Interning
Evergreen Freedom Foundation is planning a more organized summer intern program this year. It sounds like fun. I have to pinch myself to realize that I was an intern there almost a decade ago and, alas, have grown up since then. There were no classes in my day, but whenever no one could think of something for me to do I would read my way through all the back issues of The Freeman and further cement my radically libertarian 16-year-old philosophy.

Oh well, they may have classes but they won't get to live with Lynn, browse her library, eat her meals, and listen to Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates at night.

Next best thing to being an intern would be teaching the interns, but I'm too far away for that, either. One of the greatest joys of life is the joy of indoctrination. However, by that time this summer I should be starting in on a much longer and more intense indoctrination of my own personal student. What's six weeks compared to a lifetime?

The thank you cards are all written!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Well, except for two DOB has agreed to undertake this weekend.) Now if I could just find my five missing addresses, one of which is for someone whom we did not invite and who does not appear in the church database. Once these are signed and mailed I can face the world with a clear conscience again.

Political Stuff

Kerry has alleged that high gas prices are the fault of Bush catering to oil interests. C'mon folks, I know you think Bush is dumb, but even he's not dumb enough to manipulate higher prices in an election year. Kerry's solution, meanwhile, is to stop stockpiling oil. Yeah, if we stop saving money, we'll have more to spend!

And at last a study shows that public funding of baseball stadiums isn't necessary for them to be profitable. Not that this makes a difference into whether they should be publicly funded--if they weren't profitable, it would indicate too little interest to justify building them. But free market baseball fans should be happy to learn this will not be necessary.

Interestingly, the opposing viewpoint only argued that teams would make less in profits if they had to pay for the stadium themselves than if the public did--and thus teams in private stadiums would get less back than teams in public stadiums. Obviously. But government isn't supposed to be in the business of removing risk and maximizing profits for private businesses.

A Tragic Day

Ireland has banned smoking in pubs.

Now, understand, I don't drink. I don't smoke. Since the baby, I'm fairly sensitive even to second-hand smoke. I've only been in a pub twice in my life (once in one frequented by Lewis and Tolkien, once in one frequented by Chesterton), and then all I had was lunch. But there has always been a small corner of my soul happy in the image of men in tweed caps smoking and drinking and singing folk songs and plotting political revolutions. I fear if one takes out one piece of the arch, the whole arch may fall. If you smoke with your drink, then you will take your drinks home with you, and then where will the folk songs and revolutions go?

If only Chesterton were here to celebrate the camaraderie of the public which is the purpose of a public house. Let the Irish have their pubs as the Baptists have their potlucks, though neither are very good for our health, because people must and should gather together. Smoking is not improved by driving it out of human fellowship any more than drinking is, as Chesterton did have occasion to write about:

God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon's on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.

. . . .

The wicked Grocer groces
In spirits and in wine
Not frankly and in fellowship
As men in inns do dine;
But packed with soap and sardines
And carried off by grooms,
For to be snatched by Duchesses
And drunk in dressing rooms.

More on Easter Eggs

Posting about Easter eggs has given me cause to ponder the appropriateness of various traditions. I have encountered various Christian arguments or prejudices against such traditions as decorating Easter eggs, hanging up holly and evergreens for Christmas, etc., because they are associated with this or that pagan holiday.

I have no reason to doubt the historicity of their claims. But I do doubt that they follow. After all, pagan does not necessarily mean demonic. A lot of things pagans did simply because they were the natural, human thing to do. It's natural to hang up holly and evergreens inside in the winter, because there's nothing else outside to decorate with. (I don't see anyone banning flower arrangements, but no doubt flowers are associated with evil pagan rites, too.) It's natural to use eggs in a spring holiday, because anybody with chickens has a lot of eggs in the spring. And why not decorate them, when they have that cool blank canvas of a shell just waiting to be decorated?

I can see this being in the meat-offered-to-idols category, where if someone was lured back into some pagan observance by their Christian friends doing something similar it would be a problem, but I really can't see anyone in modern America being drawn back into worshipping the fertility goddess by dyeing eggs. The association just isn't there any more. (They're much more likely to be drawn into it by researching healthy living, relaxation and natural childbirth, but that doesn't mean those things are wrong, either--just that we always have to watch our step.)

This of course is utterly separate and distinct from the question of whether one's traditions associated with a particular religious holiday reinforce pondering the true significance of the holiday, merely add to the festivity and anticipation, or become a distracting encumbrance. That's a judgment call that can only be answered by the people participating.

Easter Eggs

DOB and a fellow rep were meeting with one of their clients last week, an older fellow whose financial concerns (and stories) have taken up a good bit of their time over the last several months.

As they settled down to the newest round of paperwork, Mr. Client said, "Now you guys have been a great help to me with your brains over the past several months. Today I'll need your help with your hands. We've agreed to provide 32 dozen dyed Easter eggs for church, and we've only been able to get 12 dozen done. So after you're finished with this stuff, I'll need you to come out back and dye the rest."

DOB and fellow rep glanced at each other, trying to figure out how to say no without antagonizing the client. Finally Mr. Client cracked up and said he was only joking. Still, I wouldn't put it past him.

Brain Freeze

I had a scheduled phone call today in which I was supposed to give a final answer on whether I was interested in buying a nutritional product, and I wanted to give the ingredient list one more look before saying, "No." (Sounds good in theory, but contains stuff DOB isn't supposed to have.) But I couldn't remember the name of the product.

Now, understand, I've spent several hours on the phone with people praising this product over the past months. I had literature on it, somewhere. I had looked it up on the web before, but longer ago than my history folder. Rack my brain as I could, I could not remember it.

And then, quite suddenly, I remembered that my brothers had casually mentioned once that they had spoofed the product in a camp skit. And I knew what it was.

Born Expensive
Last night we attended our first birthing class. For non-parents among our readers, birthing classes are places where people go and discuss things not normally discussed in polite conversation, which based on my experience with little kids, is excellent preparation for parenthood.

Since it's a forty-minute drive away (the hospital has classes right down the street, but we wanted the Bradley method), and gets out rather late, the teacher has kindly offered to let us come early and watch the video that everyone else will watch at the end of class. Not only does this get us home sooner, but if it gets really gross we can close our eyes without appearing uncooperative. I'm not sure if that will help during birth or not.

The classes were held at a chiropractic office, and one of the chiropractor's wife was there with their four-month-old baby, which she brought out and exhibited for us so we would know what we were working on. We were all duly impressed.

We forgot to put money in the account, so we haven't paid for the class yet. When Rousseau said man was born free, he didn't know what he was talking about.

It was a no-parking zone. I almost hit him when I came through a few minutes later. I'm not sure idiot properly classifies him.

How to Look Like an Idiot and Make Everyone Hate You

Yesterday I was heading to my prenatal visit, driving merrily down the road, when I got into the right turn lane. Only after I had come to a complete stop did I realize that the car in front of me had no occupant and that I was, in fact, parked. At that moment traffic in the lane next to me suddenly filled up with large, evil semis. And unfortunately I was pulled up too far to just swing back out into traffic. So I had to back up, which always confuses me because I forget which gear I am in, while more or less patient people offered me the chance to get back into traffic and then gave up on me.

It should be a no-parking zone. Maybe it is, in which case, I hope they got a ticket.

Can't loiter too long today--sister-in-law is coming over to help clean out the nursery.

Consumer Protection

Anti-trust laws for some reason make it impossible for us to have our DSL line provided by the phone company, even though it runs over the phone lines. So when we have problems with our DSL line, it is unclear (to us and to them) who should solve the problem. I'm not sure what this is meant to protect consumers from, maybe from having spare time on the weekends.

BECAUSE, last Saturday the DSL line was down. So DOB got on the phone with one company, who told him to call the other company. He called the other company and was just being referred back to the first company when the DSL spontaneously started working again. We went on our merry way for awhile and it stopped again. He called them again and they started researching it. Several more phone calls back and forth, several blinks on and off, and a three-hour-late lunch, and they finally scheduled a technician to come visit us Monday morning.

Then it started working again and worked fine the rest of the weekend. So Monday morning I called them and said not to bother. This entailed multiple people from both companies calling us later in the day to confirm that everything was, indeed, fine.

Today it blinked out again. Grrrrrrr.

More Random Comments

Hardly anyone blogs on the weekends. For east coasters, Monday morning is a bleak blog-checking time.

No matter how complimentary the relevant adjective, never use the adverb "enormously" in describing your pregnant wife.

I've been reading a site called "Ladies Against Feminism." Mostly good stuff, aside from an occasional pro-antebellum South statement that raises my hackles. (It's got stuff from a variety of sources, though, so I don't know that that represents the opinions of the editors.) The article on feminism in communist countries was particularly interesting--why did countries opposed to every other (true) right make such a fuss about providing "women's rights?" For real entertainment, read the (expurgated) "Scorching Commentary." "Bible thumping fishwives?" As Dave Barry would say, that would make a great name for a rock band . . .

Last night there was a forum on Creation at our church, with presentations by various men in the church, including a fine one by DOB's dad. One question that was raised still has me pondering--a woman asked how a spirit could create all the material world. I guess we tend to think of "spirit" as a weak shadow of "reality," no matter how hard we try, and the tangible as the most real. But then someone referred to DNA, and I realized that it is always the intangible that makes the tangible. What, for instance, is transforming biscuits and eggs into baby as I type? It is that mysterious code of DNA that somehow has ordered a single cell to divide and diversify according to a written plan. The flesh profiteth nothing. It is the Spirit--the Word--that giveth life.

Justice Scalia is, of course, brilliant even when forced to argue in his own defense. His opinion is a masterful example of explaining one's actions without being defensive--indeed, he graciously attacks back. If Supreme Court justices can no longer have a nodding acquaintance with members of the administration, we will indeed have a hard time operating a Supreme Court.

My weird aunt will be particularly interested to know you can now view Shakespeare's will online. But the legibility is not particularly high. It puts me in mind of Mark Twain in The Innocents Abroad:

"Ah--Ferguson--what--what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this?"

"Christopher Colombo! ze great Christopher Colombo!"

Another deliberate examination.

"Ah--did he write it himself, or--or how?"

"He write it himself!--Christopher Colombo! he's own handwriting, write by himself!"

Then the doctor laid the document down and said:

"Why I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that."

"But zis is ze great Christo---"

"I don't care who it is! It's the worst writing I ever saw. No you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of real merit, trot them out!--and if you haven't, drive on!"

Yesterday was St. Patrick's day, and I didn't fix corned beef and cabbage. I didn't make green cake or even green jello. And I didn't watch The Quiet Man, which is what my family always watched on St. Patrick's day once we outgrew Darby O'Gill and the Little People.

We watched Father's Little Dividend instead, mostly because we have it and we are trying to watch all the DVD's we want to before the DVD player gets turned into the office assistant's computer and goes in to the office. We are now very grateful for non-meddling parents and marital harmony.

Another movie we watched this past week was called Son of Monte Cristo. We weren't expecting that much from it, just a corny black-and-white action movie. It turned out to be great: compelling villain, almost believable hero, good political plot, well-drawn minor characters, and suspense that built until the last minute of the movie. Three thumbs up! (Baby liked it, too.)

First segment of thank you cards written, putting us at 108 out of about 190. Don't get too impatient, though, they still have to be signed, licked, stamped, and mailed.

And the longest extension I can find from an etiquette site is 3 months. Rats. However, they do say better late than never. And I am not yet as late as the latest wedding thank-you I have ever received. I just have this nagging suspicion that half the people from my half of the list are going to open their cards and say, "Do we know these people?"

Today starts the third trimester of being pregnant. Which raises new questions and challenges, like "How do I tie my shoes?" Good thing I can put my boots away in a few more weeks.

Clarification

I did not ask her to shovel the driveway (or the car). I was preparing to leave for an appointment and looked out the window and there she was. Having never dealt with snow shovels before, she didn't realize that a shovel-full of the white stuff can be as heavy as a couple gallons of water (this measurement taken from the basic ingredients of snow). Better done by a grown man than an expectant mother.

Wait... I'm a grown man?! Ack...

Random observations:

An actual snowfall is not as bad as snow threatening. But I still wish it would melt.

I need lessons in snow shovelling. Some things I learned: Bend at the knees. Don't use a shovel on the car. It's heavier than it feels

The secret to hot cereal is not overcooking it. The secret to not overcooking it is remembering that it is in there while simultaneously ironing DOB's clothes. The secret to remembering it is to have a brain, which I never locate until mid-morning.

I'm pleased to report that even though I am now happily married, I still despise it as much as ever when people gush about their love life. So my disgust wasn't motivated by envy, anyway, but true Nordic dislike of public gushiness. (Then again, maybe now I envy those who still have time and energy to gush. Ha, just wait until you have kids!)

Speaking of having kids, I'm speculating on whether people really, really wanting kids is as bad for the kids as not being wanted. Imagine being a poor newborn baby, suddenly faced with fulfilling someone's huge expectations for you to fulfill their emotional needs or redo their life for them. You wouldn't know what hit you. And you couldn't possibly measure up, resulting in constant frustration on both ends. The best reason to have kids is as the accidental byproduct of being happily married. (Under which circumstances, as DOB points out, the chances are pretty good.)

So I wonder what the psychological effect is of a society in which it is standard procedure to wait to have children until you are desperate. It really can't be good for a child to have their parents buying them lesson cd's to improve their mind prenatally. Relax, Baby, we're happy to have you along for the ride, but we don't need you to fix the car or anything.

Anchors Aweigh

Last night we attended a political event at a place billed as the "Yacht Club Clubhouse." The title seemed a tad redundant, but I was curious to see what yacht clubs looked like in the midwest.

After all, though I had never been into boating myself, I had certainly attended events at yacht clubs and knew what they were like: large, bare buildings with a basic kitchen and bathroom and a big empty room where presumably the members meet and fight over the cost of repairing the marina. Outside would be a long marina and a whole lot of boats.

As we drove up, I noted the building was rather small. Also it seemed to be on a bit of a hill. Inside, it was quite the most elegantly furnished "yacht club" I had ever seen, with nautically-themed decor and cream-colored leather sofas. However, hard as I peered through the gathering darkness outside I could see no sign of actual boats. Or, for that matter, water, except for a small pond and a half-empty swimming pool.

Maybe they run remote-controlled yacht races in the swimming pool.

Marital Strength Test

Yes, DOB and QOC have survived the ultimate test to the strength of their marriage. It's not balancing the checkbook or even remodelling.

The ultimate test is whether you can jointly sort through boxes of old stuff and decide what to throw away and what to keep.

This is because the balance of nature is so arranged that a person who treasures the ball maze game Mrs. Feeblemeister gave them for reciting Psalm 1 in Sunday School in 1985 invariably marries someone who would throw away the crown jewels if they took too long to dust. And few issues so resonate with the deepest core values of a person as what they think is worth keeping around.

Not that I can't appreciate the value of having a saver around. For instance, DOB still has five boxes of toys left from childhood, many of which our own children will be allowed to enjoy. (One box has been designated Daddy's Toys and cannot be touched without careful supervision.) I have half-a-dozen stuffed animals, everything else having passed into the communal stock at my family's house, where it was destroyed by succeeding generations of siblings, guests, and grandchildren.

Still, it is a challenge to learn the proper reverence with which one should approach the heirlooms of childhood. I knew my approach was still wrong when I found myself asking if the mud on the truck tires was heirloom mud or I could wash it off . . .

Regardless, we got twelve boxes sorted and moved up to the attic. Now comes the really hard part: sorting old files and schoolwork. But I have a crib offer, so something's got to go in there.