BPAs, PFOAs, and PVCs

Florida!

Vacation means daytime TV and daytime TV means seeing some of the worst.  Today I saw some “doctor” scaring his audience into believing that what’s making them fat are the chemicals which are leeching into their foods and bodies from things like Tupperware, shower curtains, and frying pans (he called them “obesogens'” a wonderful made-up word).

Yes, this is what’s making you fat, America!  Not your diet, not your inactivity; it’s the unseeable, unavoidable chemicals you’re taking in every day!  It’s not your fault; when you tip the scale after breakfasts of  fried eggs and hollandaise sauce it’s your frying pan that’s to blame.

People – you are grasping at straws.  Even if these things do somehow alter fat absorption, the levels in which you’re ingesting them are negligible at worst.  Stop blaming demons and spirits and phantoms.  You have much to much time to worry about things that ultimately don’t matter.  Go to the gym and eat less.  Advice I could stand to re-take myself…

I can’t wait to start vacation.  Yeehaw!

Until later.

no soap, radio

Tonight was fun.

OK so I guess it’s still early.  But my evening thus far has been quite nice.  Work this week is at a new level, but I feel my execution has risen accordingly.  The amount of things I’m able to get done in each day is a source of pride.  Because of that busyness I’ve not been home until after six or so (I know, not late hours at all by most standards), and tonight was no different.  Sharaun has a “girls night out” party where here and a gaggle of females put on pajamas eat sweets and dance with that new Xbox Kinect thing.   This means it was Keaton and Cohen and I around the homestead.

Since it was already past seven by the time I’d steamed my tamale dinner (Keaton had eaten at a friend’s house), and I’d gotten Cohen down early, she and I decided to spend the next hour or so before her bedtime watching some cartoons.  In this case, I let her handpick from a bunch of classic Looney Tunes episodes.  She’s familiarizing herself with Bugs, Daffy, Porky, and the others (can you believe her least favorite is the Roadrunner and Coyote?).  She sat on my lap and asked me if I’d seen the episodes as she paged through their thumbnails on the screen.  Have I seen them… man, I’ve seen every single one.

Sidenote: Ever since I was a kid I’ve found it strange that some cartoon characters used the seemingly well-known phrase, “Don’t you believe it!”  Bugs Bunny said it tonight.  Tom the cat says it in at least a couple Tom & Jerry shorts (more mysteriously, when he does, it’s said in a heavily-echoed voice like he’s at the bottom of a big tin can).  Apparently I’m not the only one who’s ever wondered about this phrase.  Most folks think it’s from an old radio show, but so far no one has been able to come up with an actual reference.  I have no idea why things like this interest me so much.

Tomorrow is my last day at work before vacation.  I am planning on sitting down at my desk before 6am to try and get more hours of the day.  I will work hard on a variety of things, although there’s no way I’ll get everything done that needs doing.  This means that, on at least one or two days during our holiday in Florida I’ll have to drive myself to bust out the computer and actually do stuff.  That makes me sad, but it may have to happen.

Rambling.  Goodnight.

endearing rituals

One of my favorite things in the world is the extreme “genuineness” of my son’s smile in the early morning when I respond to his, “Hey everyone! I’m awaaaake!” cries.

The moment he see me looming above his crib, his face absolutely lights up. He grins so big his eyes close a little bit and his little toothless gums are visible on top and bottom. He sometimes even goes a bit rigid, his arms flailing in unbending lines and slapping the mattress, his back arching up putting his weight on his shoulders and little heels. I take it as the best he can come to jumping up to greet me with a hug – as much upward momentum as he’s yet been able to master. I often get a guttural screech, which I interpret as his attempt to vocalize something like, “Hi dad! I missed you! I was wondering who would come get me out of this bed; I’m extra-glad it turned out to be you.”

This “Hey it’s one of my parents!” type excitement can be extremely fulfilling.  Cohen’s seems especially so when held in contrast to Keaton’s almost-teenager aloofness. About 50% of the time she’s grumpy in the morning, or shrugs off my queries on how her sleep was or that it’s good to see her or that I’m glad she’s awake.  Gone are the days of her pudgy little legs helping her toddle over to me for a beaming after-work reception… these days she usually hides from me instead (to be fair, it’s also an endearing ritual).

I guess you can sit around missing the stuff they used to do, or enjoy the new stuff they’re doing every day.  An easy choice.  I’m still gonna remember fondly those things of the past though… you can’t take that from me.

Goodnight.

super whitebread appeal

So what if I’m a year older?  I’m still the youngest dude I know.  Get off my back.

This Sunday we joined some friends at a church which, I think, fits the definition of a “mega-church.”  I’ve never really been to a church like that before, where the service is more of a production and the attendance is simply massive.  It wasn’t bad, but it was different.  I don’t know if the musical experience we had is typical of mega-churches, but it was certainly a spectacle.  A proper concert, with fantastic acoustics and a full band who rendered every contemporary song of praise in some affected Coldplay style: drums and keyboards and lead-guitar arpeggio descants over alt-rock 90s vocals.  Musically, it was quite enjoyable.  I love to watch people play instruments, especially fingers on fretboards; bonus for me there.

It occurred to me, though, that this kind of big-sound “alternative” church music might have an unintended consequence: a super whitebread appeal.  Looking around the auditorium as the lead singer with the choppy hair sang about salvation, my theory was at least anecdotally confirmed: the stadium seating looked like drifts of new-fallen snow, white upon white upon white.  I mentioned my thought to Sharaun after we’d left and she poo-poo’d me, saying that the congregation’s Aryan makeup was likely owed more to the local demographics than the style of music.  (Somehow, over the ten years we’ve been married, she’s gotten a lot better at making solid logical arguments like this; I blame myself.)  But still, I don’t exactly see the universal appeal in the styling…  Much like I might choose a different church if ours started doing all its hymns in the female-lead country ilk – imagine an all Dolly Sunday service; maybe perfect for some but certainly a turnoff for me.

Anyway, I don’t think my idea about the musical ties to congregational diversity are too far off base (I checked around on the Google first, to see if I was trippin’ – not so).  While the linked article doesn’t focus specifically on music as a divisor, I still hold that it could be one, or at least a contributor.  Maybe it’s not an easy thing to address… a “unified” rotation of musical themes seems to obvious and pandering: the alt-rock pierced-heart lung-fillers, some hip-hop hymns, then some Latino-infused cowbell-flared praisers.  I don’t envy you, mega-church “worship teams.”

Anyway, didn’t mean to write the whole thing about church but it just kinda happened.  Had a good time though; got some serious praise on with a gaggle of white folk.

Goodnight.

nothing else for miles

Flew today.

Short flight but early in the morning the fog sticks low in the hollows, looks like bowls of clouds from above.  It looked so amazing from above I wanted to turn on my phone and tag the location with my GPS so I could come back one day.  I imagine camping right in the dead middle of it.  Trekking across the furrowed earth until I hunker down right on those coordinates so I can wake up in the morning amidst the thick of it.

It really was in the middle of nowhere; I could see some meandering fire roads and foot trails but there was nothing else for miles.  I so wanted to be down inside those puddles of cloud, waking up dead-alone, all sound muffled and muted and the air thick with moisture.  I thought about cooking myself some breakfast while the sun tried to reach me, about maybe hiking to the rim of the surrounding hills before the fog lifted so I could look down and not see my own campsite.  Maybe eat lunch up there, look for planes flying over.

Then I got to work.  No clouds at work.  Just work at work.  Goodnight.

without these anchors buoying

I guess things are OK down here.

I have food (these mushrooms are edible and I get a fish or two a week); I have water (I didn’t think freshwaters had tides but the stream in the crevasse comes and goes).  I’ve always fancied a firm place to sleep, and so far it’s stayed warm.  I wish I had a better solution for my waste, but I’m too scared to venture far from this spot so I keep all things close (I’m going to have to do something about it soon).  I pass the time singing old Dylan songs and reciting the snatches of Psalms I committed to memory and things really aren’t that bad at all.  You probably don’t envy me, in your LeBaron with your wingtips, but it’s not so bad a life to live.

Once, when I thought I knew the way out, I tried to leave.  It was a mistake, obviously; it’s not hard now to see that.  Maybe this is why I was digging the hole to begin with, some subconscious knowledge that I’d one day be sustained by this darkness.  The thing that worries me most is my sanity.  I fear losing it because of the isolation, CO2 saturation, and low-contrast environs.  I guess even if it was brighter it’d only be all grays and browns and maybe some stray flecking of white; stone is low-contrast by definition down here.  But it’s a worry, that’s for certain.  The fear is ever-present, but always around some corner so for the most part abstracted.

To keep sharp, I try and test myself often.  Challenge my own logic and mental faculties.  I prove I’m sane by acknowledging the manna I’m granted daily (you can hear it form!), by realizing that having extra fingers would actually be a curse, and in my confidence that there’s no way I’m really losing my bones.  I can hold to these things, like the rocks around me, to prove that I’m still here and I’m still me and no one is watching me or judging me or hearing me cry.  Without these anchors buoying (the phase works, despite it’s oxymoronic nature) my reality I’d be lost.  But I’m not lost, I’m right here in the cleft of this rock at the bottom of this hole I dug.

I think it’s time to sleep (hard to tell these days).  Goodnight.

both glee and stress

10pm at night and I just finished my last meeting.  Hey, it’s better than before daylight savings time ended and the same meeting was from 10pm-11pm.

Sharaun is out shopping.  Some last-minute preparation for her mom’s group tomorrow morning.  This means that once again it’s up to the music to keep me company.  Presently I’m listening to a 1967 record by the Incredible String Band.  Like I said yesterday, I’ve been on a somewhat erratic, dusty corners of the collection, thing this week.  Cohen is, blessedly, asleep – as is Keaton but that’s not what I want to write about.

He had a rough night tonight; his sleeping pattern seems to be shifting to later and he’s developed a strong sense of object permanence lately which sees him arch his back and screech when Sharaun’s not around.  I can manage him through the trauma, soothing him and letting him focus on my face instead (I’m being serious, get that kid in a staring contest and he’ll pass out while seemingly boring holes into your soul through your eyes).  Sharaun did me a favor and hung out long enough to settle him so he wouldn’t be hollering during my phone call (thus the late-night shopping).

Today at work I was reviewing my staff’s “vacation calendar,” a thing where we visually map out who’ll be gone when so we can easily see where we might need some extra coverage or have a problem with thin staffing.  Looking at it, I realized how very few working days I have between now and when we leave for Florida.  This realization came with both glee and stress, as I’m really ready to be there and hang out with family but I also have a load of things to get done before I can do so with a clear conscience.  I just looked at those blocked out days and marveled at where the year went.

Just a few more weeks and it’ll be over.  All of 2010.  The year of our second kid; of making right with God; of loss and stability and comfort; of too many blessings.

Goodnight.