X-Festikwanzaaweenikah

I have long maintained that if God had wanted us to celebrate Christmas on December 25, he would not have made Fall Semester grades due in December. Oh, of course that's not my only problem. There's also every level of public education deciding it would be nice to have a holiday-time concert extravaganza, in which my children participate extravagantly. Throw in a few church functions, and you've got an effective barricade to our family having a timely and joyous Christmas.

I will admit that all this seems to affect my family more than others. But the fact remains: here it is, the day after Christmas, and we have about 1/3 of our Christmas lights up, half of our tree decorations up, NO goody plates distributed to neighbors and friends, and an unacceptably small amount of wrapping paper left over from yesterday's festivities, all because we just didn't have time. Or energy. Or perhaps money, but that's beside the point.

So as a family we decided, as we often do with birthdays, to postpone the real party to a later date, in this case, January 24. Our problem has been what to call the celebration. We could just borrow a holiday, of course, but the problem with all the existing holidays is that they occur mostly in December, which doesn't really address our issue at all. Kwanzaa, for example, is held from December 26 through January 1 (although it does have the strong support of the Boy Child mainly because he wants to wear a cool hat).



And of course, we are about as African American as Thor Heyerdahl.

In the tradition of made-up holidays, there is also Festivus. It is more philosophically aligned with what we are tying to accomplish, having been created by a single family for their own purposes (though popularized by one of their sons, who wrote for Seinfeld). It also has the advantage of requiring only a single aluminum pole for decoration:

A commercially available Festivus Pole kit. Really.

But alas, it too is celebrated in December, in fact, usually on December 23, so we've already missed it. Admittedly, the traditional Airing of Grievances may have livened things up a bit.

Hanukkah runs from December 21 - 29 this year. Also I really like bacon. Also the note above about Thor Heyerdahl applies here too.

Which brings us to Decemberween. It does have the right feel to it, what with Brundo the Decemberween Yak and the Sword of St. Olaf. At least St. Olaf sounds Scandinavian. But once again, we are thwarted by the fact that clearly, Decemberween is celebrated 55 days after Halloween, placing it on December 25 (although, apparently, it can be celebrated in July, time permitting ("Decemberween, Decemberween, you're 7 months after you should've been...").

(L to R: Strong Bad as Archibald, Bubs as Dr. Christmas, Marzipan as The Angel, and Homestar Runner as The King of Town)

So that's the problem. Nothing really captures the spirit of our family celebration and occurs naturally in January. And before you leave this blog and run off to Google, let me just say I've tried that already. January 24 is Beer Can Appreciation Day. No good.

So we need some help. I need my faithful readers (both of you) to help us name our holiday. Procrastivus? Winterween? Januarymas? Also, an idea for some official decorations might help, so we can take our Christmas tree down.



The lucky reader whose idea we end up using will be promised a place at our table for the traditional X-Festikwanzaaweenikah dinner of . . . I don't really know. Spaghettios? But don't let that stop you.

I'll Probably Get in Trouble for This, But. . .

Something snapped today. I heard it once too often. You know, the little quote by Karl G. Maeser:

I have been asked what I mean by word of honor. I will tell you. Place me behind prison walls—walls of stone ever so high, ever so thick, reaching ever so far into the ground—there is a possibility that in some way or another I may be able to escape, but stand me on that floor and draw a chalk line around me and have me give my word of honor never to cross it. Can I get out of that circle? No, never! I’d die first!

I'm sorry, but I just have think that if Brother Maeser is stupid enough to make such a promise, he probably deserves what he gets.

*Sigh*

I'll probably burn for that one.

It Is (Was) Thanksgiving, After All

So here's my list of some things I'm really thankful for:

1. The Divine Ms B, who puts up with my failings as a husband and a human, and who really doesn't think jewelry, cruises, trips to Europe, vacation homes, designer -- well, designer anything, or any of the other manias that have seized the upper middle class, are necessary for a full and happy life.

2. Good kids on whom I have spent money for tuition and books and orthodontia and various trips, but never any money for bail, legal council, or rehab.

3. Still having some friends that I've known since as far back as fourth grade, with whom I therefore share experiences that would assure our mutual destruction should they ever become public knowledge. And being able to spend a day with them a few times a year.

4. Having other friends that, despite miles and years, are just as wonderful as they ever were. Just a little balder, maybe.

5. Having a job I enjoy going to most days, and working with people that I really like to be with.

6. Modern medicine. Say what you will, it's much better than the alternative. And it's probably saved my life more than once.

7. Indian food.

The Cat is Out of the (Gucci) Bag!

Well, what must be one of the worst-kept secrets in the history of the world is now floating about in cyberspace, thanks to the Mommy Muse. In a recent post she suggested that my sense of fashion isn't quite what it could be. But before I get to the main subject of this entry, I do have to take exception with one of her points: she offered as conclusive proof of my bad fashion sense the fact that I wore red sweat pants in public. Now I am clearly guilty of that, but as it unequivocally states in Section 7-XXXVII-9.5.3.1 of the International Fashion Code Scoring Book:

Any article of clothing, no matter how egregiously unfashionable or how obviously in bad taste, does not count against the FS [fashion sense] of the wearer if there is a professional or college team logo on it, and said person can reasonably be said to be a fan of or is otherwise affiliated, however loosely, with said team.

As anyone who saw me could attest, those red sweatpants were Wisconsin red sweat pants, and so are really irrelevant to the discussion at hand. Go Badgers!


(By the way, just for the record, the same section quoted above also allows for the following items:






There is also a Cheese bra available for sale , but I'm not out to start World War III here, just make a little point about team apparel.)

Anyway, back to the real issue, which is, basically, "Duh!" Let's look at the pure, unvarnished facts:

1. I was once asked by my date to change my clothes before we went out in public together.
2. During a college practicum experience when I visited and helped teach a high school math class, students made fun of my clothes. They sent me notes about it. I thought those blue and red plaid pants were the snappiest thing I could find at DI.
3. My wife destroyed most of my wardrobe when we got married.
4. My own web page contains the following audio clip which plays when you click on my handsome face: Audio.
5. At a professional meeting a few years ago, I explained to one of my friends from graduate school that I had reached an age when comfort was more important to me than fashion. He replied, "Steve, I can never imagine a time when comfort wasn't more important to you than fashion." Thanks, Randy.
6. I wear socks with sandals. Often, I wear black dress socks with sandals. I have worn that particular combination to Church. My reasons are simple and unassailable: 1) feet are ugly (at least mine are), and 2) sandals are comfortable. And to all of you members of the Fashion Police whose knickers are knotting up as you read this, let me make these two cogent arguments: 1) get a freakin' life, and 2) bite me.
7. I am absolutely and fully in favor of all university teachers wearing their academic robes to teach in. It would, for me, cover a multitude of sins, including partially un-tucked shirts. If they were long enough, they would cover my socks-and-sandals.
8. My adopted Pirate name for International Talk Like a Pirate Day is "Cap'n Scruffy."
   
9. My fashion hero is Professor Peter Schickele, of the University of Southern North Dakota at Hoople, shown here standing next to Lyric Tenor Vale Rideout, a normal human being with fashion sense. I often really look like this. Honest.
   

As you can now deduce for yourself, it is clear to me and to everyone who knows me that I feel about fashion like pigs feel about breath mints: blissfully ignorant.

See, "fashion" deals with questions like, "Which of these two ties should I wear with my new charcoal sports jacket?"




My problem is more likely to be in the area of choosing, "Which of these ties should I wear to my daughter's wedding?"




So there you have it. My being accused of having bad fashion sense is like being a Democrat in Utah County: I'm already numb from abuse, and one more jab just doesn't make that much difference.

The "Queen" part hurt a little, though.

The Family Rule

Everyone knows that families have to have rules. If there isn't order and clear limits, the experts tell us, children grow up feeling insecure and become cross-dressing Democrats or worse, Yankee Fans. But despite our best efforts, reading numerous books and taking the occasional parenting class, the Divine Ms B and I have never really achieved much in the "house of order" department. Dinner time is often a matter of personal choice. Bedtime? Flexible in the extreme. And despite the fact that (I swear!) each of our children has their own, designated bed complete with sheets, blankets, and pillows, the late evening will often find my children wandering about the house, dragging a blanket, looking for a couch, recliner, floor, or someone else's unused bed, to sleep in. It seems that no matter what we do, we remain largely Bohemian, with a bag of chips.

So it is with some pride that I announce today solid empirical evidence that at least one rule has been established in our family. I have verified its existence on several occasions, and I feel safe in announcing to the world proof of the fact that our house is not ruled by utter chaos.

Figure 1 below shows the amount of milk that needs to be left in the bottom of the milk jug so that the person leaving said milk is not obligated to go out to the other 'fridge and bring in a new gallon of milk.


So, there you have it. Social order and reason prevail, and democracy is safe. Watch out, Pike Family! Our star is rising!

Trouble Brewing in the Garage

I have been a homeowner (and a car owner) long enough to recognize an epic battle when it is brewing. I have had a few. For example, we owned a '90 Plymouth Voyager whose engine would shut off while we were driving down the road. Then it wouldn't start again for anything between one and six hours. About half the time this shutting down was preceded by the engine overheating. Of course, it would shut off without overheating sometimes, and it would overheat without shutting off sometimes. We came to dread going through the mountains because it might overheat and if so it might shut down. Or it might make it over Mount Timpanogos only to die on the way to the store later that night. Yes, we took it to several mechanics. But somehow we could never seem to get it to a mechanic while it was still misbehaving. So over the course of 5 years or so we just replaced everything. Never did fix the problem. Eventually it died for good. Now, two cars later, my eye still twitches when I start driving uphill. And the Divine Ms. B still turns the AC off and the heater on, even in the middle of August, just to keep the engine cool

Of course, the maddening thing was the seemingly random nature of it. No one ever figured out why, or when, or how, or if, the stupid thing was going to shut down.

Now the garage light is starting.

We've lived for a long time with a balky shop light in the garage. It acted up when the weather got cold, because of course the framastat or the freemulator or whatever it is that gets the gases in the long florescent bulbs excited enough to start glowing wouldn't work if the temperature was too low. But then I finally broke down and bought a new shop light rated for cold weather, and hung it up. Now, the shop light has to plug in to a grounded three-prong power outlet, and of course the light switch controls a regular old single-bulb light socket. So we had used one of those screw-in adapters, screwed into another of those screw-in adapters, and a three-prong to two-prong adapter.


Voila! There was light!

Until there wasn't.

Of course, I took things apart and frowned at them, and reassembled them and tried it again. And there was light. Until there wasn't. So I took out the most suspicious looking adapter, since I only really needed one, and tried it again. And there was light. Until there wasn't. I eventually replaced all the parts with other parts we found in my toolbox. Each time it worked, for a while. So I frowned and tightened and wiggled things with reckless abandon. And, after various combinations of new and old adapters, we have finally arrived at the state where sometimes the light works, and sometimes it doesn't. I scratched my head and told the Divine Ms. B, "That'd be an electrical problem. Yup." And there we stand, until I make a trip to Lowe's and buy another adapter, one that hasn't had a chance to catch a bad attitude from the other spare hardware in my toolbox.

Results of the Procedure

Well, my friends were right. The preparation was by far the worst part. In fact, the part where they put the sleepy juice into my IV was really rather pleasant, at least the six seconds of it that I remember. And afterward, I got crushed ice in a Styrofoam cup. Beat that!

But the best part is, despite what many of you might think, there was NO STICK!

And I've got the picture to prove it:


So there.