stopped."

The aide couldn't look at me as she offered her regrets and offered not to give me the receipt. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said.

"Thank you," I replied verbally, but I thought me, too.

No more hugs and rubs and scratches from our playful ocelot.

I wonder when it will hit me.

September 11th, 2009, 4:12 pm. A minute before he was leaning heavily into my embrace, and then a minute later he was gone.

Another reason for me to hate this date.

Living in History: "With the Depression On"

2009-08-31T08:41:00.003-05:00

I wrote a chapter for my story, "My Sister Rosalie," entitled: "With the Depression On" that looked at (thematically) the philosophies of economy and abundance.

Reviewers didn't get it.

Or, more correctly, they judged that chapter and the characters' actions in that chapter as people informed by modern experience. These reviewers come at it from nearly a century's worth of experience in economics and politics: "Oh, Bella shouldn't have reused her bath water, she should have ..." "Oh, Rosalie's wasting the planet's resources, she's being much too ..."

We are forgetting something here. The Depression's on in 1934. You know? The Depression? The Depression where twenty-five percent of American people are jobless, where checks don't bounce because banks are bouncing. Where rich, rich, rich people are throwing themselves out windows of sky scrapers. Where the Wheat Belt has become the Dust Bowl. Where prizefighters queue up with the rest of us just to get a shot at hard labor for the day so they can be paid a pittance. Where the lamentation "Brother, can you spare a dime?" was made into one of the most popular songs of the day.

Where parents, if they are the lucky ones that have flats, are watching their own children fade away and die because the heat bill hasn't been paid in months, so never your mind about getting a doctor to look at the wee ones. Doctor? And pay him with what? Today's gruel? That is, the only meal of the day?

When you read this chapter, please don't judge your Bella with modern sensibilities. Put yourself into her woolen socks. Look at those rich kids over there, sharing one apple. Go up to them and ask if you can have the core after their done with the apple. Have them look at you with disdain and tell you "Nope!" as you watch them eat the core, and feel the emptiness in the pit of your stomach.

That would have been a nice dessert, a nice change, from the one meal you've had today, and yesterday, and, if you're lucky, will have tomorrow.

Put yourself into the mind of a person not too distant from her parents' immigration from the Old World, where saving was considered to be an act of Faith. Saving? Money? The Old World had its own issues, including pogroms and potato famines. The New World, the streets are paved with Gold. So what did you do when the streets weren't, but you still were getting money for work (instead of just working for the roof over your head and a meal on the table)? You horded it. You buried it in the back yard. You stuffed your mattress with it. You put it into a bank because you got 5% interest, and then the bank went belly up, so you learned a hard lesson there: hold onto what is yours with a death grip, because times are hard now, and they'll be harder later.

Now, eat off a paper plate. What are you going to do with it after you're done? Throw it away? Never. You are going to wash the paper plate, because who knows when you'll ever see another paper plate again in your life?

Do you have that mindset now, with this understanding?

No, you don't. Because, even in today's "troubled" situation (and it is troubled, but it's nothing compared to the Great Depression that our (great-)grandparents went through with no context of a prior Depression to help them weather that interminable storm), we are surrounded by abundance: cars and homes and cellphones and 50" HDTVs. You can't put yourself into a scenario that doesn't exist in your experience because you can always pull yourself out and say "Oh, well, Bella should have done ..." as you grab the remote and switch to ESPN.

But maybe you can be grateful to the people who fought in the Great War and then fought in the Second World War and who built this country up from its infancy through the Roaring '20s through the Great Depression to now where there are hot running water and heating and air conditioning. Maybe your modern sensibilities, that they earned by the sweat of their brow for you, can judge them a little less harshly, and maybe you can drink your morning coffee as you do (or don't) read your morning newspaper with a wee bit more reverence.

Yes, I do say that this is the best of all possible worlds, but, unlike Voltaire, I do not say it with biting sarcasm. I am appreciative of what I have today, and I am grateful to the men and women who committed their lives, then and now, to give me it.

This whole entry points to the fact (sad but real) that people do not learn from history. But we can be comforted that we do, now, have ESPN. Just like the Romans had the Colosseum. Oh, what happened to the Romans? Who knows? Who cares? Besides, the game's on, pass the chips.

Gratitude

2009-08-10T06:08:00.002-05:00

It's the little things, isn't it?

After every meal, I make sure I thank my cara spoza for it, telling her how good it was. I may have liked it; I may not, but that really doesn't matter: I wouldn't have had it if it wasn't for the work she put into making it.

My dear heart recently told me how much she appreciates my effort in complimenting the meals, and that's when I reflected on what prompts me to do this. Surprisingly to me, it wasn't (primarily) the example of my parents. Surprising because all the good things that I am have come from their example.

No, it was from a book: Ursala Le Guin's Lathe of Heaven. In that story, the wife of the protagonist George Orr (called "Jor Jor" by his not-so-imaginary-"friends") reflects on how it makes her feel when he thanks her for the meal, especially when it turns out ... well, not so well. She reflects on what a good man he is, for many reasons, but particularly for this little thing, this nothing thing: that he eats his meal, and that he's grateful for it ... that he's grateful for her.

It's the little things, isn't it?

I recall talking with a chief in the Navy on how his wife decided he was the one. He took her out on a date to a fancy-schmansy restaurant, and they were dressed to the nines, and the waitress tripped, spilling a tray full of drinks right into his lap.

Of course the waitress was mortified, but Chief made sure she was okay, helped her clean up as best he could, and told her to forget about it, because he already had.

That's when his (to be) wife knew. I'm sure she thought: if he behaves in this way, in this situation, to somebody he doesn't even know, well, that must show how he really is deep down.

Sometimes people like to think: oh, this-or-that didn't turn out so well, and I was rather nasty to the wife and kids then, but I'll do something really big to make up for it.

But you don't, and you can't. It's easy to say, "I'm not really like that ..." or "If the situation were different ..."

But this is how you are, and this is what the situation is, and the big event is never going to come. What you are is how you are in this scenario right now, all the time, because that's all you have.

Yes, it's easy to say, "When I am the grand poobar, I'd do this."

No. The strength of a man is measure thus:

When he is weak, does he stand for what he believes in the face of overpowering adversity? That is, does he accept martyrdom, even if it's the little death of saying, "No, boss, you're wrong, and I refuse to go along with this"?

And, when he is strong, how does he treat the littlest of these, including the waitress, including the wife and kids?

And that is the story of the soul that God will read on Judgment Day. That is what the spiritual exercises and that is what George Washington's Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior are for: to help weak men grow into strength and to keep strong men, strong.

For, after all, it's the little things, isn't it?

Blueberries

2009-08-02T08:45:00.003-05:00

So, I was preparing breakfast for my cara spoza yesterday.

What kind of oatmeal do you want? I asked her.

Oh, she waved regally, any kind is fine.

So I ripped open the very-berry oatmeal packet (purple wrapper) and poured into a bowl.

That's for you, right? she said cautiously.

No, I've already eaten. Hours ago, in fact. I've taken the habit of waking up early nowadays.

My cara spoza grimaced. When I interrogated her, I found out that she didn't like very-berry oatmeal.

How could this be possible? Everybody loves blueberries! Very-berry oatmeal is my favorite! How could my cara spoza not like that flavor?

Well, she doesn't like that flavor. She likes the maple syrup one (brown wrapper) or the oats and flax one (orange wrapper). So, any flavor as long as it's one of those two flavors.

"Any color you like, as long as it's black."

I wrapped the bowl of very-berry, under my cara spoza's distressed protests and made her the maple syrup one.

What did I have for breakfast today? Day old very-berry oatmeal. And it tasted great.

'Cause it's the best.

407 Arrows: Will and Want

2009-08-02T07:04:00.004-05:00

Kayso, just in case you didn't get the hint and all? I rock at DDR.

What is it this time, geophf? you sigh exasperatedly.

Well, I'm glad you asked.

So, I was doing my DDR thing (Ultramix 3), and I aced "Dança de Yucca."

See, it's a tango, and the beat increases in speed along with the complexity of the steps so that in changes from a tango to a tango that a whirling dervish or the Tasmanian Devil might have trouble keeping up.

I've been dancing, and loving to dance, this song for years. Years. A tango? Me? geophf? Dance a tango in real life? That might be possible, but in the virtual DDR-world, I am dancing away like a madman or Michael Flatley in Riverdance ... wait: aren't they the same thing?

So I love to dance "Dança de Yucca," but ace it? Nevah! But I did last week.

Now there is no weapon formed against me that shall prosper. So, I put in DDR Ultramix (1) and danced "La Senorita Virtual." I FCed it. For the first time, ever.

How many arrows does "La Senorita Virtual" have? I couldn't answer that question until this Tuesday past, but now I can: 407 arrows. 407 arrows in a minute and a half, and I touched them all.

Latin songs. Latin songs are so hard for the stuffy "Pretty Fly for a White Guy" dancers with their off-beat lead-ins. But now, for this pasty-faced fella?

Yeah, the site is down, so I can't show you the numbers, but yes, it's true: in over twenty-thousand DDRers out there, geophf rings in at number 38.

Psssst! Hot! I'm hot!

So of course I tried doing "Paranoia Rebirth" ... didn't quite get it, but I came close. So I left it for now. After burning through 700 kcal during that workout I knew that now was time to take a break.

For I know this, after about ten years of DDR, a FCing or acing a song is simply will and want now. If I don't FC a song, it's now because I'm not concentrating enough on it or that I don't push myself all the way through it (Paranoia and La Senorita can get tiring three-quarters of the way through). If I don't have the skill to do a song now, like Waka Laka, it's now simply a matter of doing a song over and over and over again until I do, even if that means I must do that song for years to be able to complete it.

Perfect example: Dorset Perception. I aced that song a couple of months ago, but then I played it again the next week and my score, albeit higher, wasn't an ace, so I had a low grade staring at me from that song for two months as I played and played it to regain my ace, which I did, time and time again, but didn't earn the score to knock out that lower grade.

DDR is funny: it gives you points for style as well as precision, so may dance a song "well" but not well enough to merit a better grade: I've failed songs with higher scores where I previously had an 'A' grade.

So, what to do?

Will and want.

I kept doing that song until I FCed it, restoring my ace. Now anytime I dance it, there is nothing that will take down that peg: I can now only improve on that grade.

But isn't that what life is? You work at something because you have the will to work at it and the want for it. You don't get it because you really don't want it: your will isn't directed toward that thing. Or, you get it because your will and want is such that you will get it. You don't have something? You want it bad enough and eventually you will have it.

"Mean Papa"

2009-08-02T06:50:00.002-05:00

My little ones EM and Iz came downstairs to play in that large, spacious playroom they invade and occupy. I stopped DDRing.

"No, no: no playing until the area is clean," says I.

"Why, Papa? Why? We are going to be playing with the toys that are already out, anyway," they counter, whiningly.

... and the toys they'll be pulling out of the storage area, and the books scattered all over the floor, and the books on the shelves, and the ...

"Because," I 'answered,' "I'm a Mean Papa."

They moan. But EM loves this game, too: "But, Papa, why did you let us come downstairs to play if you're a 'Mean Papa'?"

I give them a growly look: "No playing until the area is clean."

"Awwww!" they complain, and set to work cleaning (by intermittently cleaning between reading books, serving "tea" to their dollies, imitating my dance steps, then intermittently cleaning some more).

Diane returns home from shopping and tromps downstairs.

Kids: "Awwww! We had no time to play! Mama, Papa made us clean the downstairs because he's a 'Mean Papa'!"

Yep, that's me: the Mean Papa.

PSA: Cell Phones in Restaurants

2009-07-25T10:17:00.002-05:00

PSA: "Public Service Announcement"

I feel a bit weird for having to say this.

Yesterday, I took my cara spoza for her birthday lunch at a very nice Sushi restaurant (owned and run by Japanese ... authentic? Yes).

Well, it would have been nice, but it seems that people in a public place seem to believe that they have a private, sound-proofed bubble of silence that surrounds them as they bellow into their hand-held devices.

Hello, my name is geophf, and I am your friend.

And, as you friend, let me tell you something: you are being rude, rude, rude to every single person in the entire restaurant when you carry on your very loud side of your "private" conversation about your financial matters or your affairs at work (both inappropriate and not) or your family discord.

I don't know why I must tell you this, but, please show some respect. When you make a call, or when you receive a call, stand up from your table, and if possible (it nearly always is possible) step outside the restaurant and carry on your conversation. You don't even need to bellow, because, you know, modern devices are capable of carrying your voice and your recipient has volume control.

If you don't, and you are seated with other people at your table, what is the message you are giving to your guests or coworkers.

You are giving this message: "you are unimportant." You are further telling them this: "You are not worth as much time to me as the person I could call, or take the call from, at any other time of the day."

You know what you are saying about your parents when you do this? You are telling the world that your parents didn't raise you with manners, respect or dignity.

Oh, and the blue tooth. Take off the implant when you are talking with someone face-to-face.

Think about it the next time you think about making a call or taking a call during a meal. And then, when you've thought about it, DON'T take or make that call.

Or, continue as you are: thoughtless, inconsiderate, brutish, rude.

This is your call to make.

DDR Dad

2009-06-22T14:34:00.003-05:00

Okay, everybody, take three steps back and clear the floor, DDR Dad (that's my new name) is in da House!

For Realz, yo.

So, what was not mentioned in the last post was the my girls sang DDR songs to me as their Father's Day present, and the first one entirely in American Sign Language:

Butterfly:

Why, why, why, I'm a little butterfly
Green, Black and Blue
Painting Colours in the sky.

Why, why, why, I'm a little butterfly,
Green, Black and Blue
Painting Colours in the sky.

Why, why, why, ... why, why, why
Where's my Samurai?

And then:

Hey, "Papa," dup-du-dup-pi-doop, yama-jama
La-la-la-la-la-la.

Yes, they are seven and five year old girls, and, no: they do not the lyrics of the above "Hey, 'Papa'" song. That's why they sing dup-pi-doop, because they do not know the lyrics of the original, and no: they haven't seen the music video, either.

But that's not my point.

geophf, there's a point to this blog post?

Of course there's a point, there's always a point to every thing I say, or else why would I say it?

Um, quit giving me that look.

My point is this: I have arrived. I've gone from being merely awesome at DDR to being expert at it.

Humble about it, too, aren't you, geophf?

Yes, why do you ask?

I've started to push the 'A' graded songs to 'AA', but I've also done that to my 'B' and 'C' graded songs. No big deal.

But now I get 'A's on 10-steppers ... like Bag (the poor girl, her mom called her to supper right in the middle of the song). Now I can Ace ("Double A") songs like 30 lives and can FC ("Full Combo") songs like Dorset Perceptions and Cosmic Hammer and Feels Just Like It Should ... take away my Ace from me? Well I'll just FC the song, then!

And now I can even complete songs like Cartoon Heroes and Waka Laka ... you know, songs I couldn't even complete before? But now get 'A's on? Those songs?

Yeah. That's right. Whoz yer (DDR) daddy?

Moi.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to do me some DDR UltraMix 3, please (Rock Lobster? Git me more o' dat! I have a question ... how come this particular DDR game has so many good songs, all in a row?)

Post Script

Yeah. Just aced Just Pretend. Didn't see that happening with all the quick twisting about and switching of dominant feet during a held note. Tough little song wrapped up in a "This is a simple beat" façade.

Love that song so much, even though it's so sad. Maybe because it's so sad ... it's like a story waiting to be written somewhere. It's opposite is only a few songs away on the wheel: Don't Don't Go Away, another wonderful, and wonderfully hard, song to dance to with beautiful music hiding the pain of the singer underneath.

Why do I like these kinds of songs?

But, then again, I do have Monkey Punk for my "defense."

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T15:15:00.005-05:00

Life got in the way and Doug's 42nd birthday passed without blog mention. Oh, the missed opportunities to quote Douglas Adams! But as Doug himself would say, "So it goes."

The littles made up for it by slaving (yes, slaving!) over the annual Father's Day scrapbook, now on its second year. And because they are now big girls (little girls being 3 and 4 years old, of which they're not), there was a program filled with dancing, poetry reading, and singing (the kind where the words are made up as they go along). To the dear Papa, whose heart could be broken by a single tear rolling down a dear daughter's cheek, this was almost too much to bear! But so it goes. He is much loved, and it is Father's Day.

Enjoy the rest of your day, Papa. We're extending quiet time to 3 hours, about the length of a DDR session, right? Just for you.

Wherefore Angels?

2009-06-05T03:45:00.003-05:00

So, last night, I told my brother Mike I have many reasons for happiness that day. The first, AOL is hiring contractors, and, with that, I can start receiving more income than sending outgo per month. That's a "plus." The second, my cara spoza doesn't have cancer; that's good, too. And, thirdly, my children are alive and not truck tire-tread road-pizza.

Like I said, a very good day.

Yeah, that last one. The setup is as follows: it was raining buckets, and I was walking my little dears to the library as my other little dear was getting her mammogram. We looked all ways, crossing that busy intersection of Burke Lake Road and Old Keene Mill Road. Surely there was traffic — there always is — but none oncoming. That is, none until we were halfway across the road, and truck the size of a Ford 150 came out of nowhere, barreling into the intersection at a speed faster than the speed limit, speeding past right-of-way traffic to make that left turn, right onto us.

I didn't even see it. And the driver didn't see us when he made the turn, but he slammed on the brakes, skidded on the rain-slicked road and did not crush EM and me and did not throw our little Iz a good distance.

I didn't think anything as this happened, anything other than getting the children safely across the street, but another driver did: she rolled down her window, shouted at the truck driver and then turned to us and apologized for his driving. I waved and stated my thanks.

But now I am thinking about it. Viscerally. I'm thinking: two little hands. One little hand in my left, Elena Marie's, that would have been crushed under the truck, and another little hand in my right, Isabel's, that may have been crushed or may have been thrown clear. But then what? She wakes up, or doesn't, in the hospital, and asks her mother: "Mama, where's Até? Where's Papa?"

And I'm thinking, how did this not happen?

As a Catholic, there's an obvious answer: guardian angels. Either the man's angel said: "Excuse me, blue jeans and sweaters on your left have people inside them …" Or our own guardian angels stopped that truck as the momentum of it and the lack of friction caused by the rain did not.

I have had discussions with other "Christians" who do not agree. They argue: what's the point to the entire set, all of them? Why have angels at all? God is sufficient unto Himself; He doesn't need angels to carry out His Work.

Why, indeed!

But that's not the real question, is it? The real question is why have us at all? I mean, it is clear that there are compelling reasons for God creating the angels, but what is not so clear is why would God even bother with us and the questions that we pose. I mean, obviously, God has more important Work to carry out that to stoop down and save two little girls that I'm rather fond of and the pater familias holding their hands, so why did He bother in this particular case, and why did He bother in the general case at all?

That's another question. And that's your homework — your essay question — "God, why did You create me?" Your life, ever second of your Now, is your answer.

But why angels? And why do angels bother with us? And why does God even bother with angels, when He can do it all Himself?

First of all, do angels exist? Answer: yes. Proof, read the Old Testament>Pentateuch/Torah, or the new Testament, or the Noble Qu'ran.

Put that one to bed. ("Oh, angels don't exist, but I believe in God and in man." Pshaw!)

Second of all, why does God even bother with them?

Now that's the real question. Because God has no need to bother with them at all, just has He has no need to bother with us at all. But He did. Why? I don't know. But I can take a guess, informed by scripture.

God thought of the angels "long" before He thought of us. Boom, He spoke, and whammo: Creation! What's the first thing out of His Mouth? The Bible doesn't put it like this, but the first thing out of His Mouth were the highest forms, Lucifer and the Seraphim. And guess what? God said, "Lucifer, how do you want to work this?" and Lucifer said, "Well, I think …"

And that was all she wrote for Lucifer. Because God was really asking: "Lucifer, you or Me? Your way or My Way?" And Lucifer lead off with the I, me, and mine, instead of the correct whatever you say, Lord, goes, or: only Thou, Lord. So, Lucifer picked up his ball, taking a third of the angels with him ("Hey, guys, b-ball at 5!") and played in his own damn court.

Literally.

But here's the miracle, God asked the Seraphim the same thing, and what did they say? Kadosh, kadosh, kadosh … or ("English"): Holy, holy, holy … or (French): Saint, Saint, Saint … or (the modern translation): OMG, OMG, OMG!

The Seraphim, the most powerful angels, were so overcome with the Presence of God, that it set them on fire, and all they can do is shout: "Oh, God!" as they adure.

And so it went with all created things, the Cherubim, the Archangels, the angelic choirs … and then us.

And why do the angels bother with us? I mean, here's Gabriel, "just" an archangel, … an archangel that, with just one feather of one of his wings spans the entire Universe … "just" an archangel that with one blow on his horn calls then end of all creation, and here's Michael, "just" another archangel, that when God said, "Um, who's going to take out the trash?" St. Michael said: "Oh, God, let me get that for you, please?" and then took the rebellious angels and threw them in the incinerator … "just" an archangel that's more powerful than Lucifer, now Satan, and all his cohorts, combined.

And with all that power and majesty, they want to help us. Why?

Some more guesses here. God says, "Um, who wants to …" And He has the entire heavenly hosts just begging at His "Feet" to do something for Him. Anything! Imagine the honour! "God needed this done, and He picked me to do it for Him!"

And to be clear, God doesn't have "need" of anything, but He allows others to do things, in accordance with His Divine Will. "You know what will really perk up Mary [or whatever a particular Angel's name is, Mary may be a popular name in Heaven, but I wouldn't know]? That she helps guide Elena Marie to Heaven. I bet she'd like doing that."

But also imagine the hardship and "disgrace" that they must endure! Here's an angel, an eternal being of pure intellect, having to interact in Time and in the (Physical) World, to enact God's Plan. I mean, you can't get much farther than God, than Time (as opposed to Eternity) and the World (as opposed to Immateriality), but they do it, they beg to do it, because it pleases God.

"Hey, I need two of you to come down with me, assume temporal physical form, 'cause I gotta tell Abraham and Sarah about Isaac, you two wanna come?"

"Yes, Lord!" said tremblingly, awed that God picked them, ignoring the coming agony of assuming physical form, a form so opposite in nature to their own, even for a short "time," because they are doing His Will.

The second reason (in case you lost count, there were two reasons angels help us) is this: so they can learn from us.

Now, wait a minute, geophf, angels are eternal and pure intellect. They don't change, so what do they have to learn? You say this so smugly, sure you've got the geophfster this time.

Yes, they don't change, do they? At the moment of Creation they picked God or they picked themselves, and now they exist, eternally, with and in that choice.

But we do change. Every second, we pick God or we pick ourselves. Every second we struggle with that choice. It gets better, doesn't it, right? Because the more we pick what we want, the harder it is to pick what God wants. But, sometimes, despite this concupiscence, we choose God.

Put yourself in the angel's place, watching this happen. Your thinking: God is God, c'mon, human, pick God, please! And the human, so stained by sin, says, ya know, I'm gonna go with God on this one.

What does the angel think, seeing this nearly lost soul reach heavenward? Maybe something like, Wow!

Why do Angels exist? No reason, as God has no need for them. But, it must be nice seeing that "little" guardian angel say wow! because it helped that soul take one more step toward God, because it helped Him in His Plan.

Why have angels? I really don't know. But today, even though I don't know, I'm grateful for their presence and their help.

In the Company of Fairfax

2009-04-21T22:22:00.005-05:00

Marissa's Bunny is now officially dingy. Marissa's cousins have dragged her across the oceans to visit relatives, to share stories of Marissa, and to escape Virginia's already-mild winter. Unfortunately, humid and sticky weather doesn't help Fairfax's fur either. But she had a grand time, as these photos can attest.

Y'all know about the cosplay convention. Can you tell that the guitar lady was Fairfax's favorite?

Yes, Fairfax found a better coffee. She went for the local beans.

At the beach, Fairfax meditated on the serene sound of waves, punctuated by the sound of Marissa's cousins shrieking, as they played a loud card game called "1-2-3 pass."

Since Marissa's mommy can't make it to her godson's upcoming wedding, Fairfax gamely posed with them and their furry companion.

To establish her location (14,000 km away from Marissa), Fairfax asked to pose in front of the national hero's monument in Luneta Park with its usual visitors. Yes, it was a nicer, cooler evening, perfect for hugging someone furry (or not).

It's been 3 months, and Fairfax is ready to visit Marissa again, and to show off her pink Victorian mini top hat from the cosplay convention. That is, after her date with the dry cleaner.

Last Day, First Day, Thursday

2009-04-16T22:26:00.003-05:00

3:30 a.m. April 16
Saying goodbye at Ninoy Aquino (Manila) International Airport

1:00 p.m. April 16
Celebrating Easter Thursday at Nagoya Airport's Starbucks Coffee

9:00 p.m. April 16
Papa time at A&J's restaurant, Annandale, VA

All in a day's travel.

Building Memories

2009-04-15T21:35:00.000-05:00

It all started with a Gingerhaus that Uncle John and Auntie Wanda gave us for Christmas. But with a week left to pack for our long vacation overseas, the gingerbread house kit ended up in the luggage.

As with all brilliant plans, this one almost didn't get done. Someone had to slave over a hot stove in a far away hot country to bake in the middle of summer, and because it was my brilliant idea, I had to do it on our last vacation day.

The young girl who was supposed to make the gingerbread house with us went swimming (it was that hot!) but Anda gamely assisted in the construction of this masterpiece.

But can artists remain spectators too long?

Apparently not! Anda demanded for a panel and a ziploc bag, and in two seconds, was creating a masterpiece roof for the gingerbread house.

Tanya, the dachshund loved it. Luckily, she was too old to be climbing tables and gobbling up designer houses.

Our playmate eventually took home a souvenir from her visiting friends, who kindly left two panels of the house for her to decorate as she reminisces about two balikbayans, yelling at the gate of her house, "Julianne, can you play now?"

Happy Easter!

2009-04-13T06:54:00.004-05:00

"Ito ang araw na ginawa ng Panginoon; tayo'y mangagagalak at ating katutuwaan." Ps. 118

In the girls' short lives, they've already celebrated Easter in various ways: quiet family meals, fun lunch cruises, and loud egg hunts with cousins. But what has remained constant is their participation at Mass, either of the Easter vigil or on Sunday morning. This year, they experienced this special day in a new way.

Before 5 a.m. on Easter Sunday, they waited with the rest of our parish as the images of Mama Mary wearing a black veil and the risen Christ were processing from two different locations in the neighborhood. They watched as a young girl dressed in angel attire met the statue of Mary and lifted off the veil, and a chorus of "angels" sang Aleluya. As the sky brightened, the salubong celebration ended, and we all walked to church for the first Mass of Easter Sunday.

Back home, we shared a version of our own Easter tradition and decorated the bulletin board with paper flowers and scripture verses, and brought out the hidden Alleluia. As a special treat, the family feasted as the girls went bunny-crazy at the Manila Peninsula Hotel.

In the true spirit of Pinoy celebrations, the house specialties were prepared at home: roast chicken with lemongrass and sotanghon. Easter dinner was capped with a friend's generous gift of Pampanga's best -- Nathaniel's buko-pandan salad!

We are filled to the brim with wonderful memories that would take months to record in our vacation scrapbook. In these last few days, we are savoring every single bite!

A Week to Remember

2009-04-11T07:35:00.009-05:00

This Holy Week, the girls experienced Lent with all their senses. It was tiring, even though we spread out the visita iglesia and drove, instead of walked to 7 different churches in 4 days. At the beginning of the week, already there were signs of the color and sounds that would bombard them.

Parked near the municipal hall, this Birhen Dolorosa took shelter to avoid the sweltering heat and slight drizzle.

Church grounds were filled with all sorts of construction in progress, in preparation for the senakulo on Good Friday or salubong on Easter Sunday. (Our Lady of the Abandoned, San Roque)

In imitation of the other pilgrims, the girls have learned to reach out and touch statues and icons, as they pray at each church. (National Shrine of Our Mother of Perpetual Help, Baclaran)

A dress code poster has become a familiar sight, as well as information about the Reproductive Health Bill. In this country of "texters", mobile phones get its own poster.

But business goes on inside the churches, already filled with pilgrims following the Way of the Cross. Members of the Mother Butler Guild can be seen sweeping around the altars; carpenters and painters are working on various beautification projects; helpers drape statues and other images in purple fabric. Fortunately, we were able to visit (the exposed image) of our Blessed Virgin of Antipolo, whom we also visit in her Washington, DC oratory at the National Shrine. (Shrine of Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage, Antipolo)

For sentimental reasons, and because we also celebrate this saint's feast day as our name day, we went to the all-steel San Sebastian Church. The girls lit candles and went down their prayer list to remember their Papa, their little cousin Marissa, and their Italian great-grandmother Jill. (Basilica of San Sebastian, Manila)

All that driving around is bound to bring us to places that trigger fond memories for Anda and Papo. On our way to the Benedictine Abbey of Our Lady of Montserrat, we posed in front of the university that Marissa's grandmother attended. (This one's for you, Tita Femme!)

In this predominantly Catholic country, Masses are celebrated inside shopping malls. It was no surprise that the owners of the largest shopping mall in the Philippines (and the third largest in the world) donated land and built a church near their Mall of Asia. The mall, as most estalishments, were closed on Good Friday. But the church was filled with pilgrims. (Shrine of Jesus, the Way, the Truth, and the Life, Manila)

Most Filipino celebrations come with processions, lights, and songs, and if the girls' humming is any indication, some of the week's highlights have filtered through their being. It may have been a long and tiring week for the girls, with rarely a day spent at home for relaxing. But in the quiet that they'll find in VA, their senses will remember. (St. Paul of the Cross, Marikina; Maundy Thursday procession, Marikina)

Anime Fairfax

2009-04-05T09:11:00.008-05:00

The girls' cousins are big cosplayers, so Fairfax, Marissa's Bunny got to attend her first Cosplay Summit. There were gamers and manga merchandise galore. Fairfax personally loved posing with Kitty-chan, who's celebrating her 35th year.

The girls, on the other hand, got to pose with very gracious (female) cosplayers. There were awesome (and gruesome) male cosplayers but we stayed clear of weapons and blood, and tried hard to stay Rated G.

We finally caught up with Kuya Kyle (sans wings), who worked on his costume for 3 weeks. It would have been out of character to grin at the camera so the girls did all the smiling for him.

Holy Days

2009-04-05T00:37:00.007-05:00

We begin our Holy Week in the Philippines with the combined celebration of Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. It's 91 degrees but it feels like 102, and the church (without AC) is packed. Unfortunately for the girls, the Mass is in Tagalog, and even with the help of their MagnifiKid magazine, (Thanks for sending it, Papa!) the drone of a language foreign to their ears only adds to their drowsiness. But there were enough new experiences to make today memorable.

First, we had to buy the palms! They are weaved in different designs, and this little girl got to pick one with a ribbon that matched her dress.

Being early helped, and not only is she armed with a fan, she got to pick a spot in front of two electric fans.

Then it was time to approach the priest for the blessing of the palms. Parishioners wave their palaspas in unison, mimicking the Jews welcoming Jesus.

There was an abundance of holy water, and one girl, who got splashed full blast, takes refuge. But the prospect of strawberry ice cream after lunch assuages her feelings of embarrassment. After all, it is a Sunday, which is not a day of penitence, and can only mean treats!

Holy Week will be still be filled with activities -- mostly a spread-out Visita Iglesia (Visit of the Churches) traditionally observed on Maundy Thursday. Fortunately, history lessons here often touch on the spread of Catholic Christianity, and we can continue with the cultural immersion as we visit the historic churches in Manila.

But we bring a little of our own Holy Week practices here, and have decorated our bulletin board with framed prayer cards and bookmarks, projects from our Little Flower Girls Club, to help us remember what the coming week means.

Friends

2009-03-31T09:27:00.005-05:00

We're on the homestretch here with 2 weeks left on our vacation. Can you guess what these girls will miss most?

Twilight

2009-03-20T06:28:00.003-05:00

Yes, Papa. We know the DVD's out. And we know that you got yours. So instead, we got ourselves a VeggieTales movie.

Reading Papa's Letters

2009-03-18T06:50:00.003-05:00

The ladies in the family get the annual letter from the man of the house on St. Nicholas' Day (that's December 6 for y'all). So it's a special treat to get funny, heart-warming, make-us-miss-him-more letters unexpectedly. So special that it had to be captured by the paparazzi mom.

Because he's creative and smart at the same time, the papa puts a collage in the letters, inserts comic strips cut out from the Sunday Post, and includes junk mail with stickers! Yes, his girls had a blast ripping open their mail and basking in the love that had been sent with it.

Teacher Moment

2009-03-15T02:09:00.004-05:00

I couldn't have planned it better.

Back in VA, the girls attend a weekly Philippine language and cultural school run by volunteers. A few months ago, they learned about well-known Filipinos. Depending on the ages of the students, I am sure they do not remember the same personalities. My girls remember Lea Salonga, especially since we showed them a behind-the-scenes recording of Disney's theme song for the movie, Aladdin. On the other hand, the teens in class may remember Arnel Pineda, currently lead singer of the American band, Journey.

Last night, I skipped Journey's concert to watch a ballet and lost bragging rights. Yes, a ballet. It was an extended run of Ballet Manila's Tatlong Kuwento ni Lola Basyang led by Lisa Macuja-Elizalde, the first foreigner invited to join the Kirov Ballet. Lola Basyang was a creation of (another well-known Filipino featured in the girls' lesson), Severino Reyes. The girls have read the three stories retold in this performance, narrated by veteran actress, Luz Fernandez, who reprised the role that I've watched her perform when I was younger.

So far, so good. In watching this world-class ballet, a lesson from the past gets some flesh. For PhP100 (or $2) per person, my girls get to watch a story come to life, to see a prima ballerina, and to pose with an actress.

But we had another surprise in the form of another famous Filipina -- former First Lady Imelda Marcos, who came to watch the performance. Of course the girls remembered her from their lesson! And in a few days, the lesson from months ago will continue at the Shoe Museum where we will view this woman's collection.

On the drive home, Elena was writing on her pocket journal, recording that Imelda Marcos is a big woman. If I didn't know what it meant to give up watching Journey's concert, by evening's end, I did.

Immersion

2009-03-08T04:46:00.005-05:00

After six weeks in a different culture, the girls have started showing the effects of immersion.

When they accidentally drop their utensils or bump at someone, instead of oops!, they now exclaim ay!

They have started enjoying cold, fresh-from-the-tap showers, even in the cooler evenings. Incidentally, that could be their second shower for the day too.

When they think of entertainment for the evening, it could mean plugging the Magic Sing, the videoke microphone. They've long forgotten their reticence in performing and easily belt out pop songs.

The tricycle is not anymore this strange contraption but a quick way to go to town--never mind that it's loud and that it isn't air-conditioned. The 2-kilometer ride costs PhP24.00 (or around $0.50).

At a fast-food restaurant, they're not likely to ask for burgers though those are available, even in the local eating places. At their only trip to McDonald's, the favorites were chicken with rice or spaghetti, and pineapple pie with ice-cold pineapple juice!

Ordinary objects have gained new meanings: turquoise-colored flowers have become fairy slippers; prickly weeds are shy and fold when touched.

Geckos? They expected to scream at the sight of their first one but instead, they tsk'd-tsk'd in imitation of its call.

The little one has visited the city library, considered one of the best in Metro Manila. She doesn't mind at all that she's required to remove her shoes before curling up with a book at the children's section.

If they cringed when I first offered it, they now clamor to have it for dessert: queso ice cream! That's right, cheese-flavored ice cream.

Purple? For the girls, it could only mean food. Ube!

School at the Beach

2009-03-03T18:01:00.007-05:00

Windsurf School, that is. Why waste the wicked wind that blows across the sandbar? Math just had to wait.

The cousins learned about windsurfing safely on solid ground. The instructor used a small board just the right size for a seven-year old, and boy, did our 7-year old want to join her older cousins. But there are still swimming lessons to learn.

Then off to the beach to teach those legs about balancing on the board.

With a little help from the instructor, Ate (pronounced AH-teh; elder sister or female cousin) was quickly speeding off with the wind. No, that wasn't our princess. She and her little sister were left on dry land, wishing for the day when their Papa will windsurf with them.

There were enough spectators to make one nervous. But since they were relatives, the applause was loud and long! Because sooner than we expected, Ate was on her own.

See her fly, all in an hour's hard work while on vacation at the beach ...

... as the little cousins work at getting a head start.

Jetsetters

2009-02-25T08:51:00.004-05:00

Fairfax met Jollibee at the local Starbucks where they tried a cup of Coffee Jelly Frappuccino and a cup of Mango Passion Fruit blended drink. (Can't get that at all in Virginia, she exclaims!)

Marissa's Bunny is off to visit relatives and to give them updates on our little cousin. In the meantime, she is basking in the summer heat and the warm hospitality of everyone she meets.

My girls!

2009-02-14T03:14:00.005-05:00

Singing:

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May.
I guess you'd say: "What can make feel this way?"
My girls. Talkin' 'bout My girls!

Boy, those Temptations sure knew what they were singing about!

Papa on Their Minds

2009-02-12T05:07:00.005-05:00

The edge on the homesick whines isn't there anymore. I can only imagine that the girls are finally adjusted to the time and to the routine away from home. Then I hear them say, "Send this picture to Papa," as they pose for me. Or "Can we mail this to Papa?" after they finish a work of art.

So this entry's for Papa, a long-distance Valentine's Day greeting: We are thinking of you!

How would you like a pirate-themed Italian restaurant, with a special ship docked behind for your private party? Just perfect, according to your number 1 mate, with a wink and a salute to you.

We are sure you're not lacking in sucralose and salt. This V-day, we thought of celebrating with you--how's a can of Pringles to share across the seas?

The little senorita poses for her amor. She tries not to scream too loudly during her many lab tests. You will be proud of her!

Well, does this one need any comment?

Home Away from Home

2009-01-30T04:24:00.005-05:00

Really, the girls can't feel homesick when all around them are the familiar neon signs of their Papa's favorite watering hole. And unlike back home, they get their ice-cold frosty drinks more frequently because it is 36 deg. C outside! No wonder the baristas already know us by name.

The bright pink and orange sign beckoned to the girls, a reminder of post-Sunday Mass treats that only their Papa would offer. Besides, we couldn't resist the tagline that we won't ever see back home: Pasalubong ng Bayan (a souvenir for the entire community). And where else could we get purple ube-flavored, flower-shaped donuts?

Unless Uncle Bill surprises us.

The To-Do List

2009-01-26T10:47:00.006-05:00

My SIL emailed before we left, and wrote, "Eat mangosteen until you can't stand the sight of it. Tackle the Taho man when he goes by the house. Soak up the sun and the Tagalog and the relatives to your heart's content. You deserve it. Congratulations."

I'm not sure I deserve it but I am happy that DH made many sacrifices to give me this vacation. This man's least favorite season is "anything cold" yet he is happy to let us cool down with fresh mango shakes in high 80s weather. I don't want his sacrifices to be for naught, and the least I can do is to follow my SIL's advice and to maximize the opportunity. This past week, I am happy to report that I have introduced my girls to two new fruits, mangosteen and lanzones, and have allowed them to eat (really good) bananas and mangoes for dessert.

I am even happier to report and introduce y'all to the Taho Man. DH and I met Mang Dante more than 10 years ago, and he took to my husband like a brother. The girls first met him via Skype, and just yesterday, bought their first cup of taho from him. The exchange conducted in English (by Mang Dante) and the girls (in Filipino) was priceless, and happily recorded for posterity.

Three months will be over in no time. The girls may not be fluent Tagalog speakers by the end of their vacation but I hope to have piqued their interest and sparked a love for their heritage. As homeschoolers, we do make ourselves more aware of the learning opportunities available to us. We have called this quarter our Winter Term Abroad even though nothing in our environment reminds us that it is winter! But every walk around the block is an introduction to native plants. And even a trip to the local mall is a study in local habits and favored cuisine. They now know that in the Philippines, they don't need to flock to Chinatown to celebrate the start of the Year of the Ox. Any mall would do.

In the following weeks, we hope to know Jose Rizal and Calamba as well as we do George Washington and Mount Vernon. We hope to understand our Catholic heritage through the eyes of the Spaniards who built the churches in old Manila, and the faith of the Filipinos who died for it. We also hope to have fun at the pool --a saltwater swimming pool, that is-- as we learn about saving a local watershed.

Yes, I am soaking up all that I can, and making sure that DH is getting his money's worth.

To Market, To Market!

2009-01-22T00:42:00.004-05:00

It was a typical morning on our first week on the other side of the globe. Jet lag caused us to be up at 5 a.m., to be done with breakfast at 6, and to be back from our morning walk by 7. But it was a Thursday, and there was a bustle in the house as Anda prepares for her weekly trip to the city market.

Market day had always been Thursday when I was growing up. There were a few occasions when my mother would bring us --generally when the housekeeper was on vacation. Then she'd have to take me and my brothers with her, drop us off at the vegetable vendor's stall, and do her marketing. I didn't realize that the sight and smells of the market had stayed with me until today.

The little one wanted to go on an outing, and the home educator in me took over. A trip to the market? Why not? She'd see where pork comes from, how calamari looks like before it gets a makeover, and tropical fruits that cost a bundle when shrink-wrapped at the local Safeway back home.

I didn't find anyone I knew from my youth, nor anybody who remembered me when I was younger. These were the next generation suki --my mother's regular vendors, her favorite stops at the market. These are the people, who, on Thursdays, would already set aside my mother's fish for the week; who would pick the best of the crop for her; who would never sell her old stock. These are the people who would receive pasalubong --souvenirs from my mother's overseas trips. These are the people who welcomed my little one today.

The market was just like I remembered it --wet, smelly, and filled with the banter of friendly negotiations. The little one smiled through the smells, and politely acknowledged all the greetings from my mother's suki. It was a trip to the market with her grandmother --a field trip 14,000 kilometers from home.

A Christmas Away from Home

2008-12-27T01:29:00.005-05:00

My first Christmas with Doug's extended family did not turn out as I expected. Oh, the Christmas breakfast was all that Doug described it to be -- delicious crepes, delightful company, stress-free visiting, and snow on the ground to give me my first-ever, white Christmas in this country. But the girls had such awful coughs and non-stop sniffles, that we couldn't visit relations nearby because of Uncle's delicate constitution. We were all disappointed. Though that meant extra days of rest for us, we were away from home but visiting nobody.

Yet it turned out to be one memorable Christmas. Auntie gave strict instructions for us to pass by her house on our way back to the hotel at the end of Christmas day. From her magic hat, she produced the unforgettable Christmas meal for this displaced family -- seafood salad to put in dinner buns, a green salad with two kinds of dressing, a fresh-from-the-oven pan of baked stuffed pasta shells in a red sauce that reminds the children of Grand-Nana, and three kinds of dessert: a plate of rugelach, a fruit cake, and sugar cones to be filled with Ambrosia fruit salad. And just in case the girls became picky, another aunt added a box of See's chocolate truffles, its red box complimenting the green of the table napkins that Auntie thoughtfully remembered to pack with the plates and utensils.

As we pulled out each item from the large brown bag, our eyes got bigger, our hearts became fuller, and we all felt the love that went into packing this Christmas dinner. As if these weren't enough, Auntie packed presents for the girls to open after our meal. She really didn't need to do all this extra work!

But she did.

So on Christmas day, at a hotel's breakfast room, our family had a feast. And a Christmas that could have been relegated to a been-there-won't-do-that-again list, now tops our most memorable one.

Thank you, Aunt Roberta. May God bless you abundantly for your kindness and generosity.

First-person, plural

2008-11-15T13:10:00.005-05:00

Adding fuel to the fire of the language-affects-thought debate. The English language has only one meaning for the first-person plural pronoun ("We" or "Us") and the context supplies (or does not supply) the rest of the information.

I'm not familiar with many other languages, but one I have some contact is Tagalog. It has three words, one for each meaning of the first person plural.

Tayo: "we, all of us", including the person addressed. When we (tayo) are going to the movies, you are cordially included in the invitation. It is so intrinsic to how people relate that this word is often implied and not said: "Ka-in na!" Means "Eating now" but it really means, when a younger person says it, "I'm eating now, but I'm not comfortable eating because you haven't joined me." and the older person waves a blessing for the younger person to continue. When an older person says it, it means "You will eat now." allowing and requiring the younger to sit at table.

Kamé: "only us", excluding the person addressed. Usually stated among equals or from older to younger "We (kamé) need to discuss your grades" means the child must steer clear of her parent's bedroom, and perhaps reread and take notes on the Noli Me Tangere before the test this week.

Kita: "You and I". This word actually refers to a single entity and is used in special modes of address. It refers to the (single) person that exists from the unity of the speaker and the addressed. "Mahal kita" is the most often use of the word and a loose translation is "I love you." But its deeper meaning is "This single entity that is you and I together exists bound in love." Kita has no separation between the speaker and the one spoken to, because they are one. When he says "Mahal kita," and she roles her eyes and sighs, it is the unity of one single action. There is no love being sent out by one and then received by the other. The love simply subsists in the unity of the two.

Is not kita a description of the Triune God? Father and Son, I and Thou, and the Holy Spirit, Love Divine, connecting the Three-in-One? Reflecting on the annual homily of the Trinity, I find it now humorous, and obvious, that it's so difficult to explain this mystery to English speakers (and sad correlation: how few English-speakers get the Trinity), but the Philippines has a near 100% Catholic population: they don't need to get it, they have the concept imprinted on their minds, and consequently hearts and souls, from the day they commence speaking.

My first "I love you"

2008-11-15T12:02:00.003-05:00

It's Saturday (one of the days not named in honor of the Æsir), so allowed Diane to sleep in (having craftily ensured her alarm-clock was disarmed). I like watching her sleep, as she has a peaceful nature in sleep that I wish would permeate her conscious moments more often.

The game was up, however, when little Lizzy clomped into the room and snuggled into bed beside me: "Até? Ma-pa? Papa?" She eventually matched my title to me: "I missed yooououooouuoouu..." I gave her hugs, as my cara spoza smirked with her eyes still closed, unwilling to give up on her restful moment.

"Isabel," I declared gravely, "you look just like your mother: so beautiful." Another smirk. The little one was restless, however, so I deflected her from her mother by telling her a story.

"Do you know the first time I ever said: 'I love you'?"
She solemnly shook her head, giving herself completely to the coming story.

The first time I ever said "I love you" it wasn't even in English. You see, the first time I saw your mother was in the choir. She was smiling so beautifully, and there was kindness in her eyes. I knew, right then, that I loved her.

After an uneven start, including the postlude to our second first-date (I took her to coffee then drove up to Connecticut to celebrate my birthday for that weekend. While there, I wrote a three-page letter declaring, in rather exuberant language, my love for her. My little sister watched me for a while, then, after she pressed, I allowed her to see the letter.

Me: "What do you think?"
Beki: "Do you ever want to see her again? She'll think you're a psychopath. Don't. Give. Her. That. Letter!"

Why is it that I must be lectured to in one word sentences?), we took to walking the trails of a nearby park. We prayed the Rosary together, talked about many and diverse topics, and sometimes held hands. This special time drifted forward calmly, a river meeting the sea, for several sweet months.

At the time, I worked at Coast Guard Headquarters with CWO Maglalang. His last name translates to "the Creation" from Tagalog. I asked him how to say "I love you" in his language. He cautioned me: in the Philippines, this was not something to be said lightly, I learnt that this declaration would commence courtship.

Fine by me.

As Diane and I walked back to her home that night, I was unusually quiet, averting my eyes. We arrived at the driveway, and she asked me about it.

I took her hand in my hands and looked into her eyes: "Mahal kita." I said. I love you.

She ripped her hand out of mine and jumped back five feet in an instant, shock written across her face. She quickly collected herself, leaning forward, leading with an angry index finger. "You had BETTER know what you're saying!" she shouted at me.

Isabel tinkled with laughter.

It was not the response I was expecting, but then, she always surprises me. After all, I was everything she didn't want in her life: American (the cultural and media juggernaut) and Military (the oppressor). To her, I was a walking nightmare of a stereotype. She didn't want marriage; she didn't want us; she didn't want a mommy van with the kids (yuck! she thought) in baby seats. She just wanted to finish her post-grad work in the U.S.A. and return home safely to the warmth of her family, and to a country where all her instincts weren't backwards and where the people spoke in her first language. She craved home.

Yet. For all that, and all that, she looked beyond herself, and she looked at me, and gave me herself. All of herself.

That's why I'm the luckiest man in the world. She gave me everything, and went against everything she thought she wanted in her life, and then gave me so much more, and now we have two living daughters that we like and we love. We have a house and we have our dreams, ... and we have hope and happiness.

She gave up everything for me, and I'm working as hard as I can to give her it all back, because when I said "I love you", and kept saying "I love you", she responded quickly one month later on the 4th of July, of all days, with a sighed "I love you, too."

"Magic" "Ice Cream"

2008-11-15T11:37:00.003-05:00

I indulge myself at times.

Well, yes. Perhaps this is the first time I've indulged in understatement?

We were finished with dinner, when I asked the girls if they would like some dessert. They readily agreed, asking what I would produce. My answer: "Magic ice cream." How could this be? They probably wondered this, because we had no ice cream in the freezer.

I had their rapt attention.

I then raided the fridge, pulling out the cottage cheese and peach preserves, then I proceeded to the pantry escaping with nutella, valencia coffee flavoring and vanilla extract. My grocery shopping trips have not been in vain, as you see.

We gathered around the counter, and I scooped out a [small!] stone of cottage cheese into a bowl and then added each new ingredient, one by one, allowing the children to sample the scent for each new flavor: a smidge of valencia, two drops of vanilla, a teaspoon of peach preserves, and a glop of nutella.

The children were transfixed.

We each took turns stirring the admixture into an even consistency whilst my cara spoza snorted: "Children, Papa's just like your Pépé!"

The magic ingredient, I told the children, was the stone of cottage cheese. But remembering their glowing faces, I know I missed telling them the one special ingredient: love.

"Will you marry me?"

2008-11-15T10:44:00.006-05:00

We were at table, eating breakfast ("magic" eggs and sweet Italian sausage), when the radio began playing some sweet and pure and joyful music. I sighed. "There is no composer, before or since, like Beethoven" — it was his second symphony. Not his best one, but much better than most of the rest of the world could ever produce.

Don't get me wrong: other composers — Chopin, Schubert, Mahler, Brahms, Vivaldi, Handel ... ugh, Mozart — are unexcelled in their own ways, but you know what you're getting with them. Beethoven has something in his music that is ineffable and impossible to demystify. Beethoven's music, whether heard for the first time or the fiftieth, is always surprising. Beethoven's catalogue of music, too, spans from the Classical to the Romantic to Polyphonic chant (his last quartet in A-flat minor is eternal, and listening to it never fails to make swallowing past the lump in my throat impossible), and he is not "stuck" in a genre as the other greats were.

Okay, Bach, also, wins here.

I mentioned this to my cara spoza highlighting that even Mahler's music, in the worshipful imitation of Beethoven's, still could not ascend the heavens as did his. She mentioned that she was not familiar with his music.

Hmphf! The very first thing I ever did was to invite my beloved to was Mahler's second symphony. She flat-out refused! ... I suppose it would have been helpful if I gave her more than a few hours notice before the concert. But still.

I encouraged her to do so (learn Mahler) and told her this story.

Once upon a time, Mahler proposed to his wife, Alma (née Schindler), by composing his Fifth symphony — his exquisite Fifth Symphony. She was also a composer of note. Her response: "I didn't know you were writing a percussive symphony." Mahler listened to her. He crossed out the entire percussive section and rewrote it, toned down by half. She accepted his proposal, and now we have one of the most beautiful pieces of music in the world because of her. The End.

My sweet and dainty cara spoza tilted her head, reflecting on all that she had heard and said: "How can people not read and miss out on such wonderful moments?"

Me: "Well, I guess people are comfortable in their ign..."
She: "It. Was. A. Rhetorical. Question!"
Me, nonplussed [God! She is so beautiful with her stormy eyes]: "You should know by now that I have ready answers for questions, whether asked or unasked..."

She growled at me and stomped out of the room.

*Sigh* I just love her!

Now, my proposal to her was quite different than Mahler's to Alma; it started "simply enough" with an "I love you." But that is a story for another time.

P.S. Mama, you'll note from the lyrics it really, really, really is "Everyone know that it's Windy". Q.E.D.

Fairfax (Road) Trips

2008-10-31T00:57:00.000-05:00

Though we're just a one-van family right now, we seem to find ourselves on long road trips. Fairfax went to Massachusetts with us to catch the fall display of the Sugar Maples in early October. By the end of the month, Fairfax had seen the bright reds of the Black Gum, the light purples of the White Ash, and the orange of the Sassafras in central Virginia.

Of course, we always made time to stop at our favorite watering holes. Here we are in CT to get our fill of food that fills the soul and warms the heart.

On our way to see Mr. Jefferson's home, we basked in the ambiance of Charlottesville's Downtown Mall. That meant riding in the historic kiddie carousel, and sitting at the counter of century-old Timberlake's Drug Store for a grilled cheese sandwich and a vanilla malt milkshake.

Unfortunately, in the rush to catch the shuttle to Monticello, Fairfax was left in the van. She did enjoy the visit to the garden shop, though we had to make up for our neglect with a java stop at the Mudhouse.

The girls are taking a break from long-distance travels to concentrate on our election unit study. Fairfax is more than grateful for the rest but looks forward to having the wind on her ears and to spread the word about Marissa again.

Fairfax Trips

2008-10-30T19:17:00.006-05:00

As the D-meister has mentioned, we are helping spread the word on Infantile Spasms. We got our own Fairfax and lugged *her* around on our homeschool field trips. There must be something about cute girls and a bunny that elicit comments from strangers. Right on cue, the cute girls start their spiel about their little cousin, Marissa Ann.

Fairfax's first outing was to Hartland Orchard for our annual apple-picking. She encouraged the girls to climb trees, and was more than happy to comfort the girl that fell. No, she's not begging for a bite. We made sure she had her share.

We're learning American History this year through stories from our local monuments. OK, so we live in the DC metro area, and local refers to all those national monuments: Washington monument, the Lincoln memorial, the Jefferson memorial, the White House. But a field trip is a field trip, even when it means just taking the bus and the metro. The girls and Fairfax had an exciting time taking their first-ever bus ride, and deciphering the Metro map.

Of course, we had to take the obligatory shot with the Washington monument perfectly balanced on the bunny's nose, and another at the Navy Memorial for Marissa's dad. The big whale that welcomed our troupe is part of a half-mile long mural called Hands Across the Ocean by Wyland.

Brave Fairfax didn't even blink as she stared at the shark; the girls happily painted more fish next to Wyland.

We are finally getting the hang of bringing Fairfax along, and here she is, enjoying the biggest pumpkin in the state, as well as tolerating the girls' penchant for speed. We are still *discussing* the source of their speed gene.

Next up: the trip to New England

Fairfax was here ...

2008-10-24T12:10:00.003-05:00

Fairfax, my God-daughter's bunny, is now visiting Hawty McBloggy. I found this out, when, out of the blue, her daddy, marissas dad, called me up:

Are you near a computer? he asked.
Me: Um, yes? Not getting the non-sequitur; where else would I be?

Marissa has infantile spasms, and it was her parents' brilliant idea to get the word out using the metaphor of the travelling gnome, substituting Marissa's bunny for the gnome.

And, boy, has Fairfax traveled! Read the "Rocky and Hometown Barbershops" on Marissa's Bunny blog. First and foremost for the flying squirrel incident, but then to see some of Fairfax's travels. The good that has come from this is immeasurable (perhaps also at times intangible?), so I helped things along by getting the word out a bit myself. So, my "name" was front-paged on HBO (no, not that HBO, as it's a bit too vampiry, as you recall), again!

I can't make this stuff up!

2008-10-18T09:24:00.002-05:00

I have been accused of exaggeration (perhaps the accusers exaggerate the exaggeration by calling it "hyperbole") in my story-telling skill. But I must say, in my own humble, honest, and totally unopinionated view, I'm actually not at all that creative (if there is one fault that I do have, it is that I am far too humble — but that's barely a fault to blemish my near-perfection ...). I simply report here what's going on. After all, not even in my wildest imaginings could I ever create an exchange that transpired yesterday between the bunsoh and my cara spoza:

Lizzie: Mama, may I go to the party tomorrow? I only have a cold.
Me: Yes.
Lizzie: Yay!!! (pause)
Lizzie: What if I make a friend?
Me: That's good.
Lizzie: Well, only if she looks like me?
Me: Why?
Lizzie: Because I like looking at myself.

I don't "make up" interesting stories; I just happen to be near them when they transpire.

Red Necks? Pfft! New Englanders!

2008-10-18T09:13:00.003-05:00

Forget Red necks ......here is what Jeff Foxworthy has to say about New Englanders...

If your local Dairy Queen is closed from September through May, you live in New England.

If someone in a Home Depot store offers you assistance and they don't work there, you live in New England.

If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same time, you live in New England.

If you've had a lengthy telephone conversation with someone who dialed a wrong number, you live in New England.

If 'Vacation' means going anywhere south of New York City for the weekend, you live in New England.

If you measure distance in hours, you live in New England.

If you know several people who have hit a deer more than once, you live in New England.

If you have switched from 'heat' to 'A/C' in the same day and back again, you live in New England.

If you can drive 75 mph through 2 feet of snow during a raging blizzard without flinching, you live in New England.

If you install security lights on your house and garage, but leave both unlocked, you live in New England.

If you carry jumpers in your car and your wife knows how to use them, you live in New England.

If the speed limit on the highway is 55 mph -- you're going 80 and everybody is passing you, you live in New England

If driving is better in the winter because the potholes are filled with snow, you live in New England.

If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter and road construction, you live in New England.

If you have more miles on your snow blower than your car, you live in New England.

If you find 10 degrees 'a little chilly', you live in New England.

If there's a Dunkin Donuts on every corner, you live in New England.

If you actually understand these jokes, and forward them to all your New England friends & others, you live or have lived in New England.

... of course, "snow blower" is just plain wrong: shovelling snow builds character. And where're the parts about wood stoves (with the accompanying necessity of chopping, sawing, and splitting the wood) as central heating? Add your own observations below, dear reader.

Catz, Ninja and otherwise

2008-10-18T07:56:00.005-05:00

I'm not really writing a blog entry, I'm doing my civic duty right now, filling out tax forms for the Man.

My cara spoza has me on a blog-writing diet, so I won't talk about the reason for my side trip to Amherst, and I won't talk about how my entire extended family magically knew about my Amherst visit, and how they asked how it went even before I got to say hello! And how they phoned in from California to have my Aunt [my regal Aunt] inquire into the matter.

No, this blog entry is not about that.

But, as you know, I've had this constant struggle between my piratey-self and my super-secret-ninja-assassin-self. I had thought that pirates had it all wrapped up in the debate.

But then I came across this:

That, folks, is a clear win for the ninjas this round.

Speaking about Brittany Murphy, the pussycat — yeah, don't gimme that look: for I was speaking about her, `pataphorically — I had no idea that besides being a Jane Austen actress, she is a singer, too! Amazing, the things one can learn while exercising!

Back to doing the taxen ... *sigh*

Calvinita

2008-10-04T10:41:00.002-05:00

EM sits in her chair, reading, of course. The book she currently holds is one of the Calvin and Hobbes collections. She, still being all of six years, reminds me of Calvin almost not at all ... perhaps she's little Susie Derkin? — I never knew Susie was Filipina ... I now see her in an entirely new light, and since EM is also, they now have a special kinship.

There have been, oh, a few Calvinistic incidents recently, which I will now relate.

I was working in the office, as usual, when I heard a loud crash from upstairs. EM and I were home alone, and she seemed well enough alone, as she was reading, as usual, at the time. I waited for any follow-up noise, and then, waited patiently for little Thérèse to come tell on herself. Which she obligingly did:

EM: Papa, I was fixing the window, and then it broke; can you help me?

I didn't help my stern look one wit, those guilty, imploring, eyes of hers. Pusong mumon is my middle name, after all. I went upstairs to investigate, finding merely the curtains had been dislodged from the window frame. That (the curtains) was easy enough to fix, so I then needed to fix my little girl's heart. A hug and a word of encouragement fixed that.

Another day, in the midst of one of my DDR sessions, and the li'l tyke interrupts me between sets.

EM: Papa, I tried to flush the toilet, but the water didn't go down like it should...

Those eyes again, working on me.

I went upstairs to resolve the issue. The toilet didn't seem jammed, but, yes, the bowl was full. So, what's a genius to do? Flush the toilet.

Not so smart.

Water, clean water, Deus gratia (that is Suisse), flooded the banyo. All the more embarrassing because I had just finished lecturing and praising the little one about not fixing this problem herself, just as Calvin, erhm, didn't. Everyone else was still sleeping, but my hurried repairs and plunger action was a guaranteed reveille (that is Mayan).

So, I guess it's okay for her to read Calvin and Hobbes, maybe it's her pater familias that is more like Calvin than she is.

DISC-world

2008-09-21T08:16:00.003-05:00

*sigh* Myers Briggs, move aside. Apparently, there's a new quadrant available that more aptly describes personality traits, the DISC: Drive - Influence - Steadiness - Compliance.

Notice how they put my personality type last? ... Jerks.

I've known about this new assessment for a couple of years now, because every year, a few times a year, Amway (now called Amway again, thank God, and not Quixtar) sends in some trainers to Mike and Pinky Malovic's organization to help us improve. Our sponsoring rates are among the highest in the world — Mike and Pinky are very good disciples of their mentor, Rex Renfrow, who has the largest autonomous organization within Amway — but are sales rates are among the lowest in the world.

So, Amway comes in to teach us balance. For free. And then a week later calls up each participant, and interviews them for 1-2 hours to improve the course. And then they do.

Please read that last paragraph again and tell me of any other organization in the world that does the sum of those things.

One of their improvements is that brought in a successful sales distributor, Giove ("Joe") Pici, to talk about people. I like Joe; Joe is a very D direct person. If I'm going to be trained in something, it had better be somebody who is better than me in the subject matter, and they had better get to the point expeditiously. Joe does that, with confidence and with the surety of authority. Not many people get past first base with me in the "knowing the subject matter" department; Joe does. Did I mention that I like Joe?

So, I show up to the meeting at 8:55 am (breakfast starts at 9 am) with Gödel's Proof (studying the enumerable property of categories, don't you know). So, after Joe set up, he sauntered over to me in a friendly fashion and asked what I was reading. Getting to know his audience (of one, so far), as any friendly instructor would, you see. I handed him the book and explained:

Gödel's proof is a discourse about using the laws of the Principia Mathematica to show that it itself, and any system than claims completeness, is inconsistent.

As I explained, I watched his face and his jaw fall. I could read his thoughts — This is not what us eyetalian from Neu Joysy talk about over pasta on Wednesday nights... — so, instead he lied very politely by stating a fact made obvious to him: "You're really smart, aren't you."

I didn't see any point with equivocating with this guy. "Yes," was my answer. But then he did something I didn't like. He said, "Hey, Mic," calling over the conference organizer, "come over here. Doug, explain to Mic what your reading."

I sighed (I catch myself sighing often; I guess Nana was correct to call me her "Charlie Brown." God, I miss Nana. You had better be taking good care of her, please) and explained. Mic nodded, indulgently. Joe then went out to chat with Mike and Pinky, I later found out, because Mike relayed the conversation. Joe said: "There's this guy in the conference room reading a book that I didn't even understand the explanation of!" Mike's immediate answer was, "Oh, that must be Doug."

I hate that. I don't mind being recognized or praised, if my actions are worthy of such attention. But "Wow! a kid's reading a book to learn something; that's amazing!" I mean, shouldn't everybody be doing that? What's so laudatory about self-improvement. Isn't that what the purpose of this seminar was, at base, anyway?

Sandy Frazier came in with Sandy Foster (I'm still grieving; I miss Joel). Sandy (Foster) went out for some breakfast; that's when I noticed something about Sandy (Frazier). "You look happy," I told her, and she thanked me. No, that wasn't correct, so I tried again, "You seem to be radiating inner peace." She didn't flinch away, as people normally do from my weirdness. "Thank you," she said, "I got to spend some time with God this morning." Ah. I mentioned that we're told that special time is so vital, but that so few people make the effort to do that. "Yes," she responded, "of course, I read the Bible, but I've found that journalling has helped me listen more." Diane would be please with her confession: she, too, has been journalling, and I've seen the improvement to her equanimity. I agreed: "Hm. It can be easy, reading the Bible, to be an inactive participant, but journalling requires your effort." Sandy (Foster) returned, and we chatted amicably, about our plans to go to the Pink Bicycle for Isabel's birthday Tea. Sandy (Foster) asked what she should get for Isabel on her birthday, so I recommended a few books on mathematics that would help her down the road (because they would help me now). Others had arrived by then, Gene and Donna Dwyer, and Donna interrupted my monologue and Sandy' blank stare with a whispered: "Ask Diane instead!"

What I did learn at this conference was that polar opposites in the DISC types can, in fact, work together to achieve so much more than if they worked separately. Michael (the definition of a D) and Faye (the textbook of an S) Edmonson are the strongest organization in the Malovic team. Just like Bill Britt storms the castle walls, busting right through them, and Peggy follows right along, smiling at her Bill, making sure everyone's okay, Mike and Faye stormed and cruised right up to and past their level of success. Amway has taken note of this couple, and for good reason. It happened to be their anniversary, and I happened to know, because it happened to be my anniversary. So I thought it would be nice for the team to wish them well on this special day. I purchased a greeting card, and handed it off to more capable hands: Gene Dwyer's and Pinky's, both strong I's, both polar opposites to me. It took them three hours to work the crowd, discreetly avoiding Michael and Faye, but they loved every minute of it, because they like people, and they got everybody in the conference to sign the card.

That result was a vast improvement over anything I would have accomplished. They like people; my feelings about people, qua people, are the dual. I have a Comonadic relation with liking people. On the other hand, I types are impulsive — they had no idea about their anniversary, after 15 years of associating with them; calendar? planner? What's that? — whereas C types are always calculating, always sizing up the situation. Working together, we made a very nice gift for them. Mike Malovic led the singing of "Happy Anniversary" (he's a professional opera singer) for them. And then, of course, Sandy Foster, in on the game ("Doug, how did you know it's their anniversary?" "Because it's ours.") signalled for Mike's attention.

Um, no. I would not allow a well-meaning, but spur of the moment, action cheapen the gift to Michael and Faye. Sandy was going to have everyone recognize my own occasion, but I wasn't having any of that. I hsst her into silence.

But Sandy, another Über-I, is always in my good graces (I hope I could say the same for the contrapositive case). She had earlier asked Joe a question, in her inimitably I-style, about selling to an AVON™ lady; Joe's answer: "Products do not have politics."

Huh! Just simply seeing an AVON™ sticker on the back of a car gets my back up, for no other primordial reason than enemy! I just learnt something from Sandy. I leaned over to her and soto voced "Good question!" She looked pleased.

Pinky interviewed me after the conference. "Did you learn anything here, Doug? Not that I'm pushing you to build your business more. No, really, I'm not, but I was curious if you got something from today." *sigh* It seems that more than of the few people close to me are I types. I smiled at her and turned the question around, as I didn't think my answer would be helpful, having a near-perfect memory and having had this material at least three times before from these special Amway conferences. "Oh, yes," she answered me breezily, but knowingly. She's known me long enough to read my hesitancies, "I learned a lot about TINs, 30-day B2B deferred payments and sales!" So, I challenged her, "But don't you have those already set up in your business?" She smiled in return. It appears two could play the circumspection game. But, of course, my business wouldn't exist without Mike and Pinky's guidance. It was Mike who introduced me to Joel who got me my first job in software. It was Pinky who goaded me with my one successful sale, "You should order ten more and sell those." They were model train sets, deeply discounted post-Christmas from $150 to $20. I didn't sell ten more; I sold seventeen more. That's when I learnt that I am the greatest salesman in the world. And I used that learning to help me break into the field of artificial intelligence and helped me to help the company for which I'm currently working close a contract that could become a multi-year multi-million dollar. C's and I's working together. There is a God.

The happy postlude to my silence about our anniversary is that Diane was the lector for the Filipino Mass, she read from Isaiah in clear Tagalog, and then, the offertory prayers included the following:

That Douglas and Diane Auclair have a blessed wedding anniversary. Let us pray to the Lord.

As many Filipinas know us from Paaralang Pinoy, we had half the congregation wish us a happy anniversary, and then we celebrated with some bing soo at Le Matin de Paris (that is French), and so it was indeed a happy one.

Happy Anniversary

2008-09-21T08:02:00.003-05:00

Today is my wife's parent's anniversary ... if you are in the neighbourhood and reading this entry, please wish them a "Happy Anniversary". I happen to know this date well: my parents'-in-law anniversary date, because it coincides with several other occasions: Mike and Faye's wedding anniversary, Marshal Law Day (Proclamation No. 1081), ... and my own wedding anniversary. This is the day that my cara spoza took me as her man.

So, as I greet them on their anniversary, it is actually they who gave me the best gift: my dear sweetheart. Thank you for the present.

My Scientist Husband

2008-09-15T02:34:00.003-05:00

Recently there was an article in the Washington Post about the Large Hadron Collider. Of course the report delighted in interviewing the staff. Who wouldn't, when one could get as juicy quotes as the following?

"A completely novel engineering material," is how Lyn Evans, the project manager of the collider, describes supercold helium. "For example, if you were to put it into a beaker? It could crawl out."

This is how they talk at CERN. If you stop them, and say, "What do you mean, crawl out?" The may go to a blackboard and begin with the math. You do not want them to do this.

I read this passage to my cara spoza and asked her, blankly, "is that how you feel about me?"

She choked, because she couldn't decide whether to snort or to burst out laughing, so she did both simultaneously.

Gratitude

2008-09-15T00:44:00.003-05:00

During our last sweetie time, little Isabel passed us a picture of three little girls in a house: her até (Elena Marie), herself, and her little sister to be. Our girls desire a sibling. We all do.

Diane, my cara spoza, takes delight in this. When Isabel was reorganizing the house, adding a new bed for her new sister, Diane explained to her that the baby would be sleeping with her parents for the first couple of years of her life (attachment parenting). She warmed to the subject, as she always is looking forward to being a new M.O.M.: "When we have twins," she enthused, "Papa will need to sleep downstairs!" She cackled with that expected pleasure.

If you haven't caught on by now, then I'm happy to inform you that I'm all for it. After I reflected for awhile on her last comment, I let my dear wife know that it'd be my pleasure to become a full troll-basement denizen. I was the happiest man on earth when Diane uttered "I do." But how could I know that happiness would multiply with her continued company, and then with the addition with each of our children. I don't know how much happier I can become, but I am ready, willing, and able to find out.

But, then again, God has already given us much more than we deserve, I've been blessed time and again by the joy of my family, and if the blessing of children stopped here, I'm much more than grateful. It was a miracle that we could have even one living child, and what a miracle Elena Marie has been, and now that we have two, with little Isabel a blessing so different than her sister, but so perfectly matched with her sister, how can we ask for more than that?

Easy. When one climbs a hill, one can better see the mountain. When one reaches the mountain-top, the stars are so much clearer. Thank you for what we have. Now, more. Please.

Sweetie Time is SILLY!

2008-09-15T00:32:00.004-05:00

My dear children are at that tender age where affection shown by their parents is either craved or "ewwwww"ed. Well, the special time my cara spoza and I share has been dubbed "sweetie time" by Elena Marie much to her delight and chagrin.

What is sweetie time? Well, one day when Diane and I finally had a date (we went to see a movie) and we shuttled the kids off to an obliging neighbor, we were having sweetie time. When I came home from work and captured some private time from my cara spoza to discuss the happenings of the day, we were having sweetie time.

That sweetie time was silly, see, because our girls, perfectly happy to be involved in their own activities, once made aware that something was off-limits (our closed bedroom door), were consumed with curiosity. As I described my day to Diane, and as she laughed at my stories, the girls, beyond the closed door screamed with delight. They composed notes to us which they slid under our door:

"Sweetie time is SILLY!"

*sigh* Silly me. Silly sweetie time.

My perfect video game

2008-09-15T00:20:00.003-05:00

... 'cause I think my steppin's pretty hawt, too. Oh, and when is it ever going to enter any rhythm game maker's head to create "Keyboard Hero"? Imagine all the whinings of pre-teens — "But I don't wanna take piano lessons anymore!" — being replaced by the queue: "Hey, it's my turn to play Freeze Pop!"

Bonus: learning French and the Moog all in one go!

Well, okay, maybe Freeze Pop is not to everyone's taste, but then one can include Chopin's Berceuse as one of the tracks. Image that: learning to play classical music becomes cred for k-radness with your B's!

"Vampires were people, too!"

2008-09-14T22:01:00.003-05:00

Finally, something has displaced our vicarious attention from the young wizard, Harry Potter. What is the new hawtness? you ask. Apparently, it's Casper (actually, Edward) the Friendly Vampire. Sales of one of the books in the Twilight series uprooted the current Harry Potter sequel, and the latest release sold 1.3 million copies in its first day. The soon-to-be-released movie (caution: scary movie at link) is supposedly based very closely on the source material from the book.

Apparently, also, HBO is airing a new series on vampires as ordinary folks (leading to this entry's eponymous title), that is also based very closely on the books by the author.

Both these efforts are serious undertakings: top-of-the-line actors and directors and high production values, with a media blitz to garner as much mind-share as possible.

So, it's the good news/bad news situation — the good: people are reading again, so much so that it affects how the TV/movie medium decides to portray these stories; the bad: ...

The bad news is this, not that evil is alluring, because evil has been glamorous, and always will be so (it's called temptation for a reason).

First of all, what is evil? The romantic view is that evil has some kind of reality to it, that it has a draw of its own. And the success of the romantic era is that it has given evil this: it's cool to be bad. But this, in the history of history, is only a very recent development, which has more recently been overturned by a newer judgment-free position: "it's all good", which isn't far from the mark, but first let's pause for a moment to review the development of morality to see why I'm alarmed at the thought of there being friendly vampires — at why something so unreal as mythical creatures should be a cause for alarm.

History can be roughly divided into four stages: primitive, classic, romantic, and post-modern (Milan Kundera used the stages of a football ('merkan "soccor") game: pep rally, 1^st half, 2^nd half, and overtime). In the primitive stage, there isn't a concept or a distinction between good and evil: the gods reflect or explain natural or human behavior and have their own motives, people are left to their own devices to survive, and any interaction with the gods is arbitrary. During the classic stage, good and evil come into sharp focus: God is good and on the side of people, the enemy (Satan, or whomever is that personification) is bad and seeks to follow his own way, and people who are good are rewarded, people who aren't good are punished. The romantic stage is firmly entrenched in this duality, but, whereas before in the classic stage, where evil was simply a lack — a bad act is simply an imperfectly good one — evil now takes on its own reality, and particularly in this stage, its own persona. Whereas in the classic stage, God and His angels are the ones interacting with people (the serpent makes a cameo, but only once or twice), in the romantic stage, it's Nick, faeries, vampires, werewolves, what-have-you, making their presence known to mankind.

But take note, in the romantic stage, these creatures are not pretentious: their aim is evil, and relations with them are uniformly bad ("... and Tom's death shows us the moral of the story: don't mess with the undead!").

Why is it, then, in this post-modern era (after a very brief and self-absorbed modern stage) that these creatures come to represent good? The conflicted vampire, refusing to feed on people, in fact, protecting them, are what these tales tell nowadays is that it's thrilling and exciting and romantic to become involved in the supernatural.

Why?

Oh, vampires are romantic enough in and of themselves, I suppose, but this era has taken the vampire one step further: the vampire is now no longer a supernatural creature, created by an unknowable angel of darkness. No, vampires now-a-days are human creations, and the media reflects this. All the features of the vampire — brilliance, charm, cunning, ruthlessness — are now fully realized in the cylon skin-jobs, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Dexter, or the ballerina terminator. All excellently produced shows; all have resonated with (popular) culture.

Why?

I'll put forward my thesis: we, as a people, have abandoned all hope. We still need rescuing, but, since, as it is now believed, there is no God, the only good we can get is from the crumbs from the table offered by the bad. The vampires of today have something we don't have, they have their immortality and their cool lifestyles. The tagline from the movie Lost Boys sums it up pithily: "Sleep all day. Party all night. Never grow old. Never die. It's fun to be a vampire." That was the romantic view, which still holds forth, given the rabid devotion of the fans around the world for the vampire genre (Why would Goth ever be in? Really! But it is). But, on our trip down D'spayre lane, having evil, incarnate, around at all is still too much to bear, to hope for, because having evil implies that there is hope for Good after all. Therefore, evil, personified, must go. The post-modern era has rid us of the hope of super-human evil, entirely supplanting it with purely human-created evils — with damnation out of the way, and with no hope of salvation, we've neatly slid into relativism, still clinging to the vague hope of resurrecting primitivistic simplicity and happiness.

But we cannot, and we do not, blind ourselves with false hopes: we cannot go back. Kundera shows us the exiled never truly return home (Testaments Betrayed: an Essay in Nine Parts), and Gaiman shows us the education of history will forever stain our attempts to return to simplicity (American Gods). Once tasted, the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge cannot be unbitten.

How, then, shall we live? If we can't go back, and if we can't live with the promises from false (or no) gods, what are we to do?

I answer that, the greatest of these is Hope. Love is freely, and always, given; Faith is something you have now or can choose now, but Hope ... Hope is the courage to soldier on in the face of all this that the world throws our way. Hope is the strength to believe (through Faith) in Love and then to accept it.

Yes, Hope takes courage and Hope requires strength: in short, Hope is hard work. But, for someone willing to open their eyes, Hope is the only way. You can't go back, you mustn't give in to despair, so there's only one direction left to us so that we may live: onward, and upward.

Homeschoolers' Dilemma

2008-09-05T08:35:00.004-05:00

Diane and I were having a discussion about this, that and the other thing — did you know that "month" doesn't rhyme with any other word? The amazing things one discovers when one goes to Mass. The topic turned to our friend, Adina, a homeschooling mom in our parish, who has a daughter in her 20s and a son in his late teens.

Her daughter is pursuing dance, and her son wishes to become a Catholic film-maker. These could be alarming-enough choices for a parent, but what Diane related to me was that Adina's children had no interest in going to college. Adina is not surprised that her children are choosing these paths; after all, she has been as close to them as anyone could be, having stayed home and raised them and schooled them for their entire childhood years.

As Diane related this story to me, I could hear the trepidation in her voice. You know what I'm talking about, right? That feeling that what one does is one goes to school — to college — and one gets a degree to secure a job. Diane reflected on Adina's children's choices and what these would me for our own children: what if our children don't wish to pursue college? How will they find their way through the world? How will they learn? Or present themselves to others? How will they secure their livings?

In short, a parent's, all parents' (I would venture to say), heart-felt concern. We wish our children to be happy and to be at ease, and easy, in their social circles, to be just, valiant and kind. We don't wish them to have our failings, but we also wish them to have our joys.

This is the crux, isn't it?

But I put forward the view that college isn't about learning, not anymore. I'm grateful for my degree and for the years of learning that I had in public high school and at the United States Coast Guard Academy. But what did those institutions teach me?

I will grant you this: those years did help, significantly, in my formation. I am, well, "grateful" that the Coast Guard Academy gave me skills and strength that I didn't have before (or, if I'm being Socratic, "brought forth from me the skills and strength I didn't know I already had"). But, realistically, home-schooled children who enter college, in general, adapt better and have much more confidence than their peers. Why? Because their parent have already actively formed these children's character. These children already know better who they are, where they stand, what they accept and what they don't — they don't need their peers' approval to guide their consciences. So, in general, home-schooled children don't need the formation that college provides.

What about learning? So you are going to tell me that college professors are a well-spring of impartial and pure knowledge? Okay, some are. A very few are. There are those one or two professors we remember just standing in awe of their learning and their love of it. Most, however, are doing their jobs (well, good, or otherwise). And then there are those not so few professors we remember that we don't wish to remember. What about learning? I put forth that I have learned what I've needed to learn not from college professors. I didn't even learn how to go about learning from my college professors. Like my father before me, when I need to learn something, I go forth and learn it. I buy the book; I read the book; I devour the book. Then I buy three more from three different perspective. I do this until that thing I need to know is an integral part of me. It's not one, or three, or however many other, person's point of view. It is mine, because I have thought about it, I have pondered it, I have used it until it is mine.

Has anyone else besides me ever used the internet?

So I think we can put aside the thesis that college is the sole source, or the best source, of knowledge or of acquiring knowledge.

What, then, is my thesis? College is a hierarchical society. A job is a hierarchical society. "Most" children go to college today to get a good job (I only wrote "most" as an appeasement, because the numbers who do go for other reasons are way below statistical noise, and colleges, being fundamentally business enterprises, cater to what sells). And it is a truism: college graduates get better jobs, better-paying jobs, more often than those without the lamb-skin. So, then, is that how we define "happiness"?

No. Show me the rule that says to make a living one must work for the Man. Show me the happy person on the job. You can do the latter, I'm sure, but doesn't that just prove my point? Why is it that a person who is happy in their job is the outstanding exception? In fact, on reflection, many of you reading this blog are happy in your vocations. Back to the point: why is it that a person who is happy in their job is happy in their job because they are happy about themselves? Why is it that almost everyone is, well, not sad, but just existing in their jobs? Is that God's plan for us, to submit our will and our time to punch the clock? To look in the mirror and see the dulled eyes that tell us that the next eight hours are going to be just like yesterday's eight hours; just like tomorrow's eight hours will be: trying to justify the nothingness, the emptiness, of our pursuit?

You do know that corporate jobs are a relatively new thing in the history of the world? This country, in fact, encouraged a man to go out, literally and carve his homestead right out of the next patch of forest. And, when that was done, he had to do something that ensured his family and his community survived. Jobs were a necessity: I was a farmer because someone in my family and the families surrounding me could eat, or a blacksmith or an apothecary or a traveling salesman or a preacher.

No, I'm not a luddite: I'm also not turning my back on modern society. I believe, vehemently, that progress is necessary and good. Progress expands our horizons: allowing us to live our lives longer and better, giving us more options from which to choose to live our lives.

What I'm saying is that the "job" as we know it today, the thing that is wrapped up in our American Dream (that is then exported to the rest of the world as the "way to live" — which is a sad irony: America's "Rugged Individualism" so conveniently packaged as "Workin' for the Man"), is a relatively new choice and not the only choice, and, probably, not a good choice for one's happiness.

What, then, is the good choice for happiness?

That's obvious: listen to your heart and answer the call. With all this running about — going to school, going to college, getting a job, getting fired and then running, scrambling, to get the next job — there's no time left for standing still and just listening. What do I really wish to do ... no, really wish to do with my life? Which legacy do I wish to leave? How will I impact other people's lives? How do I wish to be?

I think that Adina's children have asked these questions, and are asking these questions, and the answers they are reaching are not pointing them in the direction of going to college to/and get/ting a "good" job. No matter what complacency is promised in that direction (an empty promise, for the most part, but the illusion of it, the maya, is so strong, that it pulls most people in without question), these children, no, not children, these human persons — these souls! — are choosing their own paths. But isn't that really what happiness is? Knowing who you are and doing what you are? Choosing your vocation?

And that is our problem, we who are homeschoolers and parents, our dilemma: we sketch out a path to what we see as happiness for our children, but will we be happy if they follow our path? Maybe. But, ultimately, they become their own persons and must make their own choices. They are not us (no matter how hard we work to make them us), nor will they always be ours. We must give them the strength to overcome their own trials, and the courage to face those trials. We give them the roots, and we give them the wings. It is they that must grow, blossom, and then fly.

Stunning

2008-09-05T08:26:00.003-05:00

This morning I was headed off to work, as usual. Diane was standing over little Isabel by the mirror, brushing her hair into a cutesy pony tail. I marched right past, but then did a double-take; Diane was wearing a ankle-length floral black skirt and a lime-green blouse. There was a faint aura about her of motherly, domestic, tranquility.

I stopped in my tracks: my hands encircled her with a portrait frame, and I uttered "Wow!" continuing on my way with the surprised snort from my cara spoza following me.

"Out"-Laws?

2008-09-01T17:05:00.004-05:00

My favorite, and only, mother-in-law, recently posted her thoughts on the interesting approach I took to my studies ... on my honeymoon. Two unrelated thoughts arose together with her comment. The first, least `pataphoric, thought was that I, as an Auclair, am a force of nature — as any who have married an Auclair know that the words "passion" and "intensity" are far too tame words to describe our natures. It would be folly for Diane to mention ... So, like, you might consider not bringing three Java books on the honeymoon? ... so she didn't even bother bringing up the topic. But it also turns out that I'm actually the tame one in this marriage. Or, to put it another way, Diane sure is cutesy sabre-toothed tiger. That she would consider extending an invitation to her parents on our honeymoon cruise had nothing to do with retribution or quid pro quo (that is French) and had everything to do with family! They are as much a part of her as she is a part of them. I married into her family with my eyes wide open (I, besides visiting her family in the Philippines, where the cute little traitor — yeah, come visit with me, it'll be fun! — did not speak one word, ONE WORD, of English to me from the time the plane touched down to, months later, when the plane return to the good-ole U.S. of A., also read, cover-to-cover all twenty books her family gave me about Philippino language, culture and mores). I did put my foot down on that one, however:

Me: Um, no. This is our honeymoon: yours and mine alone.
Diane: Please, can we take my parents, too? Please?
Me: No.

You see where Elena Marie gets her powers of persuasion.

But the second, tangential, thought that arose is as follows. And that is this: I just don't get it, and I don't desire you to explain it to me, either; thank you very much. It seems that there is nothing more universally agreed-upon, and reviled, than that of the in-law relation. Where ever I go, when the topic arises, it's always presented with duty or disgust rather than delight: Oh, yeah, I've got to visit the in-laws, rolling their eyes as they spit out the words. Or even worse, it's a "joke", Tee-hee they titter so I get that they're "joking," aren't my "out"-laws funny? [trans: embarrassing]

Perhaps the reason that I don't get it is that I happen to view my family as something more than my parents, my sisters and myself. I now have four brothers, two married to my sisters, and two my wife's siblings. In which world would I have that blessing? Not in the world that most people here are living in: one time at work I mentioned I was going on vacation to St. Croix. Lucky you! was the response until I added I was accompanying my parents-in-law. The condescending reply was you must have the patience of a saint. When I countered I liked spending time with my in-laws, the condescension became bafflement, so I decided to drop it.

"Love your enemies" we are commanded [Matt 5:44] but it was only in an Amway conference that that commandment was put into context: "Love your enemies because you made them." The admonishment is not that our in-laws are our enemies (as I hear most people ruefully label them), it's that it's our choice whom we make friends, whom we make enemies, and whom we love. Here are the people how are the closest to you in the world. Wouldn't you rather they help you, and you help them?

In one very important respect, I have the blessing of being an Auclair. It seems, when I see myself in my cousins and siblings, in my Aunts and Uncles, I see the sharp, sharp pride and intellect that makes us impossible to be around for more than half-a-day. But we are so desperately vunerable — so full of pride that we always choose to swim against the stream, to climb the mountain on foot instead of using the ski lift, to shake our heads angrily when everyone else is smiling and nodding — but at the same time the slightest word or look crushes us into despondency. Delicate and strange creatures we are.

Or, perhaps, all these faults are just my own.

But one thing I've noticed in my family is a magical gift, a gift which I have felt the full force of the benefits: we pick a spouse, a cara spoza — a mate of the heart — that so perfectly excels us in so many ways. We're smart; they are smarter. We're jittery; they are an ocean of patience. We want to be alone; they are always socially graceful and the life of the party. We're angry; they are witty — so much so they diffuse us, walking time bombs, until we can't help but to smile, warmly, in return.

So, maybe this odd perspective on in-law relations is an Auclair thing. For me, I know exactly where I'd be without my cara spoza and her family, my in-laws, so I love her, and I love them with an Auclair intensity and fierceness and gratitude (always grudgingly given from my family) and sincerity. They see me for what I am, yet they accept me still. How is it not possible to have the greatest respect and admiration for people such as these, my in-laws.

Everyday exchange

2008-09-01T15:24:00.004-05:00

My cara spoza, Diane walks timidly into my "office" (more like a French cave) and checks the mood. I slouch, sullenly, in my chair, fingers flying over the keyboard as my eyes bore into the screen. My usual posture.

But, since I'm not growling invectives, as usual when I'm working (actually, I just got comonadic streaming primes working, so I was rather well-pleased), she essays the breach in my concentration. She tapped her pencil to her notepad and did a half-twirl.

Do you notice anything? she asked.

There she stood, gorgeous, as always, in an ankle-length dark-blue skirt and a blouse that complimented her beauty. A heart-stopper, as always.

No. I responded, confused.

She gave up. Men! she probably thought.

I got dressed to go shopping at Costco ... she hinted, helpfully.

Me: Oh, ya. You look beautiful. as I returned to my work. But she wasn't to be deterred. As always. So she returned to tap-tap-tapping her notepad, which I discovered was her shopping list. She rattled off her items — it was she that was going shopping, not I, so the list had a rather domestic theme. We've agreed to give a go to making sandwiches for lunch, so she asked after my luncheon meat preferences.

Turkey, ... and ham, slipping the latter in wistfully. But her reaction took me aback:

Nitrates! Nitrates! Nitrates! she fumed as her pencil beat time with her accusations, and she stamped her foot with displeasure. God, I love this surprising woman! She's so beautiful when she's on one of her crusades. Good thing she's always on one; and good thing we're not in France, as they treated her sister Jeanne d'Arc rather badly. But then before I could entreat, she surprised me again:

We'll get honey baked ham, instead, and freeze the excess. She was pleased at her inventiveness, and she shouted out with laughter at her victory over the dreaded nitrates. She has the regal bearing, insight and intelligence always to be pleased with her pronouncements.

I couldn't have dreamed this turn of events (Diane is pleased that she's getting me honey-baked ham?) suiting me better, so I played the smart guy and kept my mouth shut. Yeah, that is possible for me to do, okay? Back off.

Well, she was on her way with the kiddies, and I wasn't going to get any more work done with all the requests for "huggies", and playing Olé as a charging bull with the tykes. The children must be appeased. But then, of course, as I set them in the Mommy van, Elena Marie got all dewy eyed:

Papa, please, please, please come with us shopping! Ugh, my heart absolutely melted and ended up limpid resting on my left kneecap. Diane could barely contain her delight at my torn expression.

No, sweetie, I've got to do work after I do DDR. As I replied, Diane's impish look froze into a mask of horror:

I thought you said you had work to do today! She accused, and little Isabel immediately dove-tailed her own question:

Papa, are you going to do DDR all day and all night? and my negative response of:

No, sweetie, I'm just going to do my regular workout had Diane snort derisively. Huh! I don't think my workouts will take that long, so I tried to reassure my cara spoza &mdash It's DDR3, I think, I soothed, so after I do my workout and Rock Lobster, I'll get right back to work ... unless it's DDR4, then I'm going to do Waka Laka. Her nonchalance was instantly replaced by tender concern:

Please, take care of yourself and take it easy. she requested. I guess my little show-n-tell was still a very present echo in her mind.

As soon as they were out of sight — Bye! the children shouted, Bye! Bye! — I turned back to the house thinking about how I could form a relation between enumerated types and transitive types using Gödel numbering.

Yup. Just an ordinary day.

Why I work

2008-08-28T20:41:00.004-05:00

Originally posted circa August 3, 2004:

Latest bulletin from the Olde Dominion, the Commonwealth; from Columbia, the gem of the Ocean.

Aunt Rolene sent me a very nice email about setting aside some special time with Diane. Thank you, Aunt Rolene: I took off both Saturday AND Sunday from work to spend special time with Diane and to give Diane some li'l tyke respite.

Diane has been acutely ill (a cold) from a little sniffle Isabel caught, and then spread to the rest of the family (Isabel and I were least affected), so we've spent extra time in bed, recovering ... I think I actually slept 4 hours last night, *WOW*. Besides the colds, the whole family is in excellent spirits. Isabel woke me this morning, on time: 7 am on the dot, with her joyful, open-mouthed, squawks. Elena Marie had already left with her Mama to shower and then to leap into her dress; after that, she joined us in bed, entertaining Isabel, who was delighted to see her Ate (big sister).

I've restarted my martial arts training, practicing kenjutsu every night, which I enjoy very much (and which is making writing this email difficult: my arms are heavy). I've also been playing through a game of go every night (not last night, unfortunately): specializing in the games of Takemiya Masaki, as I'm best able to understand and to play his moyo (center-oriented) style in my games.

So, I was preparing to leave for work this morning, kissing each of my darlings goodbye. Elena Marie enjoys the leave-taking, cheeringly shouting a "Bye!" Diane rushed me out the door, as Isabel is now able to crawl from the dining room to the front door with speed. But Diane queried Elena Marie first: "Why does Papa go to work?" Elena Marie looked at her mama quizzically. Diane pressed forward: "... so Elena can ...?" Elena Marie didn't answer the question, just shouted out another "Bye!" to her departing Papa, and then went out to the entrance to wave.

All who work are called to answer that unanswered question (first posed in music by Charles Ives), and I believe that my answers are pretty much the same as every other working person's, but sometimes it's good to summarize them and then meditate on them.

Because I can: I'm blessed with ability and with a task to which I can apply that ability

Because it's my vocation to provide for (and to protect) my family, and the fruits of my work give that.

Because I learn from work, about myself, about others, and about the things which my work affects

So I can return home a better husband and father

So others can return home to their families and friends

So the country and the world can be a better place.

Insh'Allah.

So, I'm off to do that.

After writing this email, my sweetie called me. She had arrived, and parked outside the facility so that Elena Marie could complete her message. I strolled through three sets of armed guards, two check-points and a gated barbed-wire fence to rendez-vous with them in our little Mazda so I could hear the special message:

Diane: "Elena, Papa goes to work to give Mama ..."
Elena: *smile* *look* *look* "Pera!"
Diane: "So that Elena may buy ..."
Elena: "dresses!" *bounce-bounce* "And, Elena tried them on and turned around!" (Elena Marie exults in modelling her acquisitions)

Diane then handed me a tin full of muffins (Elena Marie had been asking to 'bake a cake' this morning): "Elena, what are we giving Papa?"
Elena: "'anana mffins!"

With her message delivered, Elena's mission was complete. "Bye!" she cheerily dismissed me. I waved them off, and walked back to the facility, knowing why I was returning to work.

Back in the Groove

2008-08-28T20:31:00.002-05:00

It's been over a week since my last email, and, as I promised my sweetie daily email reports ("I'm here; I'm alive; I'm happy"), I'm sure I've caused at least one person some consternation. But there it is — I've spent the last week in bed, with an illness that has been, thankfully, only inconvenient and fatiguing, so I've been out of the loop during that time.

I started to get back into the groove on Sunday when I went to Mass, and then, in the evening, I exercised (which felt very good) and played through a game of Go (my model, Takemiya, lost because of one single misjudged play, at play 43 (a game lasts usually 250 plays), so I wasn't extremely happy about that, especially since the rest of the game was excellent ... I should play though it again, channeling his challenger, O Reissi, because his play was sharp, inventive and brilliant).

This morning I woke up chipper. I said, "Today, I am going to work!" and felt very happy. Funny, the majority of heart attacks occur Monday morning: people would rather die than return to work. But, for me, as you know, my work gives me pleasure, fulfillment, and the opportunity to create and to serve. Today, at work, was a good day: productive and cordial (as usual, things were in a state of near pandemonium, but I was serene throughout ... probably confirming in some minds that I am the representation of Loki here on Earth, but so it goes).

Speaking of Norse mythology, the weather here has been rather Visigoth: cold, gray and wet. I love it! I don't care what the studies say: if every day were like this, I would be in my element, as it were — an expectant thundershower with peals of lightening and a torrential downpour would be a very nice addition, as well. By the time Diane and the children return (1 December, with her brother, YAAAY!) I expect several layers of snow on the ground. All I need are two goats, two ravens and one giant-slaying hammer (Hmmmm, I already have "god's own hammer" as my friend Mike Wuerthele called the mallet he and I used to be creative with the various home-improvement projects going on in the basement) to complete the picture.

Ummmmm, yeah.

Had a bit of a Fall cleaning of the house today, so everything's pristine: 2 loads of laundry, change of bedsheets, bathroom sparkling, dishes done. A new house, and a new me. Just lying on the bed for a second felt very sweet (and I would've fallen asleep and slept through the night if I hadn't stood up right away — first day back at work was a shock to the system after a week in bed)! Treated myself special tonight by having a bit of supper and then a latte and choco-coconut bun (I know, I know, but I hope the carb blocker and the exercise later tonight will cancel it out).

So with the paperwork (mostly) up-to-day, the house cleaned, and a recovered self, I'm back in the grove.

Time to sweep the deck, to exercise, to play through a game of Go, and to hit the S-A-C-K!

"Really strange" guy

2008-08-28T20:16:00.002-05:00

Originally posted November 8, 2004:

So, I've survived (barely) the first day of a national conference, where they pulled me in from vacation 'cause I'm the point man on the project. *Sigh* it's nice to be so loved. First time meeting the majority of the experts, and, boy, were they in for a surprise! One of the experts, with whom I've been working with for a year, when I pointed out a technicality with one of the rules decided to give me some back-talk, so, I laid the smack down,

"Hey, ya wanna piece o' me? I'LL TAKE Y'ALL ON!"

This bellow kind of attracted attention to myself, as the other experts burst out laughing at the kid in the back corner posturing so extravagantly. One of the experts asked my boss's boss (he's new to the project), "Hey, can you keep control over your people?" He answered, martyred look on his face, wringing his hands: "I'm trying; I'm trying!"

So, at lunch, at the BBQ place (the boss like all kinds of foods, as long as they're pork and have been barbequed), I went around, pressing the flesh and meeting the experts: "Oh, you're the one who's going to beat us all up?" was the only question I got. On the ride back to the conference, the boss's boss said: "You know, Doug, I have to go on record: you're REALLY STRANGE!"

Huh? This from a guy who noted how, um, unique each member of the team was (and said how shocked he was that he found a project where he fit in). So, I guess that makes me "fringe" unique? Anyway, I tried for peace: "Well, I hope that otherwise my skills are helpful to the team and the project."

Deafening silence followed ...

...

... the boss's boss said: "*Ahem* Well, that was a deafening silence ..."

So, I'm hoping tomorrow they'll forget all about the day before (*cough*) ... anyway, the conference will start at 8 am, and it's 1 1/2 hour commute (ugh-ugh-ugh), so I think nature, in the form of lack of sleep, will take its course in transforming a REALLY STRANGE Doug to a quiet and subdued Doug (but, I hope, not a snoring Doug).

So, that's how my day went. One could, I suppose, say it was One Day in the Life of Doug Auclair, but I think somebody blatantly ripped off that title from me. Oh, the nerve of some people, jeez!

Elena Marie says: "Hello?"

2008-08-28T20:07:00.003-05:00

Originally posted November 14, 2004:

Today started out cold and blustery: fall is upon us, no joke. So, it made exercising this morning a more interesting affair, logistically. It doesn't help that it appears our heater is on the fritz (it provides a modicum of heat, but doesn't stay on the requested temperature, so blankets and mufflers are welcome additions to the modern lifestyle). So, I exercised. The bokken, being newly oiled as of yesterday, felt very good during practice.

Today was the slower side of Dance-dance Revolution exercises — the music selection is on a wheel, and going clockwise, one encounters the faster songs (after nine minutes I hit the target calorie burn and was quite ready to stop: only 31 more minutes to go), but today was the counterclockwise direction: I don't hit the target even after 40 minutes. So, this time, I added 5 more minutes, and decided to double the requirement — for each arrow, I would hit the pad twice.

Ouch. I think I understand better, viscerally, why basketball players so often require knee surgery. Even now, 12 hours later, I still feel the throbbing in my legs. Today, I worked out more, and harder, than I ever have since I've acquired this 'game'. One benefit: the 'tough' songs I couldn't fathom before (I would just stop and stare as 20 arrows passed in a matter of 3 seconds), I now did just fine.

Mother called after exercise, and she complained that my emails didn't talk about her grandchildren enough. So, for her, and for your enjoyment, I provide the following story.

I called Diane last night, as I do weekly, and we happily chatted the night away (Isabel squawked on occasion from Mama's lap, and Diane said she smiled when I addressed her -- she's now walking about, as easy as you please and has curly hair [see, Mother, it's about your grandchildren, okay?]). After I rung off, I called right back to say hello again one more time, but this time, I received a surprise.

*ring-ring*
Elena Marie: Hello?
Me: Ummmmmm, Hello, Elena Marie!
(here I panicked, because usually the conversation continues thus: I ask her health, she says she's fine and then says, "Bye!" and hangs up) (so, thinking quickly, I continued:)
Me: I need to speak to Mama, would you give her the phone?
Elena Marie: Okay ... and that's exactly what she did.
*Whew*

Diane told me that Elena Marie bolts to the phone whenever it rings, even though she's been asked not to pick up. I figure that since she just spoke with her papa a few moments before, she was expecting that it was I again. This time she was correct.

So, that's my story: my little girl's answering the phone now. What next? A driver's license? (choke!)

chop wood, carry water

2008-08-28T17:25:00.001-05:00

Originally posted November 18, 2004:

Sunday, Philippino day:

Little did I realize that today was Washington DC Philippino day. This morning at Church, due to shortages of flu vaccine, instead of shaking hands at the sign of peace, we all turned to our neighbors and gave each a slight bow. This is exactly how Philippinos exchange the sign of peace in Mass in the Philippines. I couldn't help but let slip a small, private smile during this evolution. I hope this goes on for quite some time: Diane and Dennis will be so pleased!

AND THEN! I went to Starbucks to by some Chai in bulk. As I approached the counter, I felt momentarily disoriented, something was strangely familiar -- the girl at the register, who I originally thought to be Black, was not: she was Brown! And, the other person working there was also a Pinay (occasionally, in this area particularly, Starbucks brings in foreign nationals -- I suppose for exposure on how Starbucks works in the USA? One time the store manager (who is also one of the national directors) was working with people from Taiwan). Again, the repressed smile, but I didn't engage them in conversation. Again, I was transported to my sweetie's side. Two times in one day!

Monday.

Heater broke, and then, car broke (timing belt). Slept that night with a space heater graciously leant to me by Mike and in a knit cap and muffler. Mr. Darcy really snuggled up to me, as well.

While I was on the side of the highway in my broken-down car, Bill, a colleague from work, called to report an at-work emergency that needed my immediate attention; I guided him through some procedures over the phone as the tow truck continued to fail to show up. Received two more calls on my cell from work, each more and more alarming.

Uh, don't worry, y'all: the country's still protected.

So, I pushed the car to an apartment complex's parking lot, conveniently located nearby, and then I walked home. In my dress shoes. Ow.

But, after all that, it seems like God cut me a break. When I arrived home, I received a check from the mail. Goody! I can eat again! Something else good happened that day, but, it being two days and several crises ago, I've quite forgotten what it was.

I went by Mike's house, and he looked me straight in the eye: "Doug, you're just sad!" Thanks, pal! But he also gave me freshly cooked roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy. I don't know how he does it, but he makes the world's best mashed potatoes. He also loaded me down with two large logs for my fireplace.

Mike: "You need to split those; do you have a maul?"
Me: "Don't worry about it. My middle name's not 'Paul Bunyon' for nothing."
Mike: [speachless, rueful look]

That night, until late, late in the night, I turned my mind and body to the simple joy of splitting firewood with my wedges, gods-own-hammer, and my ax. It felt very good.

Tuesday.

Watching the heater repair guys ("Um, Mr. Douglas [sic], sir, you need to replace your intake filter every month, not every year."). Receiving more emgerging crisis phonecalls from work. That morning, I was in work, and I said to Bill: "I wish I could say troubles come in pairs, but I would actually be blessed in they ONLY came in pairs."

I was calm, however, govies have a tendency to panic easily and sometimes about the wrong thing. I was sure it wasn't my code that was the problem.

Wednesday.

I was wrong, of course: it was my code that was the problem. It was built with a perfect-world model, and the real-world data, ya know, can be noisy sometimes. But, then, another miracle occurred, Bill headed up the repair effort and did 90% of the work, freeing me to handle another impending crisis. It's amazing to find people who take the ball and run with it (especially since I rarely see it in the workplace); this contract has several people to do that very thing with neither fuss nor fanfare. Wow!

So, now, I'm just finishing up my workday, writing this email, and heading on home.

I missed about 57,239 other things that happened this week: each thing would've had its own paragraph of at least 17 lines each, and for this, I'm sorry, 'cause I'm wondering what happen this week, myself.

Ah, well, car works, heater works, fireplace works, self works. Good to go!

"Enough" Halo 2 time? and the girls

2008-08-28T17:17:00.003-05:00

Originally posted November 27, 2004:

My cara spoza asked me:

Oh what a relief it is... Now that I'm done with the morning business, time to catch up with husby. It sounded like you were enjoying yourself with the family. Did you get to play enough halo 2 over the week?

Ummmm, define "enough", please! Howland and I have been coplaying H2 -- in H2, one can "jack" a vehicle from the enemy driver, so we've been doing that more than really playing the game at all, 'cause jacking's so much fun. Beki would watch and giggle when one of succeeded in doing this.

Beki's still playing H1 and refuses to join in with Howland and me. Howland also prefers to watch me play when I'm moving the story along ... after I've cleared a level, he'll play it along with me or solo.

Lowrey watched us all play in Virginia, and she took an anthropological point of view, wondering why shoot-em-ups are so popular, and wondering if there was a way to create a game that would be equally captivating without the violence in it.

Of course, I have news about the girls for your enjoyment. Elena has a new look. Just wait and see :-)

She is imitating and repeating even more Tagalog. When I spilled a chocolate drink on the bed, she exclaimed. "ayyy, natapon!" She would sigh like a true pinay, "hayy, naku." And she would argue as loudly, "hindeee!" She's also adding all the appropriate connectors such as "ang" and "si." Pretty amazing kid!

Okay. Stop the presses. "New look"? What's going on? PANIC TIME OVER HERE!

Isabel has begun to express herself loudly and forcefully. Balanced wonderfully by acts of lambing, like just going up to you for a quick kiss or hug. I can already see your pusong mamon melting like ice cream.

Oh! (clasping my hand to my head) My heart is breaking! I'm wondering if she'll do that to me. Probably so, it looks like she has a deviously charming twinkly in her eye.

We've been watching videos of the party and the anniversary and the beach trip. It was great to see you in them and I am glad that it won't be long before we see you again. The girls, esp. Elena, exclaim "Papa" when they see you in pictures or on TV. It would be a great reunion!

Oh, no! My heart, it's breaking again! *sniff*

Reading Mama

2008-08-28T17:02:00.001-05:00

Photo taken sometime in late June, 2005

A happy B(aseball)irthday story

2008-08-28T16:00:00.004-05:00

Originally posted April 10, 2000:

Diane's birthday party last year went off much better than I could have ever planned. Diane bought herself her birthday presents, then, miraculously, Mom sent us a check that covered the cost of her presents. She didn't want a party, so we drove around and looked at houses for sale on Friday, so we could visit them on her birthday. (Which, eventually, led us inch-by-inch to our new home ... because we always kept that dream alive). But, Mike Malovic called up and invited us to an Orioles baseball game for Sunday. I was ecstatic. Diane is a big baseball fan, so the gift was perfectly timed. All Saturday, Diane practiced the song, "Take me out to the Ballgame"; learning Doug Auclair's version of the lyrics (à la Dad's way of changing words here and there until, years later, it's nothing like the original).

The Baseball Game:

We arrived a little late, because Mike and Pinky drove us up in their Mercedes after Church. The Orioles were down 0-3. Oh, no! That's okay, though, BECAUSE we sat in the shade and did the whole thing: hotdog, beer ("Git chur be-ah he-ah!" the vendors shouted their calls), cheers, sassing the referee. It couldn't have been a better game. The Orioles caught up in the third inning to fall behind 3-4 in the fourth. Then, in the seventh, they fell back even further when the designated hitter for the Angels placed the ball between the short-stop and Cal, the third baseman, with the bases loaded to bring in three more runs for the Angels. (When I say Cal, I mean the Cal Ripken, Jr. a.k.a. "Iron Man" because he's got the record for playing the most games without a break (it's somewhere around 3,000 games straight))

We were down 3-7 for a long time. What made things worst is that the Angels brought in a hot pitcher: he threw fastball after fastball without tiring. The Orioles seemed unable to get a hit off of him (but he hit, or almost hit, a couple of the Orioles, letting go a few bases to walks. He even (almost) hit Cal on the head, which caused an extended period of boos from the crowd and a talking to from his coach. He throws fast, but he needs to get some control).

Then, in eighth and ninth innings, one of the Orioles players (Belle) evened the score by hitting two homers: the first with two on base and then one alone. When he hit the tying run in the bottom of the ninth, the crowd (and I) went into hysterics. The inning went on a little longer, but no more runners came in. The game went into extra innings.

Nothing happened on the tenth, except that each team changed out some of their players (notably the pitchers). Then, on the bottom of the eleventh, a new pitcher for the Angels, Hasegawa, walked a couple and then hit Belle.

Belle was furious. I believe he told the umpire to ignore the pitch so he could hit a homer again. The umpire got ready to throw Belle out of the game, so the Orioles' coach jumped between the two and walked Belle to first base, all the while talking to him, calming him down.

Then, Cal got up to the plate. Each and every time that he did the crowd became full of energy. He got up to the plate four times before and got a hit to base each time except against the fast pitcher (he struck out); one time he hit a homer that tied the game. The bases were loaded; there were two outs against the Orioles. Hasegawa was good: he mixed a couple of balls with a couple of in-the-box pitches which Cal hit into the foul zone. Eventually, the count was 3 (balls) and 2 (strikes). Hasegawa pitched. Cal hit it into the foul zone. This happened three times on the 3-2 count.

Can you feel the excitement of the crowd? Diane was chanting: "Please, please!" Pinky was saying, "No pressure, Hal, just get a hit [she thought his name was Hal]." Mike responded, "Well, he doesn't need to hit the ball if he can walk." As Hasegawa threw each pitch, the energy would bring me to my feet in expectation.

Hasegawa pitched; Cal hit a grounder to centerfield, bringing the man on third home, and the crowd went wild. The final score was 8-7 at the bottom of the eleventh inning.

*****

We finished off the night by watching "You've Got Mail" (I love the sly observations it has) with Diane's birthday Peach ice cream with Chardonnay dessert.

I call her up and sing "Happy Birthday" to her. She asks, "Do I get to celebrate my birthday this whole week?" "Sure," I say, thinking of Pooh:

… you can't help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn't spell it right; but spelling isn't everything. There are days when spelling Tuesday simple doesn't count.

"By the way, Pooh, how do you spell Tuesday?"
"Spell what?" asked Pooh.
"Tuesday. You know - Monday, Tuesday…"
"My dear Pooh," said Owl, "everybody knows that it's spelled with a Two."
"Is it?" asked Pooh.
"Of course," said Owl. "After all, it's the second day of the week."
"All right, Owl," I said. "Then what comes after Twosday?"
"Thirdsday," said Owl.
"Owl, you're confusing things," I said. "This is the day after Tuesday, and it's not Third - I mean Thursday."
"Then what is it?" asked Owl.
"It's Today!" squeaked Piglet.
"My favorite day," said Pooh. (1)

Mine, too. Please enjoy this wonderful day called today.

(1) Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff, E.P. Dutton, New York, 1982, pp. 27-28.

"You're in MENSA?"

2008-08-28T15:48:00.001-05:00

Originally posted June 28, 2001:

Okay! Kuento time. So, the air-conditioner guy came to repair our air-conditioner (by resetting the fuse -- don't ask). I always pay with my personal card ("Mensa MasterCard -- Spend Wisely"), but I've never got a reaction until now. "OH!" exclaimed the very big air-conditioner repairman, "YOU'RE IN MENSA? I'VE NEVER MET A GENIUS BEFORE!" I informed him that now he had (siyempre, nahiya ko, diba). He examined my credit card with great interest and asked my I.Q. (I dunno) and discussed entrance testing a little while. Our transaction complete, he (reluctantly) returned my card and drove off. And so.

"Constancia" Elena Marie?

2008-08-28T15:39:00.003-05:00

Originally posted July 16, 2001:

So, we went to the sonogram clinic (they do other things there too, but the people were nice to me (they thought I was kenkoy), so it'll be called the "sonogram clinic" from here on out).

Okay, I can get side-tracked in my emails.

So, attached is a picture of baby from the sonogram clinic. SHE (Diane wanted to know if the baby was a boy or a girl until she found out that the baby was a girl ... "A girl ... ... ... oh, that's nice." (I was delighted because si Diane thought of two names for girls only and rejected all my names for boys, so I guess God gave her what she wanted (not what she rejected ... gets mo?))).

Side-tracked!

So! I was visiting Nana and Dad and they asked what Diane's Grandmothers' names were (because Eugilda Theresa Mucciaroni Saccho Auclair was too funny for Nana ... even though that's her name), and when I told her Constancia and Maria, they practically leapt with joy ... ('cause I recommended Maria Constancia or Constancia Marie (the latter sounds kinda French, diba?)) ... "Oh, I love Constancia Marie", cried Nana. Dad stated pleasedly and officiously, "Constance is an excellent virtue."

They demanded I call my dearest love, the light of my life, my tweets-hart right away and "suggest" "Constancia Marie" ... Quote Nana: "But make SURE that you don't tell her that we suggested it!" (Notice how negative orders always backfire?)

"Constancia Marie" -- what a wonderful name, diba? The determined clarity of purpose (focused, even) tempered with the Sweetness of Our Lady (with that lilting French touch). Very traditional, too, especially since no other member of the Estrella and Sebastian families has honored their matriarchs with their first born bambina. Being traditional fits Diane's personality to a "T". :-) ← that's Diane laughing.

Diba?

Love always to my favorite family(-in-law),
(douglas) MICHAEL Auclair ← note the accent on the preferred name?

Dear Manang,

Baby Constancia Marie is doing wonderfully and can't wait to meet you. My dear Mother(-in-law) (si Ate) and my dearest, sweetest pookums (I guess it's true that expecting a baby girl turns the guy all to mush -- "Hoy! I'm going to be a little girl's Papa!") recommend we raise baby girls sa atin kasi babae turn out better than sa states ("Yo! Guy! Outta mah way!" -- diba). Missing you lots and hope to hear from you soon!

Sincerely,
(douglas) MICHAEL Auclair ← MichaelMichaelMichael

P.S. Sinabi ni Diane, "Can we visit when [Constancia Marie's] turned 12 months?" (She really didn't say "Constancia Marie"; she said "the baby" ... she's still in awe of my brilliant insight for the name ... or that's how I interpret it).

Go Congress and Dainty Diane

2008-08-28T15:30:00.000-05:00

Originally posted August 1, 2001:

I spent all last week at the Go congress, lost most of my games (which I wasn't too happy about), but I learned some good things that have my game better (which I am happy about). Monday, back in Virginia, I played at the NOVA Go club and won my game handily using some of the techniques from the go congress. My roommate in my dorm at the college at York (York, Pennsylvania: it's biggest attraction is a coffee shop that serves greasy meatloaf as its lunch special -- ugh!) was a minister (Methodist), so we would have conversations long into the night about Faith and Grace. We didn't know out voices carried until someone from another dorm banged on our door telling us that it's hard to sleep at 1 a.m. with loud conversations ... *blush* hehehe!

I also had the pleasure of talking to one of the vendors of go books/equipment. She told me that she was living off of royalties from a contract her (wholely-owned) company set up with NEC in Japan. NEC puts a Go program on every computer it sells there, and for that they pay her (I think) $0.10 per copy. Galing! She wants to do that again for the Macs, so she was quizzing me about my Mac-OS X skills (which're good, so, *hope*, maybe I can get a piece of that action). At any rate, that got me thinking: creating a simple, "killer app" and licensing it to a hardware vendor sounds very possible now (instead of the difficult path: creating the app and selling it as shrink-wrapped media). Diane, I believe, has come up with two business plans off this idea.

Kwento: I was preparing to shower. I laid out the foot towel, then carelessly stepped on it whilst still wearing my slippers. Diane exclaimed: "Hey, don't walk on that with your dirty slippers! Think of my dainty feet!"

Kwento: My sweetie had an urge for a fast-food burger and McFlurry. Whilst I was getting the food, she waited for me in the car. I returned carrying the goods, and she said, "I didn't know 'facial' was spelt with an 'i'." I didn't understand her until she pointed to a big neon sign outside a spa: "F-A-I-C-I-A-L" was how it was spelt. I turned to her: "Wheal, Hoouney, when you in da Soufh, you spail 'faicial' waith an 'ah-ya'."

"Haaaay!"

2008-08-28T15:17:00.001-05:00

Originally posted February 21, 2002:

So, I was cooing over Elena Marie at the dinner table, and, as she looked at her Anda sitting by the window, she suddenly breathed: "Haaay!"

Diane was quite pleased to announce that she's been practicing the word "Hi" with Elena Marie for some time.

For the rest of the day nothing but "Hi! Hi! Hi!" was heard ... from me. Elena Marie decided once was enough and was visibly (if only slightly) displeased with my encouragements -- you've seen from her pictures how effectively she can purse those eyebrows!

She also is quite talkative with her Mama when they have special quantity time. It's quite entertaining to observe Elena Marie start, and then maintain, a conversation with swee-theart.

"We are powerful beyond measure"

2008-08-28T15:11:00.001-05:00

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

1994 Inaugural Speech -- Nelson Mandela
Written by Marianne Williamson

Shopping cart incident

2008-08-28T15:07:00.001-05:00

Originally posted circa July 5, 2002:

Elena Marie got her foot caught between two spokes of a shopping cart: she was frightened and in pain; Diane and I were acting as if we weren't panicking as we failed in our attempts to release her (her leg swelled when she had forced her foot through the spokes). A Latina quickly ran to the bathroom, put soap on her hand and used it as a lubricant to free her.

*Whew*

Right after the incident, Elena Marie was back to normal. Diane and I are still recovering.

I had earlier offered Diane the night off (I would rock the baby to sleep while she would go watch a movie), but now all we want to do is be with the baby.

It reminds me of when Diane had told me that sometimes she had become frustrated because she must put other, seemingly important or urgent, things aside to look after the baby. But then she reflects that if Elena Marie was gone, these other things would be pointless in light of the great sadness she'd feel.

The Gospel today was "If you love your mother or father, your son or daughter more than me [Christ], you will have no part of the Kingdom." I was like (before the incident) "no problem" as I look at Elena Marie as a loaner from God. After the incident, I now realize a little better how difficult those words are: I would have gladly traded places with Elena Marie -- I would have died or killed to shield her from her agony. I guess the good things that came from this were that I know better how God loves me (like I love Elena Marie and Diane, and He did, after all, die for me) and I know better what a precious gift Elena Marie is to us.

So, practicing breathing, and feeling overcome with joy at Elena Marie's big smile.

Baby Elena

2008-08-28T15:00:00.001-05:00

Originally posted circa August 27, 2002:

Elena Marie has become much quicker crawling (esp. when she sees an open refridgerator door ... she likes touching, cautiously, fruit juice containers ... maybe it's the cold she likes, or the novelty), and she lifts herself onto her feet with confidence. Walking is not too far away, I think. Have you seen her crawl? She likes to lift one leg, and sometimes both, alternately, and plant a foot on the ground, instead of using her knees. It's delightful watching her scamper about like this.

She's also developing a personality in that she shows a stronger preference for things and people. Diane handed her to me this morning to rock to sleep. She squealed, once, in anguish, at being separated from Mama, then fell right to sleep to the reggae beat danced by Papa. She squeals more frequently now, mostly with delight, as Diane and I invent games to play with her.

Happy Birthday to Beki!

2008-08-28T14:53:00.000-05:00

Originally posted September 25, 2002:

Dear Beki,

It's still a few days away, so maybe I'm the first to wish you a very happy birthday! What would you like for your birthday (besides your jar back, which we've just got a box for so we can ship it back to you and sorry for it taking so much time but I haven't slept much these last 4 weeks because I'm teaching an XML class)? Diane and I have created "wish lists" on Amazon.com, but I didn't see one for you, so, then, Happy Birthday with a Surprise Present coming your way!

Elena Marie fell asleep in my arms to the ukulele of Iz Kamakawio'ole, so I very carefully cradled her into the bed, and rested with her until Diane returned from choreographing a (some?) dance(s) for a Christian/pop-rock quartet. Elena Marie may be getting longer, but she's also getting sweeter, so my heart breaks more easily.

Please say hello to Howland, and I *know* you both will be enjoying something very delicious on your birthday, 'cause that's how good the food is *every* day!

flu + bronchitis ~= pneumonia?‏

2008-08-28T14:43:00.002-05:00

Originally posted circa October 7, 2002:

Elena Marie is congested but in very cheerful spirits (she only gets afraid of me when I cough).

I've been in bed all last week sleeping and coughing every 1/2 hour. Didn't watch movies, didn't read books: I was much too sick to have any energy to do either. Could drink okay but could only take very light meals, once a day.

Felt a little better today (when I coughed, it didn't feel like my head was exploding), so I went to work, then to the family clinic. It turns out my lungs are pretty full of fluid. I'm at home now, and when I breathe it feels that I can only take very small sips of air. It feels like I'm treading water. I tried eating some squash soup, but it was a toss-up between that and breathing, so I only had a little bowl and one very small bite of Duck Pad Ped.

The nurse gave me some antibodies and said if things don't improve rapidly in the next two days, then I may have pneumonia and must go for chest X-rays.

Diane's been an absolute saint through this whole process. What's worse is that she now gets zero time away from the baby (whereas before, I could entertain the baby in the early mornings and evenings, now she and the baby leave the house so I manage some uninterrupted sleep).

OT: At work there were some maneuvers to put me into a vastly more political/"important" position which would require (besides the usual politics, which I play very poorly) a 50% increase in work and a 50x increase in responsibility (of course, there would be no change in pay). I knew about all this as it was going on, because I've got good friends on the inside, who stood up for me ("That move should have his input"). It hurt the healing process, but I found out today that I would not be receiving the promotion.

Thank God!

Well, anyway, much going on around me and to me. I didn't need any of it, but I'm riding this wave the best I can. I'm going to bed, again. Hope to feel much better tomorrow. Please don't call: if I try to speak, you'll hear this agonizing coughing for 5-10 seconds first, and not much more than an unintelligible whisper after.

Commander Howland

2008-08-28T14:35:00.001-05:00

Originally posted February 26, 2003:

Master Chief, are you going to be able to hold out until you commander comes home?
Over.

H

I returned the XBox to Best Buy the same day I mailed Beki her rice crackers. I tell you what, though, if you can pick up a shotgun from one of the flood (that you just killed, of course), then you've got it made. It takes a long time to reload an empty shotgun, but the flood usually fall after only one shot.

Those hunters aren't so bad now either. I learned from you to engage them face-to-face, and they fall pretty quickly (especially when they try to jump on you and you flank them and you get to shoot them in their unprotected back a few times).

I completed a whole game of Halo before I returned the XBox, and the ending, the last level, was amazing. We must team up again when you visit here again or when we go up to Vermont (um, when it's Summer).

More snow!

2008-08-28T11:20:00.001-05:00

Originally posted circa March 26, 2003

It's still snowing ("1-3 inches", but it looks like there's more than that on the ground), and tomorrow has a prediction of 10". WOW! What a wintery, uhm, winter!

I received a nice phone call from Mom, saying she'd like to visit March 8th through 11th. Cool! I received a nice phone call from Diane, where both she and her mother spend most of the time coaching Elena Marie to say "Papa". Nothing came of it, 'cause she was fascinated by the telephone.

The XML class I'm supposed to teach tonight is cancelled, YEAH! which means I must teach a make-up class March 19th, BOO! Good thing I have all the course notes completed and photocopies ready for the students.

I had a ham and cheese omelette (with rye toast) and carrot-apple juice for breakfast this morning, and I haven't been hungry since then. So, what should I have for supper?

's funny: I drove the buick to the repair shop (7/10ths of a mile from my house) to replace the brake pads and wheel cylinders. Then I ran home -- what an experience! The sidewalks are not plowed, and it's much too dangerous to walk on Braddock road. So, here I was, Aranthajut, running on/in the snowbanks along the side of the road. Thankfully, I was wearing a nice, warm scarf to keep me toasty.

I hope your day is going well. My days are getting better and better, as I'll be picking up my Swee-theart and bunsoh (ELENAMARIEEEE! Do-di-do-di-doot!) at the airport Friday afternoon.

Isabel Marie

2008-08-28T11:13:00.001-05:00

Originally posed circa the Ides of March, 2003:

With joy I announce that my wife (Diane) and I are expecting our second child. We went to the Doctor's today and a tiny wiggling baby with a good heartbeat was what Gina, our midwife, saw in the sonogram.

Diane and Elena Marie have just returned from the Philippines after a five week stay with family -- Diane, in her condition, needs much more rest, and Elena Marie, being a one year old, needs much more play -- that's where I come in. I'm doing my best to overcome my shy, retiring nature to provide adequate entertainment.

Mahal Tata Omar at Tata Dennis: sinabi ni bunsoh, "Tata! Tata!" at tinuroturo kung sa pinto. Siyempre, balikbayan kami! Kaylan?

No, you didn't!

2008-08-27T01:43:00.003-05:00

geophf, you really didn't take three Java books on your honeymoon? you ask, gasping, as your face blanches at the thought.
Me: Yes, I did; I also read all three on the honeymoon, too.
Me: Yes, we are still happily married; thank you very much.
Me: I count this as one of the two necessary miracles in order to petition Rome for my cara spoza's election to sainthood.
you: ...

P.S. *sigh* I also found out from the several comments on that entry that I'm an arrogant punk. Ah, well, at least I can take comfort in the fact that I'm a happy arrogant punk...