Two is my favorite number

So it's a day late, but warm birthday wishes are in order for the twins (especially because half of the wishes are traveling transAtlantic.) Three pictures of my favorite two.

Little Darling, Big Sister

                                              

Happy Birthday, Caroline.

Splendor in the Past

I saw this nest of raindrops in the grass and wondered what the chaos would look like from below.

Reminds me of playing parachute in preschool.

We'd lift the multicolored tarp over our heads then sit underneath, tucking its edges under our chubby legs and marveling at the rainbow-colored cocoon we had created.  

But our toddler-sized bottoms couldn't keep the air in, and our evanescent little world would inevitably deflate.

So we'd scamper out from under the sagging fabric, throw up our arms, and start the process all over again. 

Teach your children well

I saw this and had to photograph it. It's a reminder to respect my elders. 

Father Canine, tell me, where have you been?

It's amazing how a few backyard snapshots can reveal a blatant truth I've been ignoring for years. But, as the saying goes, it's better I discover these truths late than discover them too early. That is the saying, right?

Getting back to the recently discovered issue at hand, I think my dog has Daddy Issues. All the classic signs have been there, I just haven't added them up till now.

Sign #1. Unhealthy addiction to affection.

Bailey is constantly seeking someone to pet his head or rub his belly, regardless of where he is or whether his target can spare a hand. His tactics can be dangerous and sometimes indicative of early abusive behavior. He has been known to throw his nose under humans' hands while they are being used to drive, write, urinate, ladle hot soup, etc. He also has tried on many occasions to use his mouth to force a person's hand onto a desired petting location. Sadism is a possible motivator for this (see sign #5.)

Sign #2. Anorexia.

Bailey frequently skips meals. At first we assumed that he was just picky, but after upgrading his dog food to steak and cheeseburger flavor, his continued random fasts indicate that the problem is about more than just food. (My father might argue that his refusal of dog food is related to my giving him human food, but he does not understand my therapeutic strategies.)

Sign #3. Crying jags.

The simplest things set Bailey off. All it takes is wanting to go outside, or having to go to the bathroom, or wishing someone else would share their food with him, and he's a mess. This childlike inability to articulate his needs and feelings indicates that his original family discouraged expressing one's point of view and emotions.

Sign #4. Egotism.

Bailey is what we in the biz call an "Alpha Male." He tries to dominate other companions, and is obsessed with his own appearance to the extent that his favorite stuffed animal, 'Hailey,' is a mere cloth replica of himself.

Sign #5. Confused Sexual Identity.

This is marked by his paradoxical denial of/obsession with his genitals. When he was young, he had an operation in which he essentially castrated himself. However, he continues to display his netherlands to anyone who rubs his belly; he licks himself several times a week, and frequently exposes himself in public, going so far as using his own urine to mark his territory.

It is my belief that all these issues stem from one skeleton Bailey keeps hanging in his crate: He never knew his father. Adding to Bailey's confusion is the atypical power balance between his parents, as his mother was a successful and diligent Labrador Retriever while his father was a beautiful Poodle with a golden coat and legs for dog days.

I'm just glad I've located all the pieces of his puzzle. Now I've just got to figure out how to piece together the whole package. There's a children's book hidden somewhere in his story, I just know it.

These Foolish Things (Remind Me of Lou)

A few months before she left for college, Lydia (aka "LouLa," "Lou," and "the twin with girl parts") decided to downsize and move from "the wing" into Caroline's room. (sidenote: I love calling Lydia's former area "the wing" because it makes her sound like a freak child we keep locked up and never acknowledge, when in reality that's only occasionally the case.) Soon Caroline will come back home to go to law school, but where will she stay? 

Flash forward to this weekend. Mom has taken on the task of cleaning out the part of the house formerly known as "Lydia's Wing" in the advent of Caroline's return to Boston after two years in New Orleans. I've decided to use this blog as an opportunity to document some of the items Lydia had been keeping in her quasi-museum.  

Item #1 : A bevy of disposable cameras. I'm scared to get them developed. (By scared, of course, I mean too lazy.)

Item #2 : Beehive wig. Originally for one of her plays, It has come in handy in my own life more times than I'd like to admit. 

Item #3 : A metal detector. Kids all have their phases. I had to have a tamagotchi, Lydia just had to have...a metal detector.

Lydia has always been a chameleon; when she was little she'd switch her outfit at least three times a day. In a way this is still the case. Over the years her look has ranged from preppie to pork-pie hat. These three doodads my mom dug up will always be intrinsic artifacts of her unwavering self of self, testaments that she's still the same vivacious auburn-haired girl, just moving from one costume change to another.  

The Sound of Indolence

I'm getting pretty tired of apathetic singing. I guess it was tolerable at the end of Juno, but my opinion on this changes depending on my mood (sidenote: I was voted my family's moodiest member back in '05.) But now Comcast seems to think that their prime potential subscribers are viewers just a couple of mumbled lyrics away from slipping into an emotional coma. This is evidenced by their recent string of commercials, which bombard my daily pop-culture education sessions (referred to by my laymanandwife parents as "TV watching.")

On the whole, I'm going to say that I don't really like song commercials, simply because they're evil. Forget embedded texts, I think catchy jingles are the ultimate subliminal messages. "1-800-54-Giant" could easily make it onto the radio-hits-of-my-childhood playlist. I consider the "only at mattress Giant, oooh ahhh" songline to be one of my earliest lessons in sexual education.

Perhaps the most evil thing about jingle-based commercials is that I instinctively sing them, both as I watch them and while I go about my life away from the TV. This is embarrassing, because any witness to my commercial crooning--especially when done sing-along style--immediately realizes that I watch an inappropriate amount of television.

It is for this reason that I try to resist my urge to join in when watching TV with my parents. After all, one of my father's favorite self-given nicknames/alter egos is "The Tele-ban," and involves wrapping a throw-blanket around his head as a makeshift turban, holding the remote hostage, and laughing maniacally. It's extremely offensive to me and my TV-loving siblings, and maybe even to other people too?

However, when an irresistible song comes on like FreeCreditReport.com's "well I married my dream girl, I married my dream girl, but she didn't tell me her credit was bad..." I can't always hold back. 

As I give into the siren song, I watch my parents' eyes dart from me, to my stained sweatsuit, to the pile of food wrappers next to "my couch," and so I purposely flub a few lyrics in hopes that they won't connect the three ever-expanding blob-like dots and put parental codes on every channel.

"Yes, that'll do the trick,"

I think to myself, and pad off to the kitchen for another pudding cup.

And then I think we all share the same thought. I need to get a job.