December 31, 2006
Fidel Never Had A Toy Kitchen | # |
Dannypants — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 6:40 pm
Sometimes, I really do worry that I’m turning into my mother (without the drugs, and fits of rage, of course). When it comes to spending money, the women in my family run from the extreme of bringing a used tea-bag out to lunch and ordering a pot of hot water, to spending thousands of dollars on small bean-bag animal toys (yes, she really did think she would put her children through college with the profits from investing in “collectible” beanie babies). My mother ran to both extremes at times, but usually settled somewhere in the middle. Still, when she was being extravagant, it wasn’t an unconscious act and to some degree, it really did pain her to part with a buck when it came to herself or her children. Mother would have no difficulty purchasing lovely gifts for others, in fact, she delighted in doing so and was considered rather generous, but for her family, we tended to live rather modestly save for my dad’s insistence that a new automobile must be purchased every two years. Certainly, my mother liked nice things, but she was never the type to openly display them. She didn’t wear her fur to go grocery shopping or have a diamond on every finger (I only ever saw her wear a wedding band). Sure, she had boxes filled with costume jewellery which she matched ever-so-carefully to her outfits each day, but save for a few items, they were all glass.
I always had nice clothing to wear, and toys to play with. I had shelves filled with books. I’m sure that our housekeeper, that spent her childhood picking cotton in Mississippi must have thought my parents were insane for indulging us with every item we asked for-toys we largely ignored and poor Ella Mae would be stuck picking up for the millionth time. If she’d had her way, those toys would have been off to the St. Vincent DePaul for children that would appreciate them. Still, she knew that we didn’t need a room full of toys to keep busy. When Ella Mae wanted me out of her hair, she’d send me down to the basement family room to listen to the Grundig (shortwave) with instructions to try and tune-in Cuba. That was sort of a running joke in the family as my dad was forever trying to listen-in on Havana. Mind you, he couldn’t speak but a few phrases in Spanish and as I recall, they weren’t the sort of thing one would expect from a radio announcer, Red or not. So one evening, he’s positive that he’s found the signal and has El Commandante coming in loud and clear.
My mother took Spanish in high school. She wasn’t anything close to fluent, but she was quickly able to discern that the great revolutionary speaking so quickly and expressively on the wireless was in fact, an automobile dealer on the West Side of Chicago. Undeterred, dad and daughters continued the search for communist propaganda over the shortwave. When we weren’t doing that, we played with our many, many toys.
On my ninth birthday, my mother went, by almost anyone’s standards, completely overboard-and I’m sure she agonised over it. I was presented with an elaborate doll house complete with working lights. I remember it had a chandelier in the dining room fashioned from genuine crystal .In the kitchen drawers were the tiniest replicas of silverware and dishes. The Louis XIV chairs were upholstered with real silk. It was a truly magnificent gift that cost hundreds of dollars-a small fortune at that time.
I know she was conflicted over the purchase. No, she never told me that directly, but still, I am quite confident that she thought the gift was just a bit more than I needed. Not more than I deserved, exactly. I can well imagine my mother being concerned what people would think about her making such an investment for a child. I imagine her weighing a delighted child against conspicuous consumption. Really, I wouldn’t have known the difference had she bought a metal dollhouse with plastic furniture like all my friends had. In fact, I was probably a bit under whelmed by it as I was too young to understand the extravagance.
Each year at Christmas, my sister-in-law sends us an extremely generous gift certificate to Amazon. Last year, we bought Daniel a rocking horse, some books and a set of “Little People.” This year, we still had a bit left over to add to the new gift, and I thought it would be nice to purchase a play kitchen set. Do you have any idea how expensive and elaborate those play kitchens are? We have a table-top one that was three dollars at the Goodwill. At the time, I thought that was over-paying. Free standing play kitchens (without all the toy food, pots and pans) range from $75.00 to over $600.00. Yes, that’s right. Decent ones run about $200.
I’m sort of torn. Like my mother, I wouldn’t hesitate to buy it for someone else, but it seems like so much more than Danny needs. On the other hand, it would likely be the only “real” toy we’d ever be able to get for him that didn’t come from a thrift store. Still, two hundred dollars on a toy? I just bought my son a toy telephone for .38 cents. I realise the money was a gift, but part of me feels like it would be irresponsible to spend it on toys. Horrible, I know. Play is important, but I also know that if we were to purchase this set he’d likely play with it for an hour and then take his oatmeal canister and wooden spoon back to the corner to play drums and I’d feel like a total idiot for tossing money away.
So now I’m wracked with all sorts of conflicting guilt. If I don’t buy it for him, I’m squandering an opportunity to get Danny something really nice that he otherwise would never have. If I do buy it for him, I’ll feel like I abandoned every principle I hold dear in pursuit of a wooden kitchen play set that likely appeals more to the parents than the children. Sure, it’s more than he needs-hell, it’s more than anyone needs.
Perhaps I ought to consider getting Danny a shortwave instead.
Mice At City Hall | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:02 am
I read THIS story and realised they were overlooking an important detail. I have it on good authority that those mice have been sewing the mayor a new overcoat and could be heard squeaking in tiny voices as they ran out the building in the first light…"No more twist!"
Help A Blogger Out | # |
Canada — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 1:56 am
Please go visit Claudia at Regina Monologues, as she is trying to get to the landmark of 5,000 hits before the New Year.
And then, bookmark her for heaven’s sake.
Roadside Interrogations | # |
Police State — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 1:50 am
A teenager in Missouri is stopped at a police sobriety roadblock and when he declines to discuss the personal details of where he has been and where he was headed to that evening, his car is searched without probable cause and the police threaten to make up a reason to lock him up. You can read the transcript HERE.
Via, The Agitator.
December 30, 2006
Spam | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:25 am
Subject line:
"Happy New Year Scapegoat"
December 29, 2006
Cloned Meat | # |
Romanticised Pastoral — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:13 am
I won’t claim to know anything about the process of cloning cattle, or to have any particularly compelling insights to add to the debate. What I do know something about, are farmers and ranchers. Now, I mean no disrespect to my neighbours that keep cattle. They’re lovely people and just as helpful and decent as can be. Wonderful people, but man, I really, really, really don’t want to see them “doing genetics.” Hell, I get uncomfortable when they’re doing such mundane things as burning rubbish or mixing fertiliser. Now I realise farmers need quite a bit of education these days what with the chemistry and math involved in dealing with pesticides. Likewise, farmers are knowledgeable about foreign markets, and the political situations that effect them. What’s more, some of these people routinely deal with millions and millions of dollars, so no-I’m not arguing that my neighbours are too stupid to clone cattle. I’m suggesting that they lack the appropriate background to do so, and it is unlikely that they will enrol in graduate biology courses focusing on genetics. Do you really want to eat meat cloned by some guy that picked up a pamphlet at the Seed and Feed telling him what to do? I mean, we’re not talking about a 4-H project here.
You know, given that there have been more than a few serious food supply problems of late, it seems a bit on the ludicrous side to be giving farmers and ranchers the go ahead on cloned cattle. Honestly, while it might be safe to consume (I don’t know that, I don’t not know that either) I have to wonder what sort of unforeseen consequences there might be from fucking with the cattle’s gene pool. You never know where it can have unintended results (suppose they start making power-poop that gives rise to a new breed of highly aggressive flies that go out and devour soybean crops? I know that sounds far-fetched, but who the hell knows? Fucking with species this way seems a wee bit unpredictable.
And really, I just don’t want to see these farmer neighbours (two guys that solve most farm issues by employing a backhoe and chemicals) pretending to be biologists. Sticking your hand up a cow’s hole to artificially inseminate it is one thing, screwing with genetics is quite something else.
By The Time The Editors Are Through With It There Will Only Be 10,000 Leagues Under The Sea | # |
Utter Rubbish — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:32 am
From the moment we found out Daniel was on the way, we’ve been building a library for him. We’re spilling over three bookcases in his room at the moment, and pretty soon the walls will resemble the rest of the house-covered top to bottom in reading material. I’ve been rather selective in book purchases, though I admit to having gone a bit wild when the Friends of the Library sale was offering children’s titles for .25 cents.
Along the way, I’ve been looking for inexpensively bound “classics” that a youngster can mark-up and fill with notations as he reads. I’m a terrible one for writing notes to myself in margins, and while I wouldn’t want to discourage Daniel from the practise, I don’t see the need for hand-tooled Moroccan leather bindings.
A few weeks ago, I purchased a copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea by, Jules Verne. I loved the story as a child. I was just settling in to begin reading it this evening when the publisher’s note caught my eye;
“This Puffin abridgement has taken out the more arduous and dated bits of nineteenth-century science, and lists of underwater species to clarify the main, thrilling adventure story…”
That’s an outrage, and insulting. Oh, I suppose in the minds of the editors at Puffin, Verne was simply blathering on and those details were just a distraction that he put into the text for the hell of it. Yeah, I know those type of editors. All excitement, no context. Give ‘em a copy of De Sade’s Juliet and they’re cutting away all the long, boring political commentary just to get to the next double-headed dildo. Wonder what they’d do to Finnegan’s Wake?
I’m tempted to simply pitch it, as it seems wrong to re-donate it to a thrift store where some other unsuspecting person will pick it up and pay half a buck for it. Can’t we devise some sort of universal warning label for books that indicate whether it has been abridged, amended, or otherwise fiddled with? I could see if it were a matter of some translations being better than others, but this appears to be an outright purge of content, from God only knows which translation. It is really quite a disappointment, as Penguin puts out such decent quality paperbacks, I simply assumed their children’s editions would be the same, with easier typeface and an illustration here and there. I certainly never expected simplified text. Boo, hiss, Puffin. Shame on you.
Particularly disappointing, as I really wanted to be able to say I read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea the same week a giant squid was caught on film.
December 28, 2006
O Little Town Of Rock Lobster | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 5:06 pm
As Denver prepares to get clobbered with another eighteen inches of snow, 500 miles to the East, we’re basking in unseasonably warm fifty degree days. It’s a bit overcast, but come on, hardly worthy of complaint. Given that we’ve been lucky thus far without any snow, I realise the odds of this holding out much longer are slim-therefore Dannypants and his mummy are headed over to the park after lunch, provided it does not rain. Have I mentioned that two of the trees in my front yard have buds on the branches?
Last evening, I heard an very loud, unfamiliar noise coming from the mudroom. I could hear screeching and something banging itself against the wall. My first thought was that it was a mouse in one of the traps, but it was far too loud-we have enough mice that I know what they sound like. As it turned out, it was a baby mole with his leg caught. He was still quite alive, and seemingly uninjured, so we sent him on his way. By the way, did you ever hear the one about the family of moles under the house? There was a Daddy mole, a Mama mole and a baby mole all living under the house. One day, the Daddy poked his nose up towards the kitchen and said, “I smell Pancakes.” The Mama mole crawled-up to the top of the hole with him, sniffed and said, “I smell sausages.” The baby mole tried to get up to the hole, but the Daddy and Mama were blocking it with their bodies and the baby mole, trapped beneath them said, “all I smell is mole asses.”
Getting back on topic now…
I’ll just assume we’re going to have the park to ourselves. In the nearly six years we’ve lived in this community, I’ve yet to see the park actually being used. At least not during the day. Sometimes, I find discarded beer cans and such, likely evidence that teenagers will be teenagers despite the “you’ll turn into a pumpkin if you have even a sip of alcohol before your twenty-first birthday” propaganda they give children in school these days. Otherwise, the park is largely unused.
I’d really like Danny to spend some time around other children, but living way the heck out here, that’s not exactly a simple task. My experience with a play group last year was sort of disappointing seeing how all the “play dates” were at the food court of a shopping mall or fast food restaurants. Why, oh why can’t we have union local-themed playgroups where the kids learn about collective bargaining? All right, that’s never going to happen (in Nebraska anyway) but damn I’d like to find some activity for him that isn’t centred around consumption.
We’ve all been sick with one thing or another for weeks, and it feels as though we haven’t had any recreational time outside the house in ages. Christmas Eve, we did drive around and look at lights in the city (good heavens, I’m calling Omaha, “the city”) but that was hardly what I’d call a trip out. It was fun though. We tried getting Danny to sing Christmas songs but he had other ideas, so as we drove about looking at one inflated lawn Santa after another, our two year old serenaded us from the back seat with Rock Lobster. He skips most of the song and just shouts out his favourite lines so it sounds something like;
“Beach! Matching towels!
Rock Lobster!
Down, down, down.
Clam!
Down, down, down…”
Then, more often than not, he morphs it into another song and we get;
“Rock lobster doo dah, oh the doo dah day
Down, down,
Jimmy crack corn
Rock lobster
I don’t care
Matching towels
Oh the doo dah day.”
Believe me, I’m not complaining. I’ve heard some of the so-called music youngsters listen to and I’ll take the B-52’s over singing purple dinosaurs any day.
December 27, 2006
President Ford Dead | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:02 pm
I’m really glad Ford did not die from a slip in the tub or something involving falling. Even Time Magazine on-line is having a bit of fun calling him the "accidental" President. He’ll be remembered for being a klutz, pardoning Nixon, and the birth of bad acronyms like WIN (whip inflation now).
The radio was discussing a public viewing of the body and all I could think was that for at least the last decade, it has already sort of been like watching a corpse. Remember that interview at the 2000 convention where he was so out of it and we later heard he left the interview and promtly took a stroke?
Bonus Ford trivia-though he grew-up in Grand Rapids, his birthplace was actually in Omaha, Nebraska. I only know this because I’ve had to drive past it numerous times.
Reasons To Crawl Back Into Bed And Start Drinking | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 1:12 pm
I suppose any of these stories alone would be disheartening.
Because we’re a Christian nation.
Department of "I told you so".
But you can still kill women and kids the enemy and have a burial with full honours.
Another day, another database. It’s ok, I know that local police departments would never abuse access to this sort of information.
"Ask your doctor" why so many old timers are getting hip fractures.
Schools snooping on-line to bust kids off campus.
Because we’re a Christian nation Pt.2
Your friends at Pharma.
Parthenon statues being moved indoors due to acid rain.
Some fake science that will prevent people suffering from pain from getting real treatment.
Is your IPod watching you?
Because we’re a Christian nation #3
December 25, 2006
My Inner Style Diva Can Beat Up Your Inner Style Diva | # |
They Hate Us For Our Freedom — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 10:03 pm
Gosh, I never realised that I didn’t need time or money to embrace my ‘inner style diva.” All those wasted decades that I might have been wearing white after labour day and mixing brown with blue. I know, really I should have listened to that wee voice deep inside whispering:
“Jenifer Anne…Jenifer Anne, wear the parachute pants tucked into the bulky, military-surplus woollen socks and saddle shoes-everyone will think you’re being deliberately hip, or at best, ironic.” But no, I ignored my “inner style-diva” and all I have to show for it today are knee-length skirts and circle pins. What can I say? I thought I needed both time and money for such pursuits and alas, graduate school sucked up large amounts of both. Bummer.
Readers will note however, that embracing one’s inner style diva is not limited to attire. Indeed, one can extend their inner style diva activities to something as mundane as dining out. From the article:
“For example, you can walk into the restaurant you always go to but see it and experience it in a whole new way. You can decide, “I’m going to really explore this menu, notice the décor, experience new foods. I’m going to get to know the waiter and find out all about the specials, the wine list, and even the deserts! I’m going to try something new and get the most out of the experience and come away with a new appreciation of dining out.” Now you can add all this input to your style repertoire and draw on it when you need to.”
Well, I’m always up for a challenge so I convinced my spouse to take me to Perkins so that I could really, fully experience the pancake platter in a whole new way. Just to be different, we asked to be seated next to the restrooms so that we might get a new, style-diva worthy experience-after all, it’s not just what you put into something but what you take out of it as well. Right. So we had a lovely waitress named Beulah, who has been waiting tables at this pancake establishment in Southeastern Nebraska for forty-five years and pretty much knows the menu’s high and low points. You know, an insider.
“Tell me, Beulah” I asked, confidentially “Is the bacon and egg platter really all it is advertised as, or should I really embrace my inner style diva and order the eggs Benedict and a chocolate phosphate?”
As it turns out, the MSNBC article was absolutely correct in the advice about getting to know the waitress because twenty minutes later she was seated at our table pouring coffee from a greasy old decanter telling me about the recent troubles with her colostomy bag and how the health inspectors keep hassling her about hand washing although she technically never actually touches her rectum. Anyway, after a few cups of tepid coffee she suggested I skip the eggs Benedict altogether and try a slice of chocolate cream pie. Still wanting the full style-diva experience, I asked our knowledgeable waitress what she thought of the ‘fresh-baked” cookies being sold at the cashier’s station up front. Again, I don’t know how much I can fully express my gratitude to the style people at MSNBC because I’m now in possession of two FAKE COOKIES-yes, you read that correctly, FAKE COOKIES from (you’ll never believe this) the display case! I’m going over to the craft store later so I can purchase a jar of shellac and some wire so that I can make earrings from them. Eat your hearts out, would-be style divas! I’ve got connections at the pancake joint.
Attitude is everything, you know.
December 24, 2006
Christmas Eve | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 7:34 pm
At least, I’m dressed. For the past ten days or so, I’ve been knocked on my ass by some sort of flu-like bug that had my spouse staying home tending to our son. I never get this manner of illness (once, actually on my twenty-first birthday…and we all know that was a million years ago). Anyway, I’m still dizzy, queasy and can’t hear as my ears are plugged as though I’d just completed seven or eight trans Atlantic flights in a row (what? Your ears don’t get plugged-up on long flights? Mine always do. Every holiday I’ve ever been on, has been overshadowed by an inability to hear a damn thing anyone was saying to me).
Contrary to the impression one might get from reading this blog with any regularity-I enjoy the holidays. I don’t get carried away with decorating or shopping, but I did make cookies with Daniel and tonight we’re going to drive around and look at the lights. If I can still stand upright without clutching at walls because I feel like the earth is giving way beneath my feet (what? You’ve never experienced that either? Gee whiz, what’s with you people? All right, compare it to getting a pair of bi-focals for the first time. You know that feeling where all the curbs are suddenly very high and the sidewalks are terribly low? Well multiply that feeling by about a thousand and toss in a sinus infection. That ought to approximate what I’m describing fairly well) we’ll keep up a tradition from my childhood, and go out for ice-cream. We’re also going to break the "no TV rule" and plug the box in so Daniel can watch the re-broadcast of Midnight Mass from Rome (hey, it’s educational).
We don’t do much for “presents” around here, but I did get Daniel a stocking (he’s been interested in the idea from his Visit From St. Nick book) and an attractively foiled chocolate Father Christmas. I wanted to purchase him a Droste Orange (as I had in childhood), but do you have any idea how difficult they are to find these days? There’s a knock-off brand, but it is hardly the same. I also bought him three very small canisters of Play Doh (doh!) which he’s never had before. I’m sure that will be hours of fun Christmas Day.
In the event that I do not post tomorrow, best wishes for a very merry Christmas.
Paging Dr. Benway | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 4:40 am
Evil laugh coming from dining room where my spouse has been clacking away at the keyboard for over an hour. “Ok,” I figured, “He’s obviously not doing anything work related-good for him. It’s about time he did a bit of recreational writing.
A few minutes later…
“How do you spell Mossad?”
A few minutes after that, more sinister giggling. I mention to him that there is an article about a man dressed as Father Christmas who tried to kidnap an eight year old on a motorcycle at MSNBC.
“Perfect! That’s going in the story. Thanks.”
A few more minutes and I suddenly realise what he’s up to.
“You’re doing a children’s edition of Naked Lunch, aren’t you?”
*laughter*
“How’d you know?”
For The Wee Ones | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:14 am
Some time ago, I was given the link to a wonderful collection of out-of-print/public domain children’s books on the web. At the time, Danny was still to young to make much use of it, so I bookmarked and forgot it. What a delightful rediscovery.
Also worth looking at are these beginning Gaelic books for children geared to non-Gaelic speaking parents. We started off well with Danny but then realised having three languages coming at him in the very early months would possibly be a bit much. He knows a smattering of words and phrases, and now that I’m convinced he isn’t suffering any language delays, and has mastered the English alphabet, it seems a good time to begin a more determined instruction routine. For the adult learners, THIS is a nice resource.
Was David Icke Right? | # |
Uncategorized — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 2:48 am
Well, I dunno…I guess if you’re inclined to believe the world is being controlled by shape-shifting, reptillian Illuminati then yeah, maybe. Though I’m guessing the documentary isn’t asking if he was right about that particular theory.
December 22, 2006
Getting To Know Your Appliances | # |
Interacting With the Stupid — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 5:17 pm
When microwaves were a somewhat new item on the household appliance market, my friend D’s father was one of the first in our circle to purchase one. For weeks, we’d been trying out various things to see what the technology was capable of. Baking cookies on paper plates (passable), cooking hamburger (ok if you could get past the grey colour) and so on. Eventually, we tired of actual cooking and started placing items in the thing to see what would happen. I recall that it began with crayons but eventually we ended-up deciding that it would be a good idea to microwave a toy rubber alligator. I suppose it might have gone better had we realised that there was an unseen piece of metal jammed inside the rubber reptile’s mouth. Anyway, that was how we discovered just what those first microwaves were capable of.
Which brings me to THIS.
Via Plucky Punk.
December 21, 2006
Another Day, Another “Mental Health Epidemic” | # |
Fake Science — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 11:10 pm
Ronald Reagan was correct about one thing-the eight scariest words in the English language are “We’re the government and we’re here to help.”
Regardless of what “opinion” pieces like THIS by Robin Templeton claim (and frankly, something here stinks-badly and I would be interested in knowing a bit more about whether she has ties to the “mental health” industry in one guise or another) there isn’t a “national depression epidemic”. The tone of the piece is a bit too declarative (without scientific evidence to back up the claims). How on earth can she assert that because someone went off their medication their subsequent suicide is a direct result? It’s the old “take as directed or you’ll turn into a pumpkin” thinking that would seem to imply millions (34 million depressed Americans by the study she cites) of people are at risk of leaping before trains should they decide to stop taking psychiatric medication. And really, even if they do (wholly unlikely), forcing them to stay alive against their will by administering powerful psychiatric mind-altering medications shouldn’t be the concern of the government. The last thing we need is a “national commitment to preventing and curing depression.” Do that, and there’ll be plenty of “commitment”-of the involuntary variety.
Interestingly, the “factors” the author sees triggering depression are hardly clinical. You don’t cure job insecurity, poverty or war with chemicals (though I’m sure if someone were to drink away their unhappiness rather than take a prescription, that would immediately be labelled “substance abuse”-also a treatable (i.e. “billable with insurance”) “illness”. The way it is presented here, we’re all just ticking bombs waiting to go off when life tosses something at us. Furthermore, doesn’t it strike you as unseemly that a daughter should be publicly recounting her mother’s suicide attempt when it only happened last weekend? I certainly wouldn’t want to be at that family Christmas dinner.
The reasoning in this piece is so horribly sloppy, and the logical fallacies so numerous that it is difficult to take anything she has to say seriously. Without any actual data to back up her assertions, the argument veers off into “Who knows if this is a manifestation of any kind of national emotional instability or depression…” well, obviously, not the individual writing it. Pondering as one goes along hardly screams credibility. Generalisations about national character/emotional traits tend to fall apart under scrutiny as well.
By characterising unhappiness as an “illness” in need of “treatment” (or to use her phrase, “appropriate treatment”) that creates a substantial pool of consumers ready to spend billions in the prevention and treatment of it. Nowhere is it even considered that human beings ought to be permitted to be unhappy if they so chose. Instead, it’s an “epidemic!” Quick, ring-up the CDC to quarantine the unhappy in psychiatric hospitals before they exercise free will and harm themselves-even if they don’t harm themselves-they’re miserable, miserable! Misery is a treatable/billable illness. Brave New World, come get your Soma. We’re the government, and we’re here to help.”
December 20, 2006
Daniel Philip Oscar Is Two | # |
Dannypants — J.S. (not the Watergate felon) Magruder @ 3:05 pm
Man, did that go fast. Any day now I expect him to say, "So long mummy, I’m off to join the merchant marine" (God forbid).
One of these days I’ll tell the story of his birth, though as L points out, no one would believe it. The C-section was typical enough but the conversation between the doctors (on the other side of the screen where they apparently did not think I could hear them) was really quite stunning in tastelessness.
See for yourself how much the Dannypants has grown THEN and NOW.
