Tuesday, January 29, 2008
First Pizza
The Kid got in touch with her Sicilian heritage on Saturday, by gumming her first little bit of pizza crust. My parents came up to see us this weekend, and a good time was had by all. Having lived in Naples for a bit as a kid, I can still remember the taste of the pizza there. This stuff was pretty close.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
CSI: Annapolis
So, It's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry 'bout that. Work has been as more hectic than ever, so between that, the kid, and all of the things that are required to make it through life, something had to give. 
Anyway, on Thursday last, I was minding my own business when my cell phone rang during my afternoon commute. I was getting to a really good part in the book I am reading, so I let it go to voicemail.
I listened to the message as soon as I got off the train, and it went something like this:
"Hi sweetie, it's me. We're in the emergency room..."
Did your heart skip a beat there? Mine did.
"... everything's OK. Mrs. Adeodatus cut her hand pretty good on a champagne bottle, so we're getting it stitched." Apparently, the Wife had a rough day, and Mrs. Adeodatus thought a glass of sparkling wine would make things a bit better. Opening the bottle proved a bit more troublesome than they'd hoped, and the resulting attempt to open it by tapping it lightly on the concrete patio resulted in a rather explosive release of the potable from its container. Since Adeodatus hisself was in class that evening, it was up to the Wife to get her to the ER. Certainly made the day more memorable...
I called her back and confirmed the logistics of picking up the Kid from daycare (the carseat doesn't exactly fit in the MINI), and returned home to the crime scene.
Blood spatter analysis confirmed the story. No foul play. Evidence follows:
After the stitches and a tetanus shot (ow!), all was back where it should be, and the three of us finally got to the drinks we'd been waiting for. Some pasta for dinner accompanied by a gin & tonic was just the thing we needed.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Taking the Waters
That’s what they used to call it back in the day. Urban socialites would pack up and head for the wilderness to soak in the healative mineral waters to be found there.
The Wife and I (along with another couple) packed up and went to the Greenbrier Resort for the weekend. It was a welcome get-away, if even for such a short time.
Where was the Kid, you ask? Need you be concerned? Decidedly not, for my Mother-in-law arrived on Thursday last in order to prepare for a whole weekend of nothing but granddaughter, 24x7. Rarely have I seen either of them quite as happy as they were when we left on Saturday morning.
The drive to West Virginia was a trip back in time for me, as our route there took us past the ivied walls of my alma mater, which I have not visited in nigh-on 15 years. In fact, it was 20 years ago this coming August when I was let loose onto the unsuspecting campus. Hazy memories, those. Befogged by the mists of time along with the effects of the social lubricants that were free-flowing at most of our collegiate events. We were a merry band of fools. So young and so unafraid.
Anywhoo, I quite enjoyed the resort. It is not exactly the “high season”, so it was not particularly crowded. The resort itself was part Dirty Dancing, part Great Gatsby, and part The Shining. With a dash of Titanic. The food was impeccable, and apparently lacking anything else to do, the staff was more attentive than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Dinner was preceded by cocktails at the bar. It being winter, I opted for a drink on the darker side of my usual gin and tonic. A Mint Julep did quite nicely. Dinner was accompanied by a delightfully dry champagne (it being one of our companions’ birthday) as well as a playful red from Australia’s Barossa Valley. Dinner was followed by yet more time at the bar. This time, 12 year old single malt was what the doctor ordered. At least that’s what they would have ordered, had there been one with us. A few frames at the in-house bowling alley followed, along with yet more cocktails. It was a late night, and I am no longer so young a man as to do this sort of thing with any great frequency without physiological penalty.
Day 2 was spa day.
***WARNING – For those of you who prefer to think of military members as Ramboesque types who prefer to cauterize their wounds with gunpowder, stop reading now. It may shatter your illusions.***
An 18 minute soak in the 103 degree sulfur waters followed by another 5 in the steam room was needed in order to sweat out the toxins from the night before. A Scotch Shower was next, along with a strange sort of fire-hose spray-down that I’m sure the Geneva Conventions specifically prohibit. The massage made up for that. Lastly, I treated my near-perfect feet to a pedicure in order to bring them even closer (if that was possible) to a state of flawlessness rarely achieved by those who walk among mere mortals.
The last item on our itinerary was a tour of the famed “Bunker”, secretly built under the resort during the Cold War in order to house Congress in the event the Soviets dropping the “Big One”. Fascinating stuff, but I felt my age when the guide felt the need to explain to us what the “Cold War” was.
We then loaded up the car and pointed northeast, headed for home. The Kid was happy to see us when we arrived. That made me glad beyond words.
The Wife and I (along with another couple) packed up and went to the Greenbrier Resort for the weekend. It was a welcome get-away, if even for such a short time.
Where was the Kid, you ask? Need you be concerned? Decidedly not, for my Mother-in-law arrived on Thursday last in order to prepare for a whole weekend of nothing but granddaughter, 24x7. Rarely have I seen either of them quite as happy as they were when we left on Saturday morning.
The drive to West Virginia was a trip back in time for me, as our route there took us past the ivied walls of my alma mater, which I have not visited in nigh-on 15 years. In fact, it was 20 years ago this coming August when I was let loose onto the unsuspecting campus. Hazy memories, those. Befogged by the mists of time along with the effects of the social lubricants that were free-flowing at most of our collegiate events. We were a merry band of fools. So young and so unafraid.
Anywhoo, I quite enjoyed the resort. It is not exactly the “high season”, so it was not particularly crowded. The resort itself was part Dirty Dancing, part Great Gatsby, and part The Shining. With a dash of Titanic. The food was impeccable, and apparently lacking anything else to do, the staff was more attentive than anywhere I’ve ever been.
Dinner was preceded by cocktails at the bar. It being winter, I opted for a drink on the darker side of my usual gin and tonic. A Mint Julep did quite nicely. Dinner was accompanied by a delightfully dry champagne (it being one of our companions’ birthday) as well as a playful red from Australia’s Barossa Valley. Dinner was followed by yet more time at the bar. This time, 12 year old single malt was what the doctor ordered. At least that’s what they would have ordered, had there been one with us. A few frames at the in-house bowling alley followed, along with yet more cocktails. It was a late night, and I am no longer so young a man as to do this sort of thing with any great frequency without physiological penalty.
Day 2 was spa day.
***WARNING – For those of you who prefer to think of military members as Ramboesque types who prefer to cauterize their wounds with gunpowder, stop reading now. It may shatter your illusions.***
An 18 minute soak in the 103 degree sulfur waters followed by another 5 in the steam room was needed in order to sweat out the toxins from the night before. A Scotch Shower was next, along with a strange sort of fire-hose spray-down that I’m sure the Geneva Conventions specifically prohibit. The massage made up for that. Lastly, I treated my near-perfect feet to a pedicure in order to bring them even closer (if that was possible) to a state of flawlessness rarely achieved by those who walk among mere mortals.
The last item on our itinerary was a tour of the famed “Bunker”, secretly built under the resort during the Cold War in order to house Congress in the event the Soviets dropping the “Big One”. Fascinating stuff, but I felt my age when the guide felt the need to explain to us what the “Cold War” was.
We then loaded up the car and pointed northeast, headed for home. The Kid was happy to see us when we arrived. That made me glad beyond words.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Seeing the Small Picture
Not very long ago, I was a new Ensign in a new command. I learned quickly that my vaunted rank entitled me to the much-coveted position of “Doer-Of-Anything-The-Admin-Department-Needs”. It beats out urinalysis officer on the crappy job scale, but just barely. Taskers were frequent, fast, and furious. Depending on who they came from, they also overlapped, and had conflicting priorities. When an Army Major and a Navy Lieutenant Commander both need something done as an “A-1 Top Priority”, the value of being in two places at the same time becomes readily apparent. Did I mention that it was just me, and did not have anyone to which to delegate any task?
Didn’t think so.
Those of you who have read my bio over at the Flight Deck know that I work in the Pentagon on Reserve weekends. You are also likely aware that the building is undergoing a massive reconstruction. A manager of the project once described it as converting a black and white TV to color without ever turning it off or missing a show. Needless to say, there are construction workers there 24x7x365. Aside from those workers, a few guards, and us reservists, the place is pretty much a ghost town on weekends.
One fine Saturday morning, I was on my fifth trip up to the third floor of the Pentagon for some such thing, and I came across one of the construction workers. Part of the renovation involved building a temporary wall running down the middle of a rather long passageway (hallway). I’d guess it was about 30 yards long or so. Apparently, this wall had just been removed, leaving a rather unsightly line of adhesive all the way down deck (floor).
This particular worker’s task apparently was to remove said adhesive using a hand-held razor scraper. He had evidently just begun, because he still had about 29 of the 30 yards to go. As I passed him, I couldn’t help but be just a little jealous. His task was clearly defined, had no conflicting agendas, and had a definite end, even if it was 30 long yards away. When he finished, he would stand up, and look back down that shiny clean deck in that long passageway. He knew what he had done, and could clearly see what he had accomplished. I’d like to think that when he did walk back down that p-way, he’d stop every so often to get that last little bit of adhesive he may have missed.
When he was finally finished, he would grab his hardhat and lunch pail, go home to his family, and sleep a well-deserved sleep.
Me? I have no recollection of what I actually accomplished that day. I’m sure it was important and all, but I couldn’t see it.
Didn’t think so.
Those of you who have read my bio over at the Flight Deck know that I work in the Pentagon on Reserve weekends. You are also likely aware that the building is undergoing a massive reconstruction. A manager of the project once described it as converting a black and white TV to color without ever turning it off or missing a show. Needless to say, there are construction workers there 24x7x365. Aside from those workers, a few guards, and us reservists, the place is pretty much a ghost town on weekends.
One fine Saturday morning, I was on my fifth trip up to the third floor of the Pentagon for some such thing, and I came across one of the construction workers. Part of the renovation involved building a temporary wall running down the middle of a rather long passageway (hallway). I’d guess it was about 30 yards long or so. Apparently, this wall had just been removed, leaving a rather unsightly line of adhesive all the way down deck (floor).
This particular worker’s task apparently was to remove said adhesive using a hand-held razor scraper. He had evidently just begun, because he still had about 29 of the 30 yards to go. As I passed him, I couldn’t help but be just a little jealous. His task was clearly defined, had no conflicting agendas, and had a definite end, even if it was 30 long yards away. When he finished, he would stand up, and look back down that shiny clean deck in that long passageway. He knew what he had done, and could clearly see what he had accomplished. I’d like to think that when he did walk back down that p-way, he’d stop every so often to get that last little bit of adhesive he may have missed.
When he was finally finished, he would grab his hardhat and lunch pail, go home to his family, and sleep a well-deserved sleep.
Me? I have no recollection of what I actually accomplished that day. I’m sure it was important and all, but I couldn’t see it.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wishing David Well
A few years ago, my wife and I attended a Nickel Creek show at the 9:30 Club in DC. Before the show, we managed to get a seat at a table in the tiny basement bar prior to the show. We shared the table with 2 gentlemen that arrived about the same time we did. My wife, ever the gregarious type, almost immediately struck up a conversation. Introductions were made, and the usual pleasantries were exchanged. At one point, my wife asked why one of the 2 men (named David) why he was not drinking (anything with alcohol). He removed his hat to reveal a rather large surgical scar across his head. "Brain surgery" he replied.
At this point, you never know where the conversation will go. Do we ask what kind of surgery? Do we move on to lighter topics? Do we stammer and stutter? We asked about the surgery.
Turns out David was more than willing to talk about it. He seemed to enjoy it, really. He explained that a few years previously, at the age of 38, he had a seizure that prompted a brain scan. The doctors found a lemon-sized tumor in an "inoperable" area of his brain. At that point, he made it his sole priority in life to take care of the tumor. He finally found a surgeon to operate, and that operation was in May of 2005.
Over the course of the evening and concert, we had a terrific time. I doubt that there were any political issues that we saw eye-to-eye on, but that didn't matter to him (or us). We had some things in common (we're both marching band geeks), and a good time was had by all.
David also told us that he maintained a blog of sorts where he detailed his treatments and info about the tumor.
We looked it up when we got home. It's detailed. I mean really detailed.
I check back in every so often, following his treatment progress. On December 18th, David found out that there has been some new tumor growth.
His surgery is scheduled to begin at 2:00 this afternoon.
I suppose I'm posting this in the ether in the hopes that every little bit helps. Call it what you want; prayers, goodwill, vibes, whatever.
If you're so inclined, follow his progress on his site, www.38lemon.com. It's worth it.
At this point, you never know where the conversation will go. Do we ask what kind of surgery? Do we move on to lighter topics? Do we stammer and stutter? We asked about the surgery.
Turns out David was more than willing to talk about it. He seemed to enjoy it, really. He explained that a few years previously, at the age of 38, he had a seizure that prompted a brain scan. The doctors found a lemon-sized tumor in an "inoperable" area of his brain. At that point, he made it his sole priority in life to take care of the tumor. He finally found a surgeon to operate, and that operation was in May of 2005.
Over the course of the evening and concert, we had a terrific time. I doubt that there were any political issues that we saw eye-to-eye on, but that didn't matter to him (or us). We had some things in common (we're both marching band geeks), and a good time was had by all.
David also told us that he maintained a blog of sorts where he detailed his treatments and info about the tumor.
We looked it up when we got home. It's detailed. I mean really detailed.
I check back in every so often, following his treatment progress. On December 18th, David found out that there has been some new tumor growth.
His surgery is scheduled to begin at 2:00 this afternoon.
I suppose I'm posting this in the ether in the hopes that every little bit helps. Call it what you want; prayers, goodwill, vibes, whatever.
If you're so inclined, follow his progress on his site, www.38lemon.com. It's worth it.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas Eve
The Wife, kid and I went to Richmond to spend Christmas with my wife's family. We probably broke a land speed record or two on the way down, but were mercifally un-acosted by the state troopers of either Maryland or Virginia. Good thing, too. Fines in the commonwealth of VA are pretty steep these days.
The Kid slept in a room connected the master bedroom. My wife's parents told us that this is because it's the best place in the house for the crib. By "best place" I think her parents mean "room closest to her grandparents". In any case, the only way to get to the crib is by going through the master bedroom. A fine arrangement, if you ask me.
Ordinarily, this arrangement works swimmingly. Ordinarily.
The Kid woke up at about 5:00 am on the 24th (0500 for those of you in uniform). Not only was she awake, she was crying. A lot. With Big. Scary. Tears. Her grandparents struggled mightily (but in the end in vain) to calm the Kid for the better part of half an hour. At 5:35, we awoke to the sound of a crying child just outside our bedroom door. Dashing out of bed, we threw open the door to see the Kid in the arms of her grandmother, who was standing in the hallway. We apologized profusely, took the still-screaming child, and wend back into our room. 30 minutes (I think) of calming tones, soothing gestures, and relaxing rocking back and forth, the Kid was not crying as much.
Since we weren't going to get back to sleep, we three shuffled downstairs to the living room. I made a bottle for the Kid, and the wife fed it to her while sitting in a comfy chair near the fireplace.
Within 10 minutes, the Kid was asleep again, with her head resting on my wife's shoulder. My wife was asleep not long after that. There were my daughter and my wife, both sleeping under a blanket that I placed over them. I hadn't seen that since the Kid was 2 months old.
I toyed with the idea of grabbing the camera, but knew that no picture could capture the essence of what I saw. There were the two girls I love the most, asleep in the midst of all the Christmas finery, and the morning sun just beginning to peek through the trees. It was a moment that no words, or image could ever do justice. I'm not ashamed to admit that my eyesight was beginning to blur just a tad. Had I tried to speak, the words would have stuck in my throat.
I wanted that to last for a lifetime. It can't though, and that's what makes it special. This memory is mine. It belongs to me, I can have it whenever I want, and no one can take it away. If you ever see me and I'm obviously not paying attention, you can bet that I'm back in that living room, on December 24th 2007.
The Kid slept in a room connected the master bedroom. My wife's parents told us that this is because it's the best place in the house for the crib. By "best place" I think her parents mean "room closest to her grandparents". In any case, the only way to get to the crib is by going through the master bedroom. A fine arrangement, if you ask me.
Ordinarily, this arrangement works swimmingly. Ordinarily.
The Kid woke up at about 5:00 am on the 24th (0500 for those of you in uniform). Not only was she awake, she was crying. A lot. With Big. Scary. Tears. Her grandparents struggled mightily (but in the end in vain) to calm the Kid for the better part of half an hour. At 5:35, we awoke to the sound of a crying child just outside our bedroom door. Dashing out of bed, we threw open the door to see the Kid in the arms of her grandmother, who was standing in the hallway. We apologized profusely, took the still-screaming child, and wend back into our room. 30 minutes (I think) of calming tones, soothing gestures, and relaxing rocking back and forth, the Kid was not crying as much.
Since we weren't going to get back to sleep, we three shuffled downstairs to the living room. I made a bottle for the Kid, and the wife fed it to her while sitting in a comfy chair near the fireplace.
Within 10 minutes, the Kid was asleep again, with her head resting on my wife's shoulder. My wife was asleep not long after that. There were my daughter and my wife, both sleeping under a blanket that I placed over them. I hadn't seen that since the Kid was 2 months old.
I toyed with the idea of grabbing the camera, but knew that no picture could capture the essence of what I saw. There were the two girls I love the most, asleep in the midst of all the Christmas finery, and the morning sun just beginning to peek through the trees. It was a moment that no words, or image could ever do justice. I'm not ashamed to admit that my eyesight was beginning to blur just a tad. Had I tried to speak, the words would have stuck in my throat.
I wanted that to last for a lifetime. It can't though, and that's what makes it special. This memory is mine. It belongs to me, I can have it whenever I want, and no one can take it away. If you ever see me and I'm obviously not paying attention, you can bet that I'm back in that living room, on December 24th 2007.
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