I Love Google and Moe

Last week Bob and I were having lunch downtown at Philippe’s (Home of the Famous French Dip and .09 cent cup of coffee). We were sharing a table with a friendly, older woman who was missing a finger and a man with only one eye and a hole in his face where a nose would usually be. Sitting on the table next to this gentleman was a gallon size Ziploc freezer bag, inside were three copies of a book called Moe.

When we got home, I googled the book and happened upon a 2008 newspaper article about the remarkable story of the couple we were sitting with and a chimp named Moe. I posted that. Wendi read it and then directed me to this article in Esquire. Amazing. It’s worth the read.

The story is fascinating.
I love Philippe’s.
And Google.
And Wendi.

Smacksy Sunday Link: F*** You Penguin

Matthew Gasteier describes his site F*** You, Penguin as “A blog where I tell cute animals what’s what.” Mr. Gasteier posts adorable pictures of sweet animals and then spares no filthy language in dressing them down for melting his heart. It’s funny and wrong and the guy got a book deal out of it and what are you waiting for?

Thanks to my friend Spider for sharing this one.

Smacksy Saturday Photos: Dinner

Ask your child what he wants for dinner only if he's buying. - Fran Lebowitz

Think Fast

The kid has questions, lots of questions...

Why are scrambled eggs not baby chicks but they are from the chicken egg?

Where is Star Wars?

If I want a bagina can I have one of those instead of a penis?

How can I get wings for flying?

How can Darth Vader be Luke’s father if Darth Vader is a robot?

Where do you feel your feelings when somebody hurts your feelings?
Related follow ups: What is a heart? It’s the heart shape? Where is it? What it do? How does it feel?

If I go into the sculptures with the rhinos then I am in Africa?

Why does Iggy Pop want to be a dog?

What is that rip in daddy’s under pants?
Follow up: Why is it called a “fly?”

When you are very, very, old and your body stops working, where do you go?

Privates 2

Friday evening, I walked into the living room to find Bob lying on the large ottoman that serves as our “baby-proofed” coffee table. He was naked and thoughtfully caressing his boy parts.

“Bob? It’s just fine to touch your private parts, but you need to get used to doing that in private.”

“I am alone.”

“You are alone in the living room near our front window. That is not really alone and it’s not really private.”

“My bedroom is private?’

“Yes, and the bathroom too.”

“OK.”

“Thanks, pal. Now it’s time to put on some underpants and wash up for dinner.”

“Mama? You need to touch your private parts with yourself sometimes?”

I pause. (Hands spin on the clock dial. Seasons change. Pages rip from the calendar.)

“Um. Well. Yes, everything I do with my private parts is in private.”

I then returned to the kitchen and counted the seconds until Jeff got home.

Maximal Minimalism

I like the idea of simplicity, sometimes more than I like the actuality of it. (Please see my darling collection of silver demitasse spoons.) Yet, I try. I like order and systems. I have found that nothing tests a system like living with a pre-schooler, a big guy, and a couple of used-to-be-feral animals.

So there’s this deal called the "100 Things Challenge." I was checking it out at GuyNamedDave and mnmlist.com. With the name "100 Things," I had expected more of something like a revved up version of the 10 Things A Day thing where the challenge is to get rid of 10 possessions every day (Kleenex doesn’t count). I was not even close. These guys are talking about living with just 100 personal things. This includes clothing items counted separately. I can count all my earrings and barrettes and then I’m at 100.

This is not a challenge made for someone who has an eBay alert set for both of her china patterns and occasionally speaks about herself in the third person when trying to distance herself from certain behaviors. Fine. So maybe I’m more of a maximalist than I thought. The 10 Things a day deal could still happen. If I kick it off with a Lego purge, I think I could make it work.

The Water's Fine

At the beginning of the summer, we signed Bob up for swimming classes at the YMCA. For 40 minutes every Saturday morning, Bob would cling to Jeff in the shallow end of the pool while yelling, “No! No! I don’t want to blow bubbles! The water tastes bad! It’s time to go home! I don’t like it! I don’t like it! I can’t like it!”

We took to calling them “screaming lessons.” After four Saturdays we stopped and decided to try again next year.

Last week, our friends were visiting from Chicago for a few days. We met up with them at their hotel pool. Everyone in the water but Bob. He stood at the edge and threw a beach ball back and forth with Jeff, but would get upset with all the splashing and was concerned that his bathing suit might get damp.

I left the pool to retrieve more sunscreen for the guys but when I returned, could not see them. I scanned the large pool deck and finally spied Jeff and Bob in the Jacuzzi. It was a breakthrough. Bob was actually in the water and appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Wow Bob! Look at you!”

“Mama, come in. It has such nice little bubbles.”

Thus proving that Bob Rosenberg is fast on his way to becoming a little old Jewish man.