Our Weekend Was Quite a Circus

Last Saturday morning we took Charlotte to the Za-Ga-Zig Shrine Circus. We got there around 9:20 as they were taking down the equipment for the animal rides.

I haven't been to a three-ring circus since 4th grade, but I remembered how much junk they sell, and I also remember how I wanted to buy it all. On the drive to the fairgrounds I made Charlotte an offer. I promised her that I would buy any food she wanted at the circus as long as she didn't ask for any of the junky toys that they sell: no inflatable aliens, no light sticks, and no guns that spray sparks. Char was quick to agree. It was the word "gun" that tipped the scales, "I don't like guns, Dad! I'm not a gun girl!"

Well, okay, then. (Actually, they don't sell those sparking guns anymore, but the lighted "princess wands" aren't much better.)

As promised, as soon as we got in our seats, I got us some popcorn.

Then we settled in to watch the show. Man, I don't remember what we paid for the tickets (Char was free with those passes that Casey's gives away), but you get a lot of circus for your buck. We were there for almost three hours.

After ninety minutes the acts took a break during the intermission. The elephants and miniature horses were brought back out for the kids to ride.

Char was content to pose near the elephant. She's wearing the mask that came with a large bag of cotton candy. At first she thought she was a zebra, but later she decided she was a tiger.

That bag of cotton candy was the size of a pillowcase on your bed, and Char shoved about half of it in her mouth. You give that much sugar to a little girl, and you just know there's going to be some repercussions. I swear, if you put your hand on Char's shoulder you could feel her vibrate.

Later a few Shriner clowns got close to where we were sitting, but I won't make any of my usual clown comments. I had a sometimes surly roommate whose little sister was born with a disability. He had nothing but praise for the Shriners and all the good work they do for children.

Right before the intermission ended, the Shriner clowns threw about 100 t-shirts into the crowd, but Char was too busy eating a hotdog to care. Charlotte still got a shirt, through. A kind, teenage girl sitting near us caught a shirt, but since she couldn't wear a child-sized small, she gave it to us. When Char unrolled the green fabric into a shirt she lit up like the fiery hoops the tigers leap through.

Get back! That tiger's about to spring! 

"Rawwwr!"

Beware The Farty Forest: A Parenting Story

The one aspect of her nightly routine that Char "hates" is when Mom brushes her hair. There's usually a lot of tears and cries of pain, real and imagined.

Tonight I went upstairs to see how things were going, and when I walked into the bedroom I heard Daphne announce, "C'mon, Char. We're going to the bathroom. And while you stand on your turtle stool, Dad's gonna sing you a funny song!"

Surprised, I ask the obvious question, "I am?"

"Yep," Daphne patted my arm as she led Charlotte out of the room, "You're the creative one. You can sing the funny song."

I followed them into the bathroom and wondered what I was supposed to do, "Okaaaay, what kind of a funny song?"

"You know. A funny song. Make up something with farts and poop in it."

Okay, now I know what my role is. Daphne's tired and she needs me to be a distraction while Charlotte gets her hair brushed. I mentally rubbed my hands together. Fart song? No problem! I can do that.

I then dramatically cleared my throat and declared, "This song is called 'Beware the Farty Forest', and it goes a little like this..."

The Farty Forest is a smelly place

The animals all like to toot

The squirrels rip ‘em in the trees

And in the sky the birds pollute

The air is thick and sticky

The tree bark’s all turned brown

The bears plug their ears at night

And that protects them from the sound

The hunters’ guns are rusting

They no longer hunt in "there"

The oxen fart runny poop

(And it stains their underwear)

The turtles bubble in the water

The fish swim in streams of pee

This song was your mom’s idea

And she can’t get mad at me

These woods don’t stink a little
The Farty Forest reeks alottle

The showers spray urine water

And there's shampoop in that bottle

So when you visit Farty Forest

Hold your nose and look around

You know what’s in that fog bank

And that’s not mud pie on the ground

No, it's not "You are My Sunshine", but I would like to point out that Char's hair was thoroughly brushed, and not one tear was shed.

Score one for Dad and his juvenile sense of humor. 

Thrift Store Show and Tell: Who's That Guy? Edition

I spotted this shirt at the Salvation Army store today. At first I thought it was shirt with Jesus on it.

But then I leaned in for a closer look. Why is Jesus wearing a head band?

Then I leaned in even closer.

 That's not Jesus. That's 1980's Axel Rose!

What a stupid shirt.

Pillow Cat: just like your cat, except not.

Charlotte and Daphne went to Grinnell last weekend for a day of shopping with "the girls" on Daphne's side of the family. Charlotte came home with a cousin for a new friend and a few gifts. She was allowed to pick out one thing to buy for herself. I have no idea why, but Char chose Pillow Cat.

For a cross-stitched pattern, Pillow Cat is eerily realistic.

At first I thought he was cute.

He "helped" Charlotte play on the computer.

He took "naps" with the other boys.

But then I caught the three of them watching me clean up the yard. It was creepy.

And I have no idea how he got up onto of the kitchen cabinets with Earl.

What? You have got to be kidding me!

I guess I can handle scooping pillow fluff out of the litter, but I reached my breaking point when I caught Pillow Cat watching my wife sleep.

I've seen Paranormal Activity, and this stops right now.

"I'm sorry Honey, I don't know where your Pillow Cat went. Do you want to go to the Animal Rescue League and adopt a puppy?"

Tag? You're It! - Vintage T-Shirt Shopping

Last weekend I made a stop at the new St. Vincent de Paul thrift store in West Des Moines. The store has only been open for five months, and their selection is a little bit thin. That's to be expected. It takes awhile for a thrift store to form its personality.

By personality, I'm referring to what a thrift store has to offer. The Goodwill store located across from Valley West Mall has a "computer" personality because Goodwill Industries funnels all of its computer donations (monitors, mice, modems...) into that particular store. If you're looking for cheap pair of speakers for your PC, then that's the thrift store for you.

Typically, much of a thrift store's personality is determined by its location. When people donate their unwanted items, they usually aren't going to drive across town to do so. They're going to donate locally. So, think about the demographics of where a thrift store is located. If you're looking to score toys or clothes for your toddler, go a thrift store near a newer housing development. That's where the young families (read: small children) are.

If you're looking for a store with a vintage personality, you should avoid the suburbs. What chance do you have that a young family has recently decided to give up their sweet 8 track player?

Or their Sega Master System?

If you want much of anything from the 80's or earlier, you got to get to the older, more established neighborhoods. That's where they're cleaning out Grandpa's basement and giving away his style and maybe his Beatles LPs, too.

Okay, let's get back to the new St. Vincent de Paul thrift store. It's in West Des Moines which is a suburb, but the store is also near Valley Junction and the houses that are south of Grand. So there's a chance it'll have a vintage personality. I scored two shirts that give me a glimmer of hope.

Check 'em out.

Yes, I know they're the same shirt, but they're both in such great condition, I couldn't help myself. They were only a dollar each. Goodwill now charges $3.59 per tee shirt - how full of themselves are they? Besides, you never know who might like a classic Hawkeye shirt as a gift. But maybe the shirts are in such good shape because they aren't authentically aged. Maybe that's why there were two of them. How can I tell if these are the real magilla?

For starters, the shirts' material is much thicker than the tees of today, and the letters are not silk screened on. They're made of a second material. You don't see that type of craftsmanship on today's tailgating apparel.

To make my best guess if a shirt is really vintage, I always check the tag.

If you want a vintage product, make sure there is a tag. A screened-in logo screams, "You have toothbrushes older than me."

I'm no expert, but a small, white tag that reads "Starter", "Screen Stars" or "Sportswear" is a pretty good sign in your in vintage territory. It's even better if you don't recognize the company's logo.

I've heard of companies that sell faux vintage rock shirts with reproduction tags, but those unscrupulous people sell their stuff on Ebay for really high prices. They didn't donate their shirts to the Disable American Veterans store, so I think you're safe with what you find in a thrift store. If the tag looks old, you're gold. 

Oh, and by the way, don't trust the tag. That sounds counterintuitive, but if the shirt is truly vintage, then you're going to have to assume the shirt is a size smaller than what the tag states. Vintage size Large equals a modern Medium. Maybe even a tight, modern Medium. I always hold the t-shirt by the seams where the sleeves meet the shoulder to see if it aligns with the same spots on the T-shirt I'm already wearing. You can also grab a modern sized shirt off the rack and lay the vintage shirt on top of to see how they compare. Again, trust your size and your eye, not the tag.

Why go through all this when you can just go to Target and buy the approximate of a vintage shirt for less than ten bucks? Well, humans have an innate desire to be seen as an individual. The fashion industry even has a way to measure this desire. It's called the Consumer Need For Uniqueness scale, and no, I didn't make that up. So yes, you could go to Target and get a Yes concert tee. But how many Target stores are there in the US?

Since every one of those stores is selling twelve of the same shirts in your size, that doesn't really satisfy that need for uniqueness does it?

If you score a shirt that hasn't been worn since the 70's, you got a much better chance at standing out. Maybe that's why I couldn't pass up buying both of those U of I shirts? My subconscious was urging me to thin the herd by one more.

Milestone

As requested by her mom, I am recording in my blog that tonight - for the very first time - Charlotte counted to 100.

Char needed help with what came after the nine's, i.e. forty, fifty, sixty, etc. But the rest she did herself. It's a pretty big deal.

As she was sitting on the potty and wearing nothing but a duck towel at the time, there is no photographic evidence of this event.

You'll just have to trust me.

PS. The best part was when she got to the number 90, "That's how old you are Mom!"

Honey, Plug Your Ears

If the last snow storm proved anything, it's that I need new windshield wipers. I can't deny that wide arc of uncleared dirt and sludge on my windshield any longer. But I DON'T WANT to put on new windshield wipers.

Why?

Because they're tricky.

There, I've said it. I hate to admit it, but I dread installing new wiper blades on my car. It's not that I can't do the installation myself, I can. It's just that it takes around twenty frustrating minutes to get the job done. And by frustrating, I mean frustrating. Just getting the hardware out of its plastic cocoon is a chore. It's like the plastic's an inch thick, and you need the Jaws of Life to set what's inside free.

Then you have to remove the old blades. Sure, that seems simple, but I can never remember what I'm supposed to pull, push or twist. I think these were designed by Ernő Rubik. And the whole time I'm trying to twist, push, and pull, I've got my stomach on the hood of the car and one leg in the air. I look like an idiot, which is what I am.

Ladies and gentlemen, my nemesis:

And you can forget the instructions. Just trying to read them stings my eyes. By figure five I have a headache.

Once I got so mad I threw everything into the neighbor's yard and seriously considered trading in my car for the same model but with newer wiper blades on it.

I know I don't have to do this myself. Some of the local parts stores will do the job for free if you buy the blades from them, and I went that route once about a decade ago. As the guy behind the counter was taking my money, he robotically asked if I wanted him to install the blades. When I said, "Ummm, sure," he looked at me with surprise and then pity. It took him all of 20 seconds to get them on my car. Never had I been so quickly emasculated.

Now I buck up and install wipers like a man, i.e., I get mad easily, and I swear a lot.

"Okay, Charlotte. Time for you to go inside. Dad's got work to do..."

Bag 'o Science

I took Charlotte to the Science Center of Iowa two weekends ago, and during the car ride all Char could talk about were the things she had done in the "Small Discoveries" area last June. I don't even know how she could remember all of that from eight months ago, but people say that kids don't miss a thing, and I have discovered that to be true (most of the time). 

As soon as we bought tickets, Char threw off her coat and bolted around the corner to find the "Small Discoveries" room. It was blocked with an "Under Construction" sign, and I could hear Char's outburst, "Ohhhh Noooooo!" before I could catch up to her. She cried for about a minute, but she calmed down, and the Science Center had a lot of other distractions for her to enjoy. We had a blast, and I wrote about most of our day there in an earlier post. 

What I didn't tell you was that one of the distractions was in a large, conference room with a "Girls In Science" sign pointing to it.

Char likes Sid the Science Kid on PBS and They Might Be Giants's Here Comes Science songs, so I thought we'd give it a whirl. We weren't too sure about the "bug lady" and her Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. The insect was endlessly running on her hand-over-hand-over-hand treadmill, but we leaned in for a peek and learned that the cockroaches only hiss when they're scared.

(Char was squeezing my had too tightly for me to take a picture of our own, so I found Ryan Somma's similar picture on flickr.)

There was a display that allowed you to compared ape skulls to human skulls, but I assumed that was about evolution, and so I steered us clear of that. I don't think Char's ready to understand the grey-area-glue that holds science and religion together in my belief system. For instance, I believe in the science that is practiced by doctors, but after watching my daughter being born in a hospital I have no doubt that God exists.

Luckily, Char was too enthralled with the polyacrylamide polymers to notice the old bones. These tiny spheres are hydrophilic, and the water they like to absorb causes them to swell to sizes you wouldn't think possible. A couple of the polymers on the table were the size of tennis balls. Plus, they're "squishy and they bounce"!

Best of all, the fine folks from Flint Hills gave Char some polymers of her own to grow at home.

When compared to the size of the text on the paper, you can see how small the spheres were.

Following the instructions, we used distilled water from the grocery store so the water would have as few impurities as possible. After soaking for a few days, the spheres grew to the size of a quarter. It became a ritual to "check our project" each morning.

Since they're now mostly composed of water, the spheres disappear when you put them back into the bowl.

The idea was to grow them as large as we could, and then let them dry back down to original size so we could try different liquids. Well, that was my idea anyway. Char's idea was to poke the spheres with her finger and laugh when they shattered into wiggly pieces. We did get one sphere to survive a week of poking and bouncing, and he got to be pretty big.

Let's zoom in.

So, after a couple of visits to the Science Center and a successful science experiment at home, does Charlotte want to grow up and have a job a scientist?

"No, I want to do all of the jobs!"

I think exposure activities like "Girls In Science" help make that possible. Thanks, Science Center.

Abhor Day

I was surprised when the Arbor Day Foundation sent me their 2014 Iowa Tree Survey in the mail.

I guess they don't know much I hate my trees.

Don't get me wrong, I'm against deforestation, and I know that trees are the primary reason why we haven't had a second dust bowl. I enjoy trees in paintings, photographs, and poems. Those huge, ancient trees that have tunnels carved through them are magnificent. I like the trees in your neighborhood, and I love that tree in your grandma's yard that held your old swing.

But when it comes to the trees on my own property, I'm in favor of the scorched earth policy. I don't even like the trees on my neighbor's property. Those trees dump as many leaves and branches on my yard as my own do, so they're just as much trouble, and sometimes more. We lived in our new house one full day before a windstorm roared down the street and a tree blew over into our yard from next door. Quite a trick, the way it neatly jumped the property line. In less than 30 seconds I owned another large, useless, piece of junk tree.

So, I laughed when I read that if I fill out the Arbor Day Foundation's survey, AND send them ten bucks, they'll send me this.

As a gift I'll receive ten more trees to plant where I live? You might as well tell me, "Sign here, and in a month you'll have staff infection." When it comes to trees, my glass is half empty. You say "bird song"; I say "bird crap".

So, no. I'm not filling out their survey. But I did take a minute to read the highly scientific questions.

Talk about taking you on a sentimental journey. Why don't they ask, "As a child, did you ever fall out of a tree and break your arm?" or "During spooky storms, do tree limbs ever look like arms and hands that could reach through the window and take your soul?"

Then there's the irony of the bonus gifts and the survey's paperwork.

Do you know how many trees were killed to create the paper that was used to make the "The Tree Book", "The Rain Forest Rescue Calendar", and even the "2014 Iowa Tree Survey"?

Wait a minute... Hey, Arbor Day Foundation, come on over to my house if you want to make some more paper!

Link: My previous rant about trees

Take That, Sneaky Amazon.com!

Today I was reading this magazine to get ready for a lesson on the future of smart phones.

That's when I came across this product review.

Nice. Daphne really could use a hand warmer. I checked out the "Engeryflux Rechargeable" (didn't that also power the DeLorean in Back to the Future?) on Amazon, and not only was the hand warmer on sale, it had over two hundred positive reviews. Sold.

But dang! I need to spend $35 to get this shipped for free, and those sneaks at Amazon priced this at $34.95. So, as Amazon intended, I started racking my brain for what I could buy that would push the total over the hill and into FREE Shipping territory. My problem was that I couldn't talk myself into buying any unneeded books, CDs, or Blu-rays. That never happens. I'm usually really, really good at talking myself into buying unnecessary junk.

So, like I usually do when I'm faced with serious life problems, I went to Google.

That's where I found this nifty website.

I told www.filleritem.com that I needed an item that cost six cents, and...

... Cha-ching! (Again, I checked out the positive ratings first. I just don't throw around $0.06 without thinking, you know.)

Add the Dixon Valve & Coupling TVW7 Red Vinyl Tuff-Lite Washer for Garden Hose Fitting
to my cart, and...

Taa Daa!

Please see this post's title for the wrap-up.