Two completely unrelated events hurtling through space and time recently collided. When the dust settled, we found ourselves as proud owners of a robotic cleaning staff. The two events were: Marta going off to work for UT, and Jo getting the family way.
We decided to try and clean up our mess ourselves (note to Dubya - it isn't as hard as it sounds). That mostly meant sweeping and mopping. Our hardwood floors are of a very light color. Our cats are not. Neither is the stuff that I leave behind when I take off my soccer shoes. Nor is my hair - and judging by how much ends up on the floor, there shouldn't be any on my head (the judge is getting uncomfortably close to the truth).
The first week was tough. Jo decided that the floors required frequent sweeping and mopping, and the cats and I were locked out of rooms and hallways so that we wouldn't leave paw prints on the floor before the wet stuff dried.
Then Rich told me he loved his Roomba. The next day, Jo drove to the nearest Sears and bought home a beautiful little Roomba that we could call our very own. We tried her out in the living room. The cats bolted. Jo soon went about her normal business. I couldn't. I just sat there, riveted, staring at this whirring little beaut as she twisted and turned and bumped her way across the floor, leaving behind a trail of clean. And when she was done, she went back to her charging bay and hooked back up, chirping cheerfully. By the next day, even the cats were cool. But I continued to spend an unhealthy amount of time just watching her work, imagining the algorithms that computed her new direction as often as 26 times each second. Jo tried telling me that this was a waste of time.
Flashback: a couple of years ago, we went out and got one of those high end bagless vacuum jobies. Jo and I did a bit of research on the Internet, and then went down to the local vacuum cleaner store (yes, we have one: ABC Vacuum on Burnet) and test-drove the one we wanted. They were out of stock except for the floor model. We actually plonked down our money and they called us when they had one. In other words, this wasn't a half-assed impulse buy. We wanted this hoover.
Back to the current time: last night Raje and Heidi were over for dinner. Today, I wanted to clean up some crumbs. Rather than disturb the Roomba, I decided to drag out the good old hoover and give it a push or two. It didn't take Jo long to notice that I was flailing. I couldn't find the darn power switch. I even tried to poke the lighted hoover logo. No good. I could see a clearly marked "off" switch, but no "on". Apparently, I have to hit the "suction power" switch a certain number of times to turn this thing on. I bet the joker who designed this went on to work for Microsoft.
I have never used a vacuum that is so complex. The part that you push around on the floor is almost as big as a Yugo and comes with its own propulsion system. There is a button to make the power cord retract. Was I supposed to know all this?
I am finally done. As I cart the ungainly beast away, Jo dryly mentions that I may want to blog the fact that I don't know how to use the vacuum and we have had it for a couple of years. I come back snappily with "And you have never used any of the Linux servers upstairs, have you?", but even as I say it, it feels hollow.
And that's why I love my Roomba - I will never have to feel guilty about not vacuuming.
p.s. we are expecting our Scooba in the mail tomorrow - she is Roomba's floor-washing friend. Marvin Minsky, god bless your atheist soul.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
A Quick Update
OB/GYN is going skiing.
No sign of the doors for the baby room.
No names yet.
Car seat installed.
Jo asked me to teach the Universal Remote in her car to open the garage doors. This took some doing, but after a break for soccer and a few insecure moments, I had it done. For a while, a single button in the car opened both garage doors, but soon all was good. Turns out that our garage doors are equipped with a secret button that needs to be pressed to facilitate the transfer of secret codes between remotes. This is meant to thwart the Jiffy Lube guy from learning everyone's garage door codes and then later having one big garage sale.
Jo tells me that I am slacking off. She is stuck doing everything for the baby - reading breastfeeding and birthing books, assembling furniture, buying onesies by the caseload - all by herself (btw, "onesies" ain't in m-w.com). I thought she was doing all that stuff because she liked to. I tried to counter with the Universal Remote Project - a complex task that I had completed all on my own. She didn't buy that.
I feel like I am already being a bad parent. Time to shape up.
No sign of the doors for the baby room.
No names yet.
Car seat installed.
Jo asked me to teach the Universal Remote in her car to open the garage doors. This took some doing, but after a break for soccer and a few insecure moments, I had it done. For a while, a single button in the car opened both garage doors, but soon all was good. Turns out that our garage doors are equipped with a secret button that needs to be pressed to facilitate the transfer of secret codes between remotes. This is meant to thwart the Jiffy Lube guy from learning everyone's garage door codes and then later having one big garage sale.
Jo tells me that I am slacking off. She is stuck doing everything for the baby - reading breastfeeding and birthing books, assembling furniture, buying onesies by the caseload - all by herself (btw, "onesies" ain't in m-w.com). I thought she was doing all that stuff because she liked to. I tried to counter with the Universal Remote Project - a complex task that I had completed all on my own. She didn't buy that.
I feel like I am already being a bad parent. Time to shape up.
The Car Seat Episode
Our seating habits seems to have changed a bit when Jo and I are both home (which is almost always). We either sit out of sight of the other, or in a pile (with the baby on top and me at the bottom). While we were practicing pile sitting the other day, Jo expressed her intent to install the car seat. I thought that we would have to disengage from the pile (the car is in the garage, we are on a couch, that sort of thing). But before moving to the garage, Jo had to whirl the car seat around her head several times while reading the booklet that came with the car seat. I was writing some really cool perl code - a program that reads a part of itself from the database and then executes itself (told you it was cool!). We were still in pile formation. It took all my concentration to ignore the mass of cheaply made plastic that periodically missed my prefrontal cortext by inches. The code probably ended up being buggy. I asked Jo if she was pissed off with me because I wasn't helping with the car seat. She sweetly said no - and I believed it (even I can tell when Jo is pissed). It was just a consequence of each of us doing different things while in pile formation.
Anyway, Jo shortly went to the garage and had the car seat installed. I went out to take a look and had to marvel at how we had managed to so easily accessorize a late model series 3 bmw. I mistook it for a Dodge Subarban Town & Country Villager minivan or something.
Anyway, Jo shortly went to the garage and had the car seat installed. I went out to take a look and had to marvel at how we had managed to so easily accessorize a late model series 3 bmw. I mistook it for a Dodge Subarban Town & Country Villager minivan or something.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Feathering the Nest - Part I
About two months ago, Jo's nesting hormones started kicking in. These, as I now know, were the gentle ones. The later ones weren't half as polite.
To appease the hormones, we spent an afternoon at the new Ikea in Round Rock. It was the full deal - including a lunch of Swedish meatballs and Daim pie. And furniture for the nursery. We borrowed Raj's station wagon and loaded a whole room full of furniture into it (amazing, what you can do with shit that packs flat).
When we got it all back home, we first had to get rid of the stuff that was already in the baby room. That meant moving two heavy filing cabinets from Scandinavia (beginning to notice the pattern? Furniture must come from the Arctic end of Europe) to the room above the garage. We dragged them to the bottom of the stairs and hoped that the elves would move them upstairs. But there they lay, day after day. Jo was very understanding for a long time. Then, one Saturday morning, she asked me if I had a plan to move the teak-veneer-covered-lead-weights upstairs.
I told her I did. Coincidentally, I had laid awake the night before hatching the perfect plan. It was time to act.
I first went to Walmart and then to Toys-backwards"R"-Us to find one of those cheap small skateboards. Quinn has one, and if he lived any closer, I would have pinched it. As luck would have it, the stores were out. So I went to the Home Depot and bought the following:
- a furniture dolly
- two 8 foot 2x4's
- three 8 foot sections of 1 inch wide 1/4 inch thick square-edged trim
- three steel brackets
I carefully put all this in Jo's 325 (while people in trucks at the Home Depot loading area snickered) and drove back to my garage. There I took the dolly apart and put it back so that it was much narrower - essentially a stakeboard. It was during this operation that the neighbor accosted me with the breast feeding conversation.
I trimmed the two 2x4's to the right length so that, when butted up lengthwise, they were a tad longer than the stairs up to the room over the garage. I then attached the 2x4s to each other using the steel brackets and screws. Finally, I nailed the trim to either side of the 2x4's to make a ramp with railings. To add an elegant touch, I cut the bottom edge of the whole contraption at a bevel so that it met the floor at a nice miter when the ramp sat on the steps.
I rolled the skinnyfied dolly up to the bottom of my ramp, and dragged the first cabinet onto it. Then I got behind it and slowly pushed it up the ramp and soon it was all the way upstairs. I followed with the second cabinet, but didn't realize that it was a good bit heavier (it had lateral filing drawers which just wouldn't come off - a safety feature so that you don't end up with a filing cabinet drawer induced foot amputation). I got it halfway up the ramp when I realized that I wasn't strong enough to go the whole way. I grunted rather loudly in an effort to summon up hitherto hidden strengths. That didn't help. I slowly started sliding back down. I realized with a growing certainty that my near future held the strong prospect of being run over by a fucking heavy filing cabinet as it tried to beat me to the bottom of the stairs. I felt much regret at not having asked Gunaraj to help me carry the cabinets upstairs. Other random thoughts flashed through several brain cells.
At that moment, the hormones decided they had enough. Jo appeared behind me and shoved the cabinet, myself, and most of my carefully constructed ramp contraption up the steps to the floor above.
I declared victory for myself and mankind. I defended my actions by drawing upon the evolutionary inevitability of tool-building. My peeps didn't drag the mighty mammoth down by sheer strength. They used their little grey cells and tools to get us where we are. Etcetera. Jo wasn't impressed.
But the cabinets are upstairs and we are ready for Feathering the Nest - Part II. And I am damn proud of my opposable thumbs.
To appease the hormones, we spent an afternoon at the new Ikea in Round Rock. It was the full deal - including a lunch of Swedish meatballs and Daim pie. And furniture for the nursery. We borrowed Raj's station wagon and loaded a whole room full of furniture into it (amazing, what you can do with shit that packs flat).
When we got it all back home, we first had to get rid of the stuff that was already in the baby room. That meant moving two heavy filing cabinets from Scandinavia (beginning to notice the pattern? Furniture must come from the Arctic end of Europe) to the room above the garage. We dragged them to the bottom of the stairs and hoped that the elves would move them upstairs. But there they lay, day after day. Jo was very understanding for a long time. Then, one Saturday morning, she asked me if I had a plan to move the teak-veneer-covered-lead-weights upstairs.
I told her I did. Coincidentally, I had laid awake the night before hatching the perfect plan. It was time to act.
I first went to Walmart and then to Toys-backwards"R"-Us to find one of those cheap small skateboards. Quinn has one, and if he lived any closer, I would have pinched it. As luck would have it, the stores were out. So I went to the Home Depot and bought the following:
- a furniture dolly
- two 8 foot 2x4's
- three 8 foot sections of 1 inch wide 1/4 inch thick square-edged trim
- three steel brackets
I carefully put all this in Jo's 325 (while people in trucks at the Home Depot loading area snickered) and drove back to my garage. There I took the dolly apart and put it back so that it was much narrower - essentially a stakeboard. It was during this operation that the neighbor accosted me with the breast feeding conversation.
I trimmed the two 2x4's to the right length so that, when butted up lengthwise, they were a tad longer than the stairs up to the room over the garage. I then attached the 2x4s to each other using the steel brackets and screws. Finally, I nailed the trim to either side of the 2x4's to make a ramp with railings. To add an elegant touch, I cut the bottom edge of the whole contraption at a bevel so that it met the floor at a nice miter when the ramp sat on the steps.
I rolled the skinnyfied dolly up to the bottom of my ramp, and dragged the first cabinet onto it. Then I got behind it and slowly pushed it up the ramp and soon it was all the way upstairs. I followed with the second cabinet, but didn't realize that it was a good bit heavier (it had lateral filing drawers which just wouldn't come off - a safety feature so that you don't end up with a filing cabinet drawer induced foot amputation). I got it halfway up the ramp when I realized that I wasn't strong enough to go the whole way. I grunted rather loudly in an effort to summon up hitherto hidden strengths. That didn't help. I slowly started sliding back down. I realized with a growing certainty that my near future held the strong prospect of being run over by a fucking heavy filing cabinet as it tried to beat me to the bottom of the stairs. I felt much regret at not having asked Gunaraj to help me carry the cabinets upstairs. Other random thoughts flashed through several brain cells.
At that moment, the hormones decided they had enough. Jo appeared behind me and shoved the cabinet, myself, and most of my carefully constructed ramp contraption up the steps to the floor above.
I declared victory for myself and mankind. I defended my actions by drawing upon the evolutionary inevitability of tool-building. My peeps didn't drag the mighty mammoth down by sheer strength. They used their little grey cells and tools to get us where we are. Etcetera. Jo wasn't impressed.
But the cabinets are upstairs and we are ready for Feathering the Nest - Part II. And I am damn proud of my opposable thumbs.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
What does it Feel Like?
It snowed in Austin today. Real honest flakes the size of q-tip heads. The last time this happened in our part of the world, I proposed to Jo.
The ground is still hot from our 70 degree winter. So there was no accumulation. We watched the flakes land - one moment a beautiful snow flake. Next moment a little puddle. Things can change so quickly. We were single before the last snow storm.
It took us about 10 minutes to get cabin-fever. We just had to get out. So we bundled up and decided to walk to EZ's for a bowl of chili. On the way, in Ramsey Park, the frozen grass crunched underfoot (I had to put that in because those exact words went through my head and mouth as I stepped on the grass in the park). EZ's was closed. So was the Taco Shack. We headed for Central Market instead and sucked on hot chololates (highly recommended - made with full milk) and chocolate cheesecake. Mmmm.
On the way back, Jo looked a bit uncomfortable. We were in front of the colon and rectal surgery place on Medical Parkway (got to have one of those in your neighborhood, y'know). I asked her if she was OK. She said it was the baby. I said "What does it feel like ? She replied:
"Like a bowling ball in your pants. Except it's in your organs".
I couldn't empathize with that, but I can sympathize.
The ground is still hot from our 70 degree winter. So there was no accumulation. We watched the flakes land - one moment a beautiful snow flake. Next moment a little puddle. Things can change so quickly. We were single before the last snow storm.
It took us about 10 minutes to get cabin-fever. We just had to get out. So we bundled up and decided to walk to EZ's for a bowl of chili. On the way, in Ramsey Park, the frozen grass crunched underfoot (I had to put that in because those exact words went through my head and mouth as I stepped on the grass in the park). EZ's was closed. So was the Taco Shack. We headed for Central Market instead and sucked on hot chololates (highly recommended - made with full milk) and chocolate cheesecake. Mmmm.
On the way back, Jo looked a bit uncomfortable. We were in front of the colon and rectal surgery place on Medical Parkway (got to have one of those in your neighborhood, y'know). I asked her if she was OK. She said it was the baby. I said "What does it feel like ? She replied:
"Like a bowling ball in your pants. Except it's in your organs".
I couldn't empathize with that, but I can sympathize.
Breast Feeding Frenzy
If you are not a newly minted (or soon to be) parent from a developed portion of the world, you have no idea what I am talking about. The whole breast feeding thing is Huge. It overshadows everything - pregnancy, birthing, even the baby.
You don't believe me. The other day I was working in my garage (that's another story worth telling). The garage door was open. It was a nice day outside. I saw my neighbor starting to wander up the driveway. I don't realy know him. He seems like a nice chap. His wife and he had a baby a couple of months ago. I haven't seen the kid - or know its name or sex or that sort of thing. In other words, we arn't very tight.
So he saunters up and asks me what I am up to. I tell him (you will have to wait till that story is written). Then he asks if we are planning to breastfeed. Just like that. And proceeds to tell me all about their (well- his wife's) breastfeeding experiences. And another neighbor's. Suddenly I know more about these lady's breasts than I need to. I am floored. I thought he was going to say "what do you think about them Cowboys?". Whatever happened to shallow male conversation?
As long as we are here, I have the new "Plastics" for the new graduate. Its "Lactation Consultant". That's where it is. Gone are the days when you need to have an in with a good doctor, plumber, or lawyer. If you don't know a good lactation consultant, you, my dear Sir (or Madame, perhaps), are going to be engorged. Yep.
We took a brestfeeding class. Jo said I didn't have to go. Then she changed her mind. I went along and sat without making any eye contact (mostly because I was scared shitless that I may inadvertently glance at a breast. Imagine getting together with strangers for a penis-cleaning class). The instructor was hilarious. She really was funny. She would grab her own breasts for props in the most un-self-conscious manner. Not that there was a shortage of props. And the videos. Tickle the baby's lips with a nipple so she opens her mouth just right, and then - pow. A good latch is worth it's weight in colostrum. Wish I had access to those videos as a teenager. Now I am thinking of those same organs in terms of mini-grocery-stores for the kiddo.
I remember seeing a whole Bill Cosby show on baby poop. Breastfeeding is the new poop. More expecting and new parents will spend more time and enegry and thoughts on breastfeeding than anything else for the first few weeks of a baby's life. I'll post reports from the front.
You don't believe me. The other day I was working in my garage (that's another story worth telling). The garage door was open. It was a nice day outside. I saw my neighbor starting to wander up the driveway. I don't realy know him. He seems like a nice chap. His wife and he had a baby a couple of months ago. I haven't seen the kid - or know its name or sex or that sort of thing. In other words, we arn't very tight.
So he saunters up and asks me what I am up to. I tell him (you will have to wait till that story is written). Then he asks if we are planning to breastfeed. Just like that. And proceeds to tell me all about their (well- his wife's) breastfeeding experiences. And another neighbor's. Suddenly I know more about these lady's breasts than I need to. I am floored. I thought he was going to say "what do you think about them Cowboys?". Whatever happened to shallow male conversation?
As long as we are here, I have the new "Plastics" for the new graduate. Its "Lactation Consultant". That's where it is. Gone are the days when you need to have an in with a good doctor, plumber, or lawyer. If you don't know a good lactation consultant, you, my dear Sir (or Madame, perhaps), are going to be engorged. Yep.
We took a brestfeeding class. Jo said I didn't have to go. Then she changed her mind. I went along and sat without making any eye contact (mostly because I was scared shitless that I may inadvertently glance at a breast. Imagine getting together with strangers for a penis-cleaning class). The instructor was hilarious. She really was funny. She would grab her own breasts for props in the most un-self-conscious manner. Not that there was a shortage of props. And the videos. Tickle the baby's lips with a nipple so she opens her mouth just right, and then - pow. A good latch is worth it's weight in colostrum. Wish I had access to those videos as a teenager. Now I am thinking of those same organs in terms of mini-grocery-stores for the kiddo.
I remember seeing a whole Bill Cosby show on baby poop. Breastfeeding is the new poop. More expecting and new parents will spend more time and enegry and thoughts on breastfeeding than anything else for the first few weeks of a baby's life. I'll post reports from the front.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
What's in a Name?
That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
--Bill
Bill is credited with penning the above in 1593 - that's about 10-12 years after the birth of his first child. He'd forgotten what's in a name by then.
Jo and I are ready for the kid - about as ready as we have ever been for anything, though everyone tells us you can never be truly ready. Except that we don't have a name. It all started a few months ago when it became apparent that a name would be required. We knew we weren't good at doing this (we named one of our cat's "Crazy" because she was, but mostly because we couldn't come up with a name).
Jo would suggest names that popped into her head as we drove along the scenic road to the Hill Country. Stonny silence. Then we borrowed name books from Laura and tried those. Still nothing. Finally, last Sunday, Jo and I agreed to meet in a week with a list of Top 10 names. I crammed the book of names till the wee hours. A few weak scribbles. I'd see Jo pour over her Mac and I could tell she was working on names. Sunday night came around, and we compared lists after dinner at Satay with the Shah's. Nothing.
Not even on the same planet. I only got to "K", so I have an over-abundance of names starting with that letter (Kane, Kavi, Kabir, Kedar, Kell, etc...), and the name we are looking for may be just aroud the corner in "L". By this point, I expected a certain amount of a feeling of accomplishment - of feeling that we were getting closer - proportional to the amount to alphabet we have covered. But that's simply not the case. Gaah.
If kiddo comes on time, we have room for three more Sunday lists. If he/she is early, we are even further up the creek. And there seem to be no paddles in sight. Keep an eye on this space - something is bound to happen...
The problem appears to be cultural. In a world of cliched cultural problems, I try to keep mine to a minimum. Jo and I come from physical worlds thousands of miles apart. But we don't feel it. We think similar thoughts about a bunch of important things. We don't have a huge cultural divide. We never have arguments that end in cultural punting. But not so with names.
I don't need the kid to have an Indian name. But I do want the kid's name to mean something. In my list, each name is neatly annotated with it's origin and meaning (my favorite is Kane - "beautiful" in Welsh, "golden" in Japanese, and "eastern sky" in Hawaiian - wow!). Jo's names have to sound right. She really doesn't care a hoot what a name means. All we need is a name that sounds right and means something deep.
My first cat was named "Socrates" - after the famed Brazilian midfielder, natrually. I wonder where this quest will end up.
By any other word would smell as sweet.
--Bill
Bill is credited with penning the above in 1593 - that's about 10-12 years after the birth of his first child. He'd forgotten what's in a name by then.
Jo and I are ready for the kid - about as ready as we have ever been for anything, though everyone tells us you can never be truly ready. Except that we don't have a name. It all started a few months ago when it became apparent that a name would be required. We knew we weren't good at doing this (we named one of our cat's "Crazy" because she was, but mostly because we couldn't come up with a name).
Jo would suggest names that popped into her head as we drove along the scenic road to the Hill Country. Stonny silence. Then we borrowed name books from Laura and tried those. Still nothing. Finally, last Sunday, Jo and I agreed to meet in a week with a list of Top 10 names. I crammed the book of names till the wee hours. A few weak scribbles. I'd see Jo pour over her Mac and I could tell she was working on names. Sunday night came around, and we compared lists after dinner at Satay with the Shah's. Nothing.
Not even on the same planet. I only got to "K", so I have an over-abundance of names starting with that letter (Kane, Kavi, Kabir, Kedar, Kell, etc...), and the name we are looking for may be just aroud the corner in "L". By this point, I expected a certain amount of a feeling of accomplishment - of feeling that we were getting closer - proportional to the amount to alphabet we have covered. But that's simply not the case. Gaah.
If kiddo comes on time, we have room for three more Sunday lists. If he/she is early, we are even further up the creek. And there seem to be no paddles in sight. Keep an eye on this space - something is bound to happen...
The problem appears to be cultural. In a world of cliched cultural problems, I try to keep mine to a minimum. Jo and I come from physical worlds thousands of miles apart. But we don't feel it. We think similar thoughts about a bunch of important things. We don't have a huge cultural divide. We never have arguments that end in cultural punting. But not so with names.
I don't need the kid to have an Indian name. But I do want the kid's name to mean something. In my list, each name is neatly annotated with it's origin and meaning (my favorite is Kane - "beautiful" in Welsh, "golden" in Japanese, and "eastern sky" in Hawaiian - wow!). Jo's names have to sound right. She really doesn't care a hoot what a name means. All we need is a name that sounds right and means something deep.
My first cat was named "Socrates" - after the famed Brazilian midfielder, natrually. I wonder where this quest will end up.
The First One
This is it. It's time to quit whinning and start writing. I am almost a dad (T-28 days), and so much is happening so fast and I can't remember shit. If all goes well, kiddo will read this at some point. And maybe some friends and family too.
About the name in the URL of the blog - that's just my gangsta showing. Yo.
About the name in the URL of the blog - that's just my gangsta showing. Yo.
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