Storytime!

At the library, I mean, because we were there today. The theme of the day was bears, and we sang some bear songs and heard bear stories, but the Widge was a bit unsure about the whole thing. We'll go again next week and see if he feels and more comfortable.

Meanwhile the Discovery Channel is searching for sea serpents, which prompts an interesting question. So, please navigate your way to the poll on the sidebar, and we'll see what my loyal readers have to say about unexplained phenomena.

Sleepless in the Skiphaus

Well, actually one of us is sleeping, finally. But he doesn't do it very often, which is part of why the blogging has been so thin lately. Also the Venerable Fork returned for a bit, and there was also a very large feast, with special guest star: the future Mrs. Lt. But now we've reached the time of year when other Christmas trees are up, and ours isn't. Mostly because we don't have one. For stationary objects, they are surprisingly difficult to hunt down. There are, of course, trees everywhere, but we need the right tree, and we need to find it with a minimum of searching. Husband has an extremely low tolerance for the hunt, which is yet another example of his poor Native Americanness. I can just imagine his distant ancestor, fifteen minutes into the buffalo hunt: "Look, its cold out here, and if we found a buffalo we'd just have to drag it all the way back to the camp anyway. Lets just grab a few squirrels and call it a day." If his ancient Native forefathers were anything like him, marrying up with the new colonists was a very wise decision. I, on the other hand, make up for it by over-analyzing everything. For example, I know that hard-core environmentalists prefer us all to decorate existing outdoor trees, preferably with home-made, organic ornaments that the local wildlife can enjoy. If we must obtain indoor foliage, we should do so from small, local farms and then compost the tree carcass after the holidays. Artificial trees are out because they'll eventually land in a landfill, with all their evil synthetic materials, mocking natural wildlife for all eternity.

I personally subscribe to the diet coke theory of environmentalism, just like those women that order double bacon cheeseburgers, with a diet coke. I recycle, compost, and use cloth diapers and wipes on my child, which erases the bad karma of things like artificial trees and the fact that I wear lots of cotton (the most pesticide-laden crop in the world) and drink lots of coffee (#2. Or vice versa, but you get the idea.) Besides, vacuuming all the fallen needles from y local, organic tree, plus the fuel I use driving to and from the farm and the community tree-recycle-locale every single year will eventually offset the one artificial tree. Just like the amount of energy I spend washing cloth diapers and wipes takes something away from the hyper-greenness of the diapers and wipes themselves. Besides, according to that commercial, landfills become the basis for wetlands and baseball fields, so really, future generations of crane should thank today's artificial tree discarders. The green movement hasn't convinced me yet: for every green action there seem to be a pile of non-green activities that occur. But I like the way things are going: I can now carry re-useable bags without looking like a refugee from a commune, and even Walmart sells organic stuff. So right on, green people.

See, this is the answer. If you yell at me for eating meat, and preach the benefits of organics, I'm heading out for a Twinkie. If you calmly give e a few options, I'll get a bit greener. But I'm never voting Gore.

Turkey Time!

Well this year the old gobbler crept up and smacked me when I was busy folding diapers. See, apparently tomorrow is Thanksgiving. It came without long drives! It came without hand-turkeys, without cards and without that Charlie Brown show! Maybe Thanksgiving isn't something that comes free after you spend $200 on regular groceries during a two-week period. Maybe, just maybe, Thanksgiving is just a date on the calendar.

Nothing against the old anti-Catholic Puritans, and their festive little interlude before they resumed the Indian-killing and wilderness-destroying. Turkey day just isn't a big holiday for me. I'm totally in favor of the turkey-eating, and I think we should pause and think thankful thoughts from time to time, but the official, government-sanctioned holiday doesn't always fit my busy lifestyle. And the whole Black Friday shopping rush really messes with my shopping in general.

I think its because we celebrate St. Nicholas Day, on the 6th. You can only cram so much festivity into a one-month period before the cynicism starts to leak out, or maybe it's just too early in the season and I haven't fully ,marinaded myself in cheer. I do tend to get all sentimental and actually listen to holiday music while sipping hot chocolate in front of my glittering tree, but that usually happens between the 3rd and the 22nd of December. Then my tolerance for all the music wears off and I get cranky, which makes everyone else seem more festive in comparison. Its a valuable service, because every really good holiday story features someone cranky. But in the spirit of holiday cheer, lets not focus on the shortcomings. Lets focus on the fact that a few of you blog-readers will gleefully gobble down mountains of pierogi that I helped make while you were off basking in the desert sun, or rebuilding artificial hearts so that they pick up HBO, or whatever it is you college kids do. Plus, I never, ever, shake the garbanzo beans.

All My Reindeer

So I watched that heartwarming holiday classic about Rudolph the other day. I'm struck by how darned judgmental everyone at the North Pole is. I guess living there, isolated from the world, and only allowing Santa and eight carefully chosen reindeer leave, and only for one night a year, you have to find something to do with your time. Creating elaborate social structures and minute rules of appearance and behavior is certainly a time-filler. But I think they were all fairly harsh on poor Rudy. Even the adults, even Comet and Santa himself, the so-called Jolly Old Elf, made it pretty clear that Rudolph's best option was probably some form of poison, or at least a lifetime of exile from the "normal" deer. They're all lucky the Rudolph didn't snap and go down a dark path. That certainly would have made for a vastly different Christmas show:

A dark room, in which an aging reindeer is seen, tied and struggling to escape. Suddenly a match is lit, it illuminates a red nose.

Rudolph: So, Comet, ten years ago you wouldn't let me join in any reindeer games. Well, I've learned a few games of my own [evil grin]...would you like to play?

Anyway, Rudolph was far more well-adjusted than that, nut still, he meets up with some random elf, and within three minutes they've planned to run off together. Pay attention, kids: running away with strangers is just plain a bad idea, even if they have spiffy heavily-gelled hair. Or maybe especially if they have spiffy, heavily-gelled hair. Anyway these two apparently walk to Canada, or at least close enough to run into a crazed Yukon prospector, who proceeds to kidnap them. This about the point where I stop paying attention, because I cannot understand how the name on the Jack-in-the-box's birth certificate prevents him from being enjoyed as a toy. Why not just let kids think your name is actually Jack? And the cowboy on an ostrich: just get a horse. Anyway, the end result, after a bit of monster torture that certainly doesn't inspire joy at the thought of dental visits, is that Rudolph saves the day. But can we really believe that he was beloved, his nose overlooked, forever after? That seems contrary to human nature, and certainly contrary to what we know about the twisted social behavior at the North Pole. I'm thinking after a few weeks the taunting returned, Rudy and his sweetheart Clarice are forced to live in the remote cave with the leaks, and younger reindeer throw eggs at their cave while shouting: "shine-snout!"

I haven't seen Frosty yet this year, but I certainly hope it has fewer undercurrents of emotional cruelty. Also, I'm starting to wonder if Santa may be running a cult up there. If so, he certainly manages to cover it with some great P.R. I'm hoping he has a good enough sense of humor to keep me on the "nice" list.

unravel update!

Just this evening I watched a Disney cartoon, I think it was called "On Ice," it starred Mickey, Donald, Goofy, etc. Anyway, Donald begins to blow away, which is apparently a major hazard if you're animated, and Mickey grabs the edge of his sweater. It unravels, but only the body: the sleeves and neckline remain in tact. Okay, this could happen. It might not be as easy as it looks on T.V, but I think if the sweater were knitted in the round, it could work. I've never tried to unravel a sweater, though. Anyone with actual sweater unraveling experience, please feel free to comment.

If you want to destroy my sweater...

That Weezer song has been playing alot, and while its a good song, it bothers me. Every time I hear that song, I mentally search through all the sweater constructions I know of, as I'm pretty sure that there is no way to unravel a finished sweater by simply holding a piece of the yarn as the wearer walks away. You could certainly destroy it, or at least render it challenging to repair, but as far as I can tell, the former sweater wearer will never be entirely sweater-less, contrary to what cartoons would have us believe. I wonder if all those cartoons have somehow led us to value knitting less. As if somewhere in the back of everyone's mind, we worry that someday we'll be swept up in a strong breeze, or floating toward a waterfall, and when our friends try to pull us to safety by grabbing a sleeve, they'll end up unraveling our sweaters, so that we'll be doomed and underdressed. Blazers are much safer, they can't be reduced to a heap of yarn with a little tug. Well folks, trust your knits, they can't be undone nearly as easily as Weezer would have us believe.

Forgot to mention

Even Sesame Street was in a Skippy mood for my birthday: the number of the day was 13, which was celebrated by having "thirteen dancing wegetables" show up at the Count's place. Widge was so delighted he began to dance as well, so we danced around the living room along with the happy wegetables.

A Very Merry Unbirthday!

So many thanks to all of you who wished me a happy birthday. It was really nice, mostly because the Widge was a sweetie, and gave nice cuddles, and was just plain fun to hang out with.

So people kept asking if I feel older, and I do, but that's since the Widge was born. I think its not so much that I feel old, but rather that I accept my oldness. See, I now have a bathrobe, a full-on sign of age (unless you're a newlywed or Hollywood Golden Age starlet with one of those silky robes, that's different.). It could be worse: its not a Babci-style housecoat, the short-sleeve, knee-length cotton thing with the tacky flower print, the sort of housecoat that can only be correctly accessorized with curlers, men's athletic socks, scuffy slippers and a cigarette. But on the other hand it isn't the men's Woolrich work shirt I used to wear over my itty bitty tank top jammies way back when I was young. All the same I like my robe, and it does, in fact keep me warm, unlike the tacky housecoat, whose main function seems to be announcing the fact that the wearer is , in fact, a Babci (or possibly a Babushka: but they tend to wear actual babushkas in clashing tacky floral prints over their curlers).

Anyway, we found a new toy store that we like, and the Widge liked it too, although he never made it more than ten feet in, where the little Schleich animals were. He proceeded to line them up in complex arrangements, and identify each one, more than likely as a "moo". He got a cool Playmobil train, but those little engineers need a better union, because ours spent most of the day locked in solitary in a clear rubbermaid for some reason.

Anyway, Widge is crabbing, and for some reason I've got this underline thing now, so enough post for the moment!

So unlike the Lt. and the Venerable Fork-Boy, I have not seen Across the Universe, and to be honest, I've been avoiding it a bit, because I'm a big Beatles fan, and I worry about what happens when other people fool around with the Beatles work. That Aerosmith version of "Come Together" is, for example, terrible in comparison with the original. I cannot understand why anyone would ever try to cover what is, in its original form, basically perfect.

However the Lt. was here this weekend and we had a real cultural exchange: I introduced him to the Wonder Pets, and he let me listen to the Across the Universe soundtrack. I must admit, I'm actually pleasantly surprised. The Beatles are really a genre unto themselves, but this album actually highlights the vast array of musical styles they mastered. There's some interesting punk sounds, a bit of soul, and you can even hear a little country is you listen closely. Or maybe that's me. The point is: go buy the album, because Eddie Izzard's version of Mr. Kite is totally worth whatever they're charging. My other favorite: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." This version is so good, I think the Beatles would have recorded it this way, if they could have. Of course there are a lot of love songs because nobody wrote better romantic music than the Beatles. Seriously. I think that aspect gets lost in amongst their trippy rock and that Indian vibe, but they had some really lovely melodies, and very sweet lyrics. Sing "I Will" to your sweetheart some time.

Another plus: for those of you who can't deal with the extreme end of the Beatles sound, the Across the Universe album makes "Happiness is a Warm Gun," (one of my faves) and "I am the Walrus," more warm and fuzzy. No help for "Helter Skelter," but lets face it, Charles Manson pretty much destroyed any decent person's ability to really like that song anyway.

Of course my real recommendation: go buy every single Beatles album you can, and listen to them all. For about three weeks. Drink lots of coffee and think deep thoughts about the poetry of the lyrics. Make sure you get "Old Brown Shoe," "You Know my Name, Look up My Number," "I, Me, Mine," and "Don't Let Me Down." Listen closely to the fabulous and sadly under-noticed "Long, long, long," which is my very favorite Beatles song ever, better even than the medley on Abbey Road, which you should always listen to in order, and preferably loudly. And after you've marinated in the real thing for a while, then go listen to the Across the Universe soundtrack, and then write lengthy, authoritative reviews on your own blogs.

Since you're dying to know

The Wonder Pets were great. They sang in the style of Gilbert and Sullivan, Frank Sinatra, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, with some Dixieland thrown in. The Widge loved it, he loved the coloring page afterward and all in all, it was a huge success. In fact I'm planning to add a Wonder Pets DVD to the Christmas list, because there's a certain monkey who is starting to get on my nerves. The show is still good, but I've seen all 24 of our DVD episodes over and over and over. To make matters worse, husband still thinks they're hilarious, and keeps quoting them at random moments, usually when I finally have three minutes in a row to try and read my book club book. What is it about reading that inspires the urge to involve you in conversation? It's just like the dentist thing, where they have to talk to you when those pointy things are in your mouth. I can't believe we actually pay people to poke us in the gums with mini-spears. But back to the books: seriously, people who ignore me when I'm wandering around at social events go out of their way to talk to me when I try to read. The worst is that perfectly spaced random comment thing, where after making one dumb remark, they wait just long enough for you to go back to concentrating before making the next remark. It bothers me more now because I have less time to read.

Anyway, the point is that you should all watch an episode of WonderPets, they're only half an hour long, but the songs do get stuck in my mind, but that could be because my defenses are already worn down after months of George, Mickey, and those annoying Higgly-types. I' thinking once we shove these sniffles out, there will be less time spent slugging in front of the T.V, and it will matter less. That's the plan, anyway.

In knitting news, there isn't any, sorry. No new completions, no interesting ideas, although the knitting group was fun, and we hope to have a few more members next month, and we'd like to do some type of charity knitting to benefit someone in the county (and I think I've been unofficially elected to head that project). See, there is actual knitting content, so I don't have to change the blog name to Skippy-searches-desperately-for-something-other-than-George-to-watch.

Perhaps I spoke too soon...

because the knitting that was going well is now mostly a tangled heap of yarn. It's okay, I've started to re-knit, and my brand new knitting group meets tomorrow, so I may actually make progress. But in case anyone was considering giving up the crush of humanity that is holiday shopping in favor of the tranquil bliss of making your gifts, tucked in your favorite chair, tea by your side, as the magazines promise, let me correct your imagery. Making gifts isn't any less stressful, and often it isn't any cheaper either. Although at the mall you don't get to see a toddler cheerfully stringing yarn tangles through your kitchen and down the hall.

The Widge still has his sniffle, and I now have a sniffle, and husband was sniffling a bit earlier, so really the Skip House is hosting Snifflepalooza! I'm pretty sure that this is husband's fault: these seem like movie-theater germs to me. Speaking of movie theaters, I'll be headed to one on Thursday, and not for baby pictures as usual. (you all know about baby pics, right? Where the moms get to watch a real movie in a theater full of other moms with babies? okay, just so we're all on the same page). Yes, we've graduated from baby pics, and will be attending Nick Toons, where the moms are subjected to the same cartoons we could watch at home, except on a big screen, in stereo, with a theater full of toddlers and other pre-school-types. We'll be seeing the Wonder Pets, notable as one of the few Nick Jr. programs whose name I can pronounce without feeling silly. (Yo Gabba Gabba?! Sounds like a conspiracy, as if all American children are learning to say self-depricating things in Japanese, for the amusement of some international syndicate.) So the Nick Jr. website isn't as fabulous as Playhouse Disney (seriously, go listen to the Happy Monster Band. Husband loves them. If I'm lucky, they'll start to edge out Journey in his affections.), but there are no Higglytown Heros on Nick Jr. Actually Wonder Pets is the only show we watch on Nick Jr. and only rarely, but they're kind of cute, and they have a Gilbert and Sullivan vibe. Besides, in about 40 years, when Widge's generation is in control of our government, and the Senators begin the day by singing "Whats gonna work? TEEEEEEAMWORK!" I'll at least know where they heard that. Or maybe hours of children's programming will have melted my brain.

Maybe I should change the title to: Skippy-comments-on-the-vast-array-of-children's-programming. Which reminds me: whats the deal with Canada? About a hundred years ago when I was young, there was that Canadian show called "You Can't do That on Television." Remember? The one with the firing squad, and all the slime? (some of you are just too young). Anyway, it sort of seemed like it would be funny, if we could really get what was going on. I thought it was a fluke. But then came Kids in the Hall, and now the Doodlebops, and that Emily Yeung show, and what I've learned is that I just don't understand Canadians, or at least the things they choose to watch. Nothing personal: all the Canadians I've met are very nice, I just don't understand the television.

Also, for the concerned commentors: I'm not neglecting my child. I only blog when he's sleeping, or hanging out with husband, yet another reason why my posting is sporadic. That plus, there are a lot of reruns on the kid's channels. Today we had an old episode of George, an old Clifford, and even an old Super Why, and that show is in its first season. It seems to me they could have written at least a full season's worth of shows, right? Especially since in most of these shows, the plot is pretty much always the same. Apparently repitition is good for the kids: it helps them learn, plus they find it really funny when their parents crack up.

Where's the better living?

The Widge has a sniffle, hence the thin posting lately. I've also reached a point in my Christmas knitting where I'm no longer ripping it out twice a day (for non-knitters, this behavior is called "frogging." Yes, knitting has its on lingo, not unlike LARPing, although I'd like to think the similarities end there.) So, seeing progress, I can almost believe that gifts will be finished in time, that I won't be up late on Christmas Eve weaving in ends, so I've been cheerfully knitting. But since nobody else is updating blogs either, I feel like I should get things rolling. (the Lt. is excused because of visit from Sweetheart.)

So here's the thing: I can't give the Widge anything. There aren't any children's cold meds, not until he's 6 or something like that. Of course, cutting edge medical technology, as history proves, isn't always good for us. Who can forget bleeding, after all? So we're probably better off not taking any medications at all, ever. But that's no good for the small boy who isn't sleeping well because he can't breathe through his nose, nor the parents who have to listen to his snoring all night. Poor Widge. It really doesn't slow him down much, though. He just snorts more as he dashes around getting into things.

So here's my problem: some pizzas were recalled lately, because of E.Coli. In fact there have been a number of recalls lately, for foods as well as the much-hyped toy recalls. Where's that better living through chemistry we were promised? At the rate things are going, it won't be long before we're all living on subsistence farms, whittling toys out of natural wood, knitting sweaters from the wool of our organically-raised sheep, eating only what we produce, so we know that science hasn't had a finger in our consumption.

The thing is, if we eliminate all lead, any bacterial hazard, any threat of side effects, and immunize ourselves as much as possible, what are we achieving? If we all live 'til well over 100, will it be worth all the tampering with our food and clothes and lives? I'm all for some well-placed science, but the fact that we can shoot up cows with antibiotics doesn't mean we should. I'm not saying we should ignore lead and just give our kids the drugs. I'm saying we can't protect ourselves from every hazard, and in our efforts to do so, I'll think we're getting increasingly paranoid. After all, mothers at the turn of the last century handled teething and childhood sickness by cheerfully administering the latest wonder-drug: the opium derivative laudanum, or the cutting-edge cough medicine, heroin. (thank you, History Channel, for that). This sort of thing isn't a new problem, and so far modern science hasn't been 100 percent right yet. I'm thinking we shouldn't try to rely on medicine to cure everything, we should expect that the FDA can't possibly catch all the potential hazards, and we should take a deep breath and remember that even with the appalling lack of laboratory tests, scientific studies, and knowledge of anatomy, people throughout history have managed to survive long enough to reproduce, compose music, churn out some very nice paintings, and brew the occasional pint.

This still isn't helping the sweet sound of a chorus of bears in the bedroom. The little Widge still needs his nose wipes roughly 10, 000 times a day. But the big picture is: this kid has a sniffle. A few days of runny nose, and he'll be fine. Technology is pretty good: if he catches pneumonia, I feel safe with the medical profession. And until then, we're probably better off leaving it alone. Because medicine, chemistry, the FDA, (and the fine people from the DEA who are now reading this because I mentioned laudanum, opium, and heroin in the same sentence) or any other technology aren't saviors, they aren't infallible, and at the end of the day, none of them can or should be held responsible for our day-to-day wellbeing. Even if you have a personal physician who's whole job is to advise you on the potential medical consequences of every action, he'd still be wrong sometimes. My message, then, to technological and regulatory agencies is: hey, everybody makes mistakes, but we're still cool.

And that was this month's serious post.