The University of Oregon is going tobacco-free next fall, and they have unveiled their (possibly temporary) logo for the education campaign:
That’s right. Somebody in the UO administration is either very hip, or very clueless.
If you still don’t get it, you can Google it. I’m not going to link it here, since this is a family weblog. You have been warned.
Elena: “I want some tape.”
Chris: “You want some masking tape, with writing on it?”
Elena: “Yes.”
Chris: “What do you want it to say?”
Elena:
A FISH
Julie and I won two (two!) awards at Chandra and Eric’s always highly anticipated and enjoyable Oscar party tonight.
I was the male winner of the award for best costume, with my interpretation of listless Oscar co-host James Franco’s interpretation of Aron Ralston, the guy who (spoiler alert!) cut off his arm after being trapped under a rock for a few days. And if you think that’s on the wrong side of tasteful, do I have to remind you of my Steve Irwin Halloween costume, donned just weeks after his unfortunate incident with the ray? Oy!
P.S. Don’t ask what’s in the Nalgene bottle.
Julie just missed with her spot-on Holly Golightly outfit (note Cat and cigarette holder), but she won the prize for most awards guessed correctly (14 out of 24). Cat is holding her trophy.
Aron Ralston and Holly Golightly at the Academy Awards, Feb 27, 2011
What would we do without Tyson in our lives?
Needs more metadata
When Sylvan was about 20 months old, he went from waking up a zillion times in the middle of the night, every night, just because he wanted company, to waking up at 1:30 in the morning and absolutely not going back to sleep because he was starving. After a few nights of this, one of us figured out that we should take him downstairs and stuff him full of scrambled eggs, then put him back to bed. He slept well.
Then we got really smart. We started feeding him two scrambled eggs immediately before bedtime. And when I say immediately, I mean get your pajamas on, read some books, then go back downstairs, eat two eggs and straight to bed with you, mister boy.
It worked. He slept through the night, just like that. We fed him two eggs, immediately before bedtime, for months, according to my hazy memory. We went through a lot of eggs. We considered making sacrifices to the chicken gods to ensure plentiful, but what do you sacrifice to chicken gods?
Elena was different. She slept through the night — most nights — until a few months ago. We were spoiled. Then she started waking up once a night. Then twice, then three times. Sometimes she would go right back to sleep with a little help, but usually she needed some milk, or a walk around the house, or a walk around the block (ugh). We tried to feed her some eggs right before bedtime, but she has never been the voracious eater that her brother was, and she wasn’t all that interested.
Two nights ago, she woke up at 1:00 and absolutely refused to go back to sleep. We walked around. We talked about what we saw outside the window. We went downstairs. Finally, I offered her some food. She wanted cheese (she says “gee!”), so I sat her in her chair and fed her a piece of cheese. Ten pieces of cheese, half a peanut butter sandwich, and a cup of cow milk later, she was ready to go back to bed. She slept well.
Last night, we finally got smart. I got her ready for bed, then fed her two eggs (“ubb!”) right before putting her to sleep.
I awoke in the pre-dawn light, all by myself without an alarm, without hearing any yelling. I was completely bewildered and completely refreshed. What time is it? Heck, what day is it? Am I late for my race? Is it Saturday? Friday? I had just slept all night. All night! Straight through, without waking up. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Really, I have no idea. It’s been many months, for sure. Wait a minute, if I just slept all night, that means… that means Elena slept all night!
Oh, glorious eggs (ubb!). How I love you. How I cherish you.
Two Eggs (Ubb!)
Elena and Ubb, about fifteen minutes before bedtime
Our friends Chandra and Eric host an Oscar party every year. They encourage us to dress up, and they even take red carpet photos. This means I get an excuse to wear my tuxedo at least once a year. Here’s a photo of Steve, Eric, and your humble scribe, looking pretty suave.
I'm well dressed, but I have a little face coming out of the back of my head.
TurboTax is always good for a laugh or two at this time of year.
You bet it is.
I happened to mention to a few friends that our family had acquired a new vehicle, and one, who is a bit farther into middle age than I and who makes his living as an Analyst, posed an inquiry.
A mini-van or an SUV? Welcome to America!
I, attempting to clarify, replied with a link to my previous weblog entry, complete with photo:
It’s a van van. https://www.tovis.com/weblog/?p=1153
He replied with some Analysis. Trying to be helpful and explanatory, of course.
Nice ride. And Dude, it’s a mini-van. A mini-van has unibody construction, front wheel drive, coil springs, an automatic transmission, a “family” seating configuration and, usually, a V6 engine between 2.5 and 4.0 L. A van is really a truck. It has body on frame construction, rear wheel drive, often leaf springs in the back, and various seating, transmission, and engine configurations based on application. If I bought a mini-van, it would be like yours and it would still be a mini-van.
Well, you see, my lovely wife, my better and prettier half, Julita, light of my life, fire of my loins, does not like minivans. She has no truck, if I may be so bold, with minivans. She despises them. They call out to her, but she scorns them, declaiming her Kahlil Gibran, who once wrote:
[The minivan] stands at the turn in the road and calls upon us publicly, but we consider it false and despise its adherents.
So of course, I, being a truthful and honest and communicative husband, forwarded The Analyst’s message on to my wife, saying, yea verily:
These are the people I call my friends.
She set me straight:
That man is NOT your friend.
I, being one to protect my friends, and also my NOT-friends, because I do so love them all, forwarded her correction to The Analyst, with the following preface:
For future reference. Best not to use the “M” word around the wife if you value your intact body.
The Analyst, for his part, cut out the middle-man (your humble scribe) and replied to both of us with a rambling message about a medicated woman, a spade, a Subaru, and something called a “Johnson unit” (I didn’t ask).
I used to work with a woman who got very upset when I called her Subaru a station-wagon. After a stay in the Johnson unit and a long battle to stabilize her meds, she’s back at work and feeling fine.
Anyway, welcome to middle age. Denial of conformity is an important part of feeling that one, and one’s family, is “special.” So its not a mini-van. It is a special vehicle for special, gifted non-conformist people.
[T.A.]
P.S. In my professional life, I’ve had countless run-ins with people who got pissed at me for calling a spade a spade. The trick, as in the present case, is to have unarguable data.
I think this chapter is complete, but I still say he should keep his mouth shut around the loin-firer.
We all took a quick trip up to Portland today. Julie took the kids to Ikea. She came home with a table, a big pillow, and a bin for some blocks. Maybe something else. She might post some photos of that stuff.
I came home with something a little… bigger. And greener.
Yeah, it's got a pop-top. With a bed in it. And curtains.
Maybe one that wraps around the whole van like one of those shark cages.
Jesus take the wheel