You're probably thinking about intimidating pointy-teethed ferocity and vicious stomping feet. We all are. It's an inspiring, awesome picture.
But hippos can also bring about thoughts of tenderness. Especially when you're talking about a hippo meat tenderizer.
I received two of these important kitchen implements in my many travels around the Malls of the Midwest. One of them, I gave to my mother for so it is written, "Verily, thou shalt bequeath thine extra hippo meat tenderizer to thine Mom." The other one resides quietly in the utensil drawer until either I need to tenderize some meats or Aaron needs to break something expensive. It's a heavy object, suitable for tenderizing even the toughest meats, like buffalo, ox, and gorilla. I have not used it to tenderize actual hippo meat, because A) they don't sell it at the Hy-Vee and because B) using a hippo meat tenderizer to tenderize hippo meat just sounds like one of those things that would give you mad cow disease.
I find it interesting that the way this hippo finds tenderness is by beating the living daylights out of a slab of meat. Perhaps there's a lesson there. Or at least, a lesson for violent crazy people. I admit, I don't buy too many meats that need tenderizin'. When I do, it kind of feels like a special event. I gather the whole family around and dim the lights a little bit and bash the holy hell out of some pork. I also use it to crunch up potato chips for a fancy tuna hot dish topping. But then it goes right back in the utensil drawer, between the hippo bottle opener and the melon baller.
I derive great comfort knowing that it's there, because what if I'm in the kitchen and someone tries to break into the house? And all the knives are in the dishwasher? Well, then it's Mr. Tenderizer there to save the day! Kill 'em with tenderness I always say. At least until I find a hippo magnum next time I'm at the mall.
Last Christmas, if you'll recall, Aaron asked for earplugs. It's a tale worth recalling, because Aaron refused to ask Santa at the pharmacy (yes, Santa was at the pharmacy, probably got a touch of the ol' rheumatoid). Instead, he pulled Jenna away from the crowd of terrified children, bade her to lean in closer, pressed his lips right against her ear, and said, "BLUE EARPLUGS."
That was when Aaron was three. Does he still like earplugs?
Yes. Yes he does.
After a good week in preschool, Aaron got a special gift of a tiny can of earplugs. He was showing them off to me at dinner. They are hot pink -- his favorite color. The brand name is "Sleep Pretty in Pink earplugs." Jenna was relaying to me his pleasure at receiving a new batch of earplugs in the car. He opened the little canister and sighed, "Ohhhh, they're so squishy."
Over dinner, while he was lovingly squishing his earplugs, Aaron asked, "Why are they called earplugs?"
Jenna and I exchanged a glance.
"Huh," she replied. "That's a good question."
"We should try to find that out," I added.
"Do you think you're supposed to put them in your ear?" Aaron asked.
Glances were re-exchanged. "You shouldn't stick anything smaller than your elbow in your ear," Jenna said.
"I know, I know. I was just kidding," Aaron assured us.
So I'll have to add this to the list of things to discuss when Aaron's older. The truth about the tooth fairy, the birds and the bees, and the real purpose of earplugs.
So that part is the same. He still collects them, along with marbles, rocks, beads, and a bottle cap from a bottle of Spotted Cow. The new twist is that he keeps them in his motorboat.
The motorboat appeared one afternoon in the living room. It was a collection of all his favorite toys, books, clothes, toothpastes, pretend sandwich fixings, and shampoo piled into a laundry basket. He packs everything in, and uses a jumprope to tie a second box of goodies to it, including his earplugs.
We've since moved it to his bedroom, as it kept increasing in size. I'm not sure where the idea of a motorboat-as-emergency-shelter came from, but it's his new favorite thing to play. We all sit on his bed, and he drives his motorboat to the beach, and we have to survive there for 109 weeks, with only sandwich fixings to eat and only two kinds of toothpaste.
So he's made room on the ol' motorboat for a new pack of earplugs. I kind of dread the day that he wakes up and says, "Earplugs on a pretend motorboat? What was I thinking? I need Bionicle Sword Monsters."
Especially because I don't think Bionicle Sword Monsters are available in hot pink.
What's one thing a houseguest should always do?
Breathe.
Ever since last night, when my family started up an all family band, people have been coming up to me and asking how and/or why I got involved in an all family band. Well, not really. But they're bound to start anytime.
See, it all started with My Book About Me, which is a book, as you might have guessed, about Aaron. We were filling in a few more of the blanks, such as number of light bulbs in Aaron's house (31), number of upper teeth Aaron has (10) and Aaron's favorite color (pink, blue, purple, yellow, and brown), and we came to musical instruments. Aaron pointed out that his favorite musical instrument was drums. He also pointed out that he is pretty good at playing them.
Thus, the idea for a band was born. Aaron grabbed his Play-Doh rolling pin and started merrily banging it against any surface he could find. The banging produced the desired effect, which is noise. Aaron kicked it up a proverbial notch and started banging in double time. He is a regular Steve Houghton!
Once he showed he could lay down a beat, he invited Jenna and I to join his band, with Jenna as lead singer and me on the whistle. Unfortunately, I have a tragic tongue deformity that prevents me from being a good whistler, so Jenna and I swapped parts and took off on our first #1 hit: The Alphabet Song. We got as far as C before we had to stop. "What if the rule was whenever I hit this drum, you have to stop?" Aaron asked.
We agreed it was a good rule. He banged the drum to try it out.
"Stop! We can't sing this until I get a new cup for a drum," he pointed out.
So I ran to the kitchen and got a new drum. Jenna suggested we start all over again. "A one, a two, a one-two-three-four..." she began.
"Stop!" Aaron said, hitting the stopping drum again. "I need to start it out, by hitting this drum!"
He hit the drum a few times and we started back up with our whistle/sing duet of A-B-C.
Aaron hit the stopping drum. "Stop! No, Mommy start with one, two, three."
So she started again, and he stopped us again.
"Stop! I start, then go Mommy. From the beginning."
So he banged his drum a few times, then Jenna said, "A one, a two, a one-two-three-four..." and I came in with my haunting rendition of the first four letters of the alphabet before Aaron hit the stopping drum.
"Stop! Daddy, you need to count, too. And I need a new drum. And another rule is that after I hit the stopping drum, I say 'Stop'."
I ran back to the kitchen to get a new drum. When I returned Aaron gave us the introduction, then Jenna followed with her "A one, a two, a one-two-three," and then I came in with "a one, a two, a one-two-three," and then Aaron immediately shut it down with the stopping drum.
"Stop! We're counting to four here."
"Should we start over from the beginning?"
"No, we're singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat now."
Row, Row, Row Your Boat required an entirely different set of drums, so we waited while Aaron pounded a few things in the room experimentally before assembling his kit.
I privately feared that we'd hit a sophomore slump, especially considering we'd never actually made it through our first single. Jenna was worried about more practical matters, though. "If we're doing a second song, we need a cool name for our band. What should our band name be?"
Aaron thought for a second, then came up with, "The Three Stoppy Stop-Stops."
And although Aaron categorically refuses to let us perform it as a round and we have yet to actually finish the song, our first hour of practice went quite well.
Although we did stop a lot.
If you were going to enter a competitive eating contest, what food would you choose to speed eat?
Chicken Koubideh and dill rice. Not so much because I think I'd be able to eat it fast, but because I can't find it anywhere anymore, and I'd kind of like to have it again.
I want you to imagine the worst thing imaginable. The thing that rolls together horror and misery and despair and gnashing of teeth into a multicolored Play-Doh ball of awfulness.
Is the thing you're imagining a haircut?
Because with Aaron, that thing is a haircut.
We cannot get him to sit still for a haircut. It's horrible. He'll squirm and scream and jump out of the chair with his big vinyl smock tied around his neck and head for the door. He does not want his hair exposed to anything that makes a humming noise, a clicking noise or no noise at all. He does not want a haircut.
We have tried distracting him with things. We've tried reading him a story. We've tried giving him toys, crayons, stickers, barber's implements. We've tried letting him watch Backyardigans on Jenna's iPod, which he calls iPot. And to digress for a moment, I think he is probably pronouncing it Eye-Pot. Like a place to cook your eyes. I kind of marvel at his understanding of the English language and his clever attempts to force things to make sense. I also like the way he pronounces "spaghetti" as "pasghetti" and then when you correct him, he can only get as far as "spasgetti." End digression.
We have tried promising him treats. Candy, a new toy, two new toys, toys filled with candy, candy stuffed with toys, playgrounds, waterparks, a trip to Grandma's, his own Eye-pot, macaroni and cheese, the secret of where babies come from, a four-speed dual-quad positraction bottle of 409, life among the clouds, phenomenal cosmic power, rodents of unusual size, a twinkie weiner sandwich, three toys. Nothing works.
For a while, we thought it would be easier to administer haircuts here at home, where Aaron has no social pressure to stop screaming bloody murder. Then we thought we should let the barber handle it and back off until we saw the desperate way she was clutching for the shears. Our newest solution is to just not give him a haircut until he desperately needs it, and then give him a third of a haircut and call it a night.
So imagine our surprise tonight when Jenna was cutting my hair and Aaron volunteered to be next.
We were flabbergasted. I practically jumped out of the chair to allow him his turn to show us how much he's matured since July 6th. He was requesting a haircut. Asking for the thing he loathes most in this world. He sat down in the chair and wanted to test out the trimmer. He touched it a few times and sat back so Jenna could give him a haircut.
Slowly, carefully, she pressed the trimmer against his neck... and he jerked away. "Don't cut my neck, Mommy! Cut my hair!"
So she tried an inch or so higher, and he pointed out that higher on his neck is still his neck. Jenna showed him that the best way to get at the hair is to start from underneath it. He considered the answer and accepted. He sat back again, and Jenna made a quick swipe up his hair.
And he laughed and laughed. He scrunched up his shoulders and giggled and seemed to happy. Unfortunately the shoulder scrunching and the laughter made it nigh impossible for Jenna to get in close enough to cut any hair. Every time she tried a new approach, he threw his head to one side and let out a mighty guffaw. Desperately, she tried to hold his head, laughing with him, and get a few more hairs. His laughing became coarser, and he tucked his head between his shoulders.
She was still getting nowhere. It didn't really tickle, he was just doing haircuts like he does bedtime: finding any excuse to get out of it. In a minute, he had jumped up from the chair and announced that he didn't want any more haircut, but he sure would like a treat.
We didn't even get to a third of a haircut. Maybe next time.
Of course, there's one other thing to consider. The constant reassurances I offer him are coming directly from the head of a bald man. Kid's got a good head on his shoulders. A good, messy head.
1. I am able to use my computer only by carefully moving around the power cord until the little blue battery light turns on, then slowly tucking the cord in that general position and not getting up too quickly. It's becoming tiresome, so I have turned to a better solution: a third-rate cheaply made substitute power cord! So when that arrives, I'll have no excuse for not using my computer except fear that it will cause fires/explosions/plague.
2. Today we went to the county fair. When I was growing up, county fair weekend was an instrumental part of my life, cementing my love of peach pie and kettle corn, double Ferris wheels and The Zipper, and of course, hastily thrown together musical theatre. We unfortunately forwent all of these experiences today, because I packed Aaron into the car and then left his sandals at home, so he was barefoot and urchin-like and I carried him around on my back as if I'd won him at the Skee-ball booth. Fortunately, you can take some satisfaction in knowing that we ate enough fried fried food to fell a fried horse. Then we had cookies and caramel apples for dessert. Please do not tell Wii Fit.
3. We have not had running water in the kitchen for a week now, because we had to disconnect the plumbing and remove the countertops in order to template our new countertops, and it didn't seem worth replacing it all only to tear it all out again in two weeks. That being said, I'm not overly fond of doing dishes in the bathroom sink and skipping the glass of water in favor of whatever cold liquids we have in the fridge, like Capri Sun Tropical Twist, or ketchup.
4. I'm super excited about this week. It contains waterparks, Harry Potter, Bill and Jessica, youthful exuberance, Guitar Hero with a full band(!), Milkweeds CD release, and Mad Men Season 2 DVD release! I refuse to even think about the fact that it's all downhill from here. Aw, crap.
5. I picked up a Cien Fuegos magazine this morning, and there, smack dab in the middle was my story about Microbreweries. Does this mean I can call myself a published writer? Can I get that tattooed in a ring around my navel? If not, I can always go with the ankle tattoo that says "Newsletter assembler and long-suffering Red Light/Green Light participant," but it lacks some of the panache.
What do you think we'll be wearing twenty years from now?
Presented by Intel, Sponsors of Tomorrow.Pants.
i've wanted to blog. i really have. in the evenings, i go to my computer and try to write down a few things, like aaron's new word, "what-the-believable" or his impassioned love for the game pikmin 2. i had a who-would-win-in-a-fight all planned out between mega man enemies and doritos flavors. i even wanted to upload a photo of a hippo that stands on its nose but it's no good. every time i get close my computer, it starts ticking at me. a series of high-pitched gentle clicks tell me that the cpu is no longer getting power from the outlet, and the batteries are drying up faster than a catfish in kuwait. the screen gets dimmer and dimmer and i know i only have a few moments left and i have to make the horrible decision to either try to get something in this blog or check and see if steve will ever update thesneeze.com again and he never ever does and i've chosen wrong again and oh the ticking. my time is shor
What prevents your city/town from being the best place in the country to live?
Submitted by Cherney.
It takes me a while to warm up to a new place to live. When we first moved to Chicago, I remember driving down those endless crowded streets with their payday advance loans and their Mexican grocery stores and being terrified. It wasn't an easy adjustment. I remember Jenna's excited assurances that it would exciting, a fresh new place to live, and I just squeezed her hand in reply.
Eventually, after I got to walk around the neighborhood, I warmed up to Chicago. I got excited about the theater and the new and different restaurants and the museums and especially the lakefront. The longer I lived there, the more things I liked about Chicago. The drivers were still crazy, but I adapted to their unique brand of craziness. And I bought groceries from the SuperMercado. I even bought elotes from a street vendor. I liked Chicago.
And then we moved again.
And once again, it took me a while to warm up. We drove down those crooked, oddly named streets with their unpronounceable bakeries and total lack of ethnic food, and I was freaking out. But Jenna was excited about the bike paths and the local events and the beautiful view when the fog lifts from the bluffs, and I squeezed her hand again.
I love it here. I want to convince everyone I know to move here. I wake up and drive along the river and think, Is this really my home? We walk around the lake and I wonder how I could be so lucky. When I pull into the coffee shop, the owners know my order and when I go to the bakery, I get free donuts. It's a great place to live.
But would it kill them to open an Indian restaurant?
