This post may be considered by some as contraversial, or a sell-out, given my previous pronouncements, but no matter how much Pirates rock, it cannot be contraverted that Ninjas rule.
"How can this be?" you demand.
Well, I'll tell you. ("That is phat!" "Duh! That's like some fameous quote!" "From where?" "Mønti Pythøn ik den Høli Gräilen.")
See, I was at work, and I finally got a test on a piece of (software) code to run (no small feat: I was using the eclipse integrated development environment, the Java programming language, the Ant build system, the Spring application development framework, and the junit test suite -- each piece a בהמות and each "supposed" to work together "seemlessly" ...)
So, anyway, after two weeks of me struggling with the system, the test finally did run, and my battle cry of victory was heard around the building. My coworkers turned as one (I sit in the back, don't you know; our workspace is not the usual cubicle hell of most computer companies, imagine, instead, your old elementary school, complete, and replete, with the obligatory giant blackboard in the front of the room), so I had some explaining to do:
"I am a Ninja Coding Assassin! I have slain this test with my vorpal sword!"
... as they have become used to my antics, that was explanation enough. The boss said, "Well, since you are a 'ninja coding assassin', you ought to be able to cut down on the hours for this task on the project plan, right?"
Quick as a, well, ninja, I responded: "Yes, I should make a sharp slash into that time ... geddit?", and then chuckled at my own joke.*
I wish I had a videocam to capture the collective groan; it was classic!
* Dad recently told me a story about his experiences at work. He once told a joke and found his own joke so funny that he burst out laughing. Unfortunately, nobody else saw the humor. A kindly worker pulled him aside and lectured, as if to a child:
"Rod, this is how this works: you tell the joke and if we find it funny, then we'll laugh ... the rule here is you don't laugh at your own joke."
Ah, good times; good times.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Monday, May 7, 2007
Wisa and Wisa
Elena Marie is a little explorer ... perhaps she's a pirate! And one day, she came across my shoe-shining kit, which includes cotton rounds, not synthetic ones (as they will scratch the leather -- this is a very important point for archival shoe-shining purposes). The cotton rounds immediately reminded her of her "friend" "Wisa" (but perhaps not Thea or Thetha or Mea or Meesa). So she demanded, and received, a cotton round which she christened "Wisa", post haste.
Of course, whatever ate does, Isabel follows suite immediately, so she demanded, and received, a cotton round, which she also named "Wisa".
Hmmm.
Elena Marie saw a problem here: "I will name mine 'Meetha'."
... with Isabel chiming right after: "I will name mine 'Meetha'."
"NoooOOO! Isabel, we both can't have friends with the same name!" Elena Marie declared, losing her temper.
Well, Isabel may be the perfect follower, but do not rock her boat. After some wailing, tears, and did I see some gnashing of teeth?, I explained that is was, indeed, possible for two people to have two different friends, both with the same name.
The happy conclusion was that their friends (the cotton rounds) reverted (or, to please my father no end: "reverted back") to their original names.
Saturday night, at the request of Elena Marie, we polished our shoes. This is a great way to have "quantity" time together as a family, which she enjoys very much, but her request also came from another need: since she lost Wisa some time ago, getting to the shoe-polishing activities also means getting to the Wisa-source: the bag of cotton rounds.
So, aside from a minor mishap (Isabel stepping into the edge dressing -- the pouted lip after my scolding ("Now, Isabel, I told not to step there: lookit, you foot is all dirty") quickly averted by a distraction ("Lookovader! Is that a hedgehog?")), the day ended in classic Greek comedy style: the Wisa's had been returned to their doting owners.
Of course, whatever ate does, Isabel follows suite immediately, so she demanded, and received, a cotton round, which she also named "Wisa".
Hmmm.
Elena Marie saw a problem here: "I will name mine 'Meetha'."
... with Isabel chiming right after: "I will name mine 'Meetha'."
"NoooOOO! Isabel, we both can't have friends with the same name!" Elena Marie declared, losing her temper.
Well, Isabel may be the perfect follower, but do not rock her boat. After some wailing, tears, and did I see some gnashing of teeth?, I explained that is was, indeed, possible for two people to have two different friends, both with the same name.
The happy conclusion was that their friends (the cotton rounds) reverted (or, to please my father no end: "reverted back") to their original names.
Saturday night, at the request of Elena Marie, we polished our shoes. This is a great way to have "quantity" time together as a family, which she enjoys very much, but her request also came from another need: since she lost Wisa some time ago, getting to the shoe-polishing activities also means getting to the Wisa-source: the bag of cotton rounds.
So, aside from a minor mishap (Isabel stepping into the edge dressing -- the pouted lip after my scolding ("Now, Isabel, I told not to step there: lookit, you foot is all dirty") quickly averted by a distraction ("Lookovader! Is that a hedgehog?")), the day ended in classic Greek comedy style: the Wisa's had been returned to their doting owners.
Courage and Joy
I'm getting quanta with the family: short, concentrated, bursts of time that heighten the experience to an entirely different plane -- the emotion slams into me like an 18-wheeler. Fortunately, since I'm a man of steel, I'm still standing after each burst ... like the following:
I was working away in the office, perhaps on taxes (as after the 1040 forms were due, the Commonwealth forms took their toll), listening to some trance music in the background. The children, always wishing to be near me when I am present, were playing in the adjacent playroom.
After some time, Elena knocked discreetly on the office door and requested: "Papa, would you not play that music any more?"
"Oh, okay," I responded, switching off the music.
... now, I don't know about your father, but my father was an imposing figure, and, I think that somehow, fathers are imposing ... I know I'm frightening to my children at times (Elena Marie hid herself in her mother's lap after she stressed a creaky door, where upon I demanded: "What are you doing to that door, Elena? You are going to make it sira [broken]"). So, I couldn't image myself, at any age in childhood, asking my father to do something differently. For a little 5-year-old girl to make this essay, and do so with, not ease, but with a sense of calmness -- this is an impressive display of courage in my book.
After playtime downstairs, it was time to trot back up for lunch. Elena Marie dismissed herself and off she trotted. But for Isabel, it was different: she paused at the stairs and looked at askance at them and me. It isn't as if she was not able to ascend the stairs, but, for her, sometimes things are better faced with a companion than by oneself. So, taking her hand in mine, we ascended the stairs together, and I could feel the warmth of her satisfied glow almost as a physical presence. For Isabel, joy doesn't necessarily come in the great things, like learning how to skip, but in the everyday things: like holding Papa's hand going up the stairs.
Courage
I was working away in the office, perhaps on taxes (as after the 1040 forms were due, the Commonwealth forms took their toll), listening to some trance music in the background. The children, always wishing to be near me when I am present, were playing in the adjacent playroom.
After some time, Elena knocked discreetly on the office door and requested: "Papa, would you not play that music any more?"
"Oh, okay," I responded, switching off the music.
... now, I don't know about your father, but my father was an imposing figure, and, I think that somehow, fathers are imposing ... I know I'm frightening to my children at times (Elena Marie hid herself in her mother's lap after she stressed a creaky door, where upon I demanded: "What are you doing to that door, Elena? You are going to make it sira [broken]"). So, I couldn't image myself, at any age in childhood, asking my father to do something differently. For a little 5-year-old girl to make this essay, and do so with, not ease, but with a sense of calmness -- this is an impressive display of courage in my book.
... and Joy
After playtime downstairs, it was time to trot back up for lunch. Elena Marie dismissed herself and off she trotted. But for Isabel, it was different: she paused at the stairs and looked at askance at them and me. It isn't as if she was not able to ascend the stairs, but, for her, sometimes things are better faced with a companion than by oneself. So, taking her hand in mine, we ascended the stairs together, and I could feel the warmth of her satisfied glow almost as a physical presence. For Isabel, joy doesn't necessarily come in the great things, like learning how to skip, but in the everyday things: like holding Papa's hand going up the stairs.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
The Azalea Girls Talk About Their Day
Elena: We went to the azaleas. We saw a raccoon. And then, Isabel needed to go potty. And then she tripped and fell. Then, she got up and we head for the potty.
We saw the azaleas. Pink, red, orange, white.
We climbed a tree. Then we went to the gardens and saw flowers ...
Isabel: And bees! We take the pictures. We walked in the gardens and then we saw flowers. And then we walked up the stairs and we walked across the street. We looked at frogs ... three frogs and we walked on the bridge.
Elena: We touched and smelled leaves in the garden. We ran and went to the towers ... columns. And then we saw real fish. Koi. They were trying to get food from us but there was no food.
We went to the parking lot and we saw a man and he had in his car, little trees. Bonsai! He was too late to bring the bonsai into the garden for the show. Bonsai is a little tree that you trim.
The end.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
It's the Pirate's Birthday!
Ahoy, me hearties! Welcome to our Cyber Party for the Doug-meister! He's turning 40 tomorrow, April 26, and will be partying solo, unless we get this one rolling. So grab a mug and pull up a chair. The kettle's on and we have Earl Grey tea, Doug's all-time favorite. Or a bottle of rum for the pirates in our midst. Either one should go well with the yummy chocolate chocolate chip cookies that the girls baked for y'all!
As his previous post indicated, he is somewhere in PA/NJ, fulfilling his obligation to God and his family. We're happy that he does have that contract but terribly miss having him within a 5-mile radius, and available for lunch dates.
Doug, the Coastie. He's mighty proud of his country, his alma mater, and that big ol' Coast Guard ring his little girls love to borrow. Because he's not a coastie anymore, his inner genius was allowed to blossom. Or as he described himself in his Amazon wishlist: Mensan, algorist, gamester (go, chess, bridge).
Doug, the married guy. He's George and I'm Gracie. He's the funny guy and I indulge him. Just look at that picture! And at our wedding too! But at least he didn't do this at our reception ...
This one's at Beki's and we were 9 months married. That's when he decided to show his true dancing feet. White man can reggae, mon!
Doug, the Papa. Ahhh, he's the softie. The one with the pusong mamon (heart made of sponge cake). The one who refused to put down his sleeping baby because she might wake up. His baby is now 5 going on 15 years old.
Then another baby was born, and Doug is now the Papa of two princesses! How could his heart bear this? But he has managed, or should I say that they've managed him? If the older one can make pronouncements and give instructions like a true-blue Princess Number 1, the younger one can quiver her lips and toss her curls like a true-blue Princess "Me-Too"!
Doug, the honorary Pinoy, can look resplendent in any-color Barong Tagalog, and out-brag any expat with his Doug-style Tagalog. And be understood! His favorite phrase: hindi mabebenta! (literally, "can't be sold" referring to his fluency in the language and how the natives cannot run rings around him.) Happily, the girls seem to have his genes and are adding words to his repertoire.
Doug, the experienced traveler, emphasis on experienced, with carrying baby bags, pushing strollers, entertaining antsy kids on a 24-hour flight. All for a dip in the pool, a massage and hot-oil treatment with his haircut, an unparalleled view ....
That's our Doug. We love you!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Homecoming
Little girls dream of big parties to welcome their Papa, even if it's not yet his big 4-0 birthday. Any homecoming is reason enough to bake a cake, right? It had to be chocolate, because that's Papa's favorite. That merited the extra sprinkling of oh-so-yummy sugar!
Four days of waiting, errr... planning a welcome home party meant many days of doing party hats (a special pirate hat for Papa), threading beads for necklaces and bracelets to fill the "treasure chest" (with appropriate scribblings to identify it as such), scouting for seashells (Thanks, Anda!) to bring some realism to the display, and printing out a Treasure Map for Papa to peruse.
The result? Happy girls.
It's great to have you home, Papa!
Four days of waiting, errr... planning a welcome home party meant many days of doing party hats (a special pirate hat for Papa), threading beads for necklaces and bracelets to fill the "treasure chest" (with appropriate scribblings to identify it as such), scouting for seashells (Thanks, Anda!) to bring some realism to the display, and printing out a Treasure Map for Papa to peruse.
The result? Happy girls.
It's great to have you home, Papa!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Slaying Dragons
Well, here I am in Philly New Jersey, slaying dragons; or, depending on your view, tilting at windmills. This being the second contract with my current client, TUSC, they feel happy enough to throw me into the fire, again.
This involves me becoming a geographical bachelor, again. As my dear family escorted me to the airport, Elena Marie asked "Papa, why do you have so many contracts [implied: 'away from home'] this year? Why?"
Oof! Of course, it's in my job description: provide and protect; and part of that providing can be fufilled by getting contracts, but not necessarily. So, in a way, it's good that I have a new contract, so, ya know, we can eat and have a roof over our heads. Idleness is a curse, and a man must work "by the sweat of his brow". But is it the highest good to be away from my family all week, every week? If I were to die tonight, would I regret my decision?
No, but no. Or, put another way, the current temporal good (me having a contract to support the family, albeit far from home), currently carries more immediacy than the eternal good: Diane and the girls in heaven. It doesn't necessarily mean that the temporal good cannot assist in the eternal, but it surely hurts like a hammer to the thumb for us all to live through this temporal good.
Elena Marie, having her 5 years of experience to benefit her, was able to handle the parting at the airport well enough, even laughing at my silliness. But poor Isabel, the separation for 5 days was too much to bear, and she couldn't think to acknowledge our parting, but she mended a bit when she saw her ate hold her hand to the van's glass, and I "joined" my hand to hers through the glass. Isabel smiled and did the same with me before I schlumphed off to the gate, which warmed my forlorn heart quite a bit.
So, here it is, Wednesday night of week one away from home, again. And here I am packing, bemusedly, because I can't wait to get home to my ladies, but already this visit home is broken up by an Amway conference, immediately followed by me turning around, again, to leave for work in distant lands.
Lord God, have mercy on us. You all, pray for us; we pray for you.
This involves me becoming a geographical bachelor, again. As my dear family escorted me to the airport, Elena Marie asked "Papa, why do you have so many contracts [implied: 'away from home'] this year? Why?"
Oof! Of course, it's in my job description: provide and protect; and part of that providing can be fufilled by getting contracts, but not necessarily. So, in a way, it's good that I have a new contract, so, ya know, we can eat and have a roof over our heads. Idleness is a curse, and a man must work "by the sweat of his brow". But is it the highest good to be away from my family all week, every week? If I were to die tonight, would I regret my decision?
No, but no. Or, put another way, the current temporal good (me having a contract to support the family, albeit far from home), currently carries more immediacy than the eternal good: Diane and the girls in heaven. It doesn't necessarily mean that the temporal good cannot assist in the eternal, but it surely hurts like a hammer to the thumb for us all to live through this temporal good.
Elena Marie, having her 5 years of experience to benefit her, was able to handle the parting at the airport well enough, even laughing at my silliness. But poor Isabel, the separation for 5 days was too much to bear, and she couldn't think to acknowledge our parting, but she mended a bit when she saw her ate hold her hand to the van's glass, and I "joined" my hand to hers through the glass. Isabel smiled and did the same with me before I schlumphed off to the gate, which warmed my forlorn heart quite a bit.
So, here it is, Wednesday night of week one away from home, again. And here I am packing, bemusedly, because I can't wait to get home to my ladies, but already this visit home is broken up by an Amway conference, immediately followed by me turning around, again, to leave for work in distant lands.
Lord God, have mercy on us. You all, pray for us; we pray for you.
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