The institutional mouthpiece of Kjel.org

It’s entirely possible that my recent actions may have sparked an interplanetary war, or at least some sort of cross-species squabble. There was something in my kitchen last night that appeared to be masquerading as an insect. It did not look real. It was electric green in color, and glowed in the dark a little bit. Once I noticed it and mentioned something to the CFO it tried to hide as if it understood the words coming out of my mouth. It was fast, and coordinated too. Its defensive maneuvers evidenced way too much intelligence for an animal with a brain the size of a pinhead. The crazy looking bug also happens to be super smart as well? Doubtful. Was the little thing a robot? Maybe, but unless DARPA is way ahead of where I think they are I wasn’t looking at man-made technology right there. An extraterrestrial scout of some sort? Well, like Sherlock Holmes said, once you eliminate the probable, whatever remains no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

That didn’t stop me from deciding the thing, whatever it was, needed to die — it was trespassing in my kitchen after all. The Jr. VP saw me stalking it and came over to watch and/or help. I finally had it cornered and was moving in the for the kill when a thought occurred to me: Stinkboy, you remember the end of Predator? Might want to back up a bit while I do this. Jr. took up a defensive position behind the couch. I squished whatever the hell it was and disposed of it. Within 10 seconds of the squishing an odd sounding siren started to wail from somewhere in my neighborhood. A signal to the mother ship perhaps? If I had a bunker I would have slept in it last night. If you see a flying saucer hovering over SW Portland soon, possibly firing death rays or raining down some other sort of destruction go ahead and assume it was my fault. Sorry.

Sometimes a certain event will drive home to me that the Jr. VP is my boy. One such event occurred last night: Kjel.org was eating tasty cross-cut Korean style ribs, made in the manner of the Chief Educator. Jr. would not eat pieces of meat that I or the CFO cut for him. He instead insisted on picking up the bones and gnawing it off on his own. Where possibly might he ever have seen someone do that before? I have no idea. Could be genetic I guess.

Lately ribs might have surpassed pizza as the lad’s favorite food. When you ask him what he wants for dinner now he often answers “Bones!”. This means any sort pork or beef ribs, prepared any style. I think this shift can be partly explained by Stinkboy’s belief that he is sometimes a puppy. In the same way that some dogs think they are people the Jr. VP thinks he is a canine and should therefore, as cartoons have taught him, subsist on bones. If he wants to try it I’m willing to let him; he can eat fruit and vegetables at “school.”

Often if I am asleep for too long in the morning and the Jr. VP is awake, the CFO will send him in to wake me up. Wake up Daddy!! yelled in my ear from point blank range followed with a headbutt was the lad’s preferred method for a long time. Now though? The CFO sent him in this morning and all he did was make sure I had enough covers on me and say Night night Daddy in a quiet little voice. I got up a little later and thanked the lad for helping me. Stinkboy does the same for the Intern while he is in his little chair; nice to see this sort of thing rub off. Then it was off to the factory for me.

I get worried leaving the CFO at home all day unsupervised. Who knows what sort of mischief she might get into? Luckily, she’s got her WWTCEOTMTD* bracelet to consult should any problems arise so I think she’ll be fine.

* What Would The CEO Tell Me To Do? Note that it is specifically not WWTCEOD. The bracelet is meant to help, after all.

This just in! The Weekly World News (aka The Official News Magazine of Kjel.org) has ceased publication. Dammit. Now how am I supposed to keep track of Batboy? Did you know that Kjel.org is the #1 Google result when you search on “love your Batboy”? Now you do.

The Jr. VP is coming unraveled a little bit. His universe has exploded after all; I suppose I’d do the same. The smallest thing can now bring on tantrums:

Yesterday evening the Jr. VP looked at me and the CFO and very clearly said “Where’s Colonel Klink?” It didn’t register at first. CEO: “Huh? Where’s your caramel drink? What’s a camel think?” “Colonel Klink?!” Say What? “DADDY STOP! (said in Monster voice to show he’s serious) WHERE’S COLONEL KLINK!!” I looked at him, shook my fist, and said “Stiinnkkboyyyy!” like Klink might have said to Hogan. Jr didn’t get it. Finally it dawned on the CFO: Stinkboy was looking for his book about one Homer Jay Simpson, which happens to include a page about Homer’s Heroes, one of which is the good Colonel. Luckily the book was found and a meltdown averted. I’m sure there were several other two-year-olds in town last night asking about the location of Colonel Klink.

One meltdown that was not averted: the other day during a tantrum he was screaming “No Cookies!” The lad had a small bowl of cookies that he did not want to eat for some reason. No cookies? Who are you and what have you done with my son? My real son begs for cookies and would eat them until he barfs, and then eat more cookies until he barfs again. And then repeat the cycle again. And again. And probably one or two more times after that. Things must be really awry in his universe if the Jr. VP is refusing cookies. Sorry boy.

At least when Jr. is having a freak-out he is only mad at Mommy and Daddy; the Jr. VP loves his little brother. So far anyway. Example from last night:

When the Intern starts to cry the Jr. VP will often drop whatever he is doing and rush over to help. “Baby needs a paci!” (as the pacifier is called in the Stinkboy lexicon — pronounced “passy“) Jr. then immediately turns to the CEO and says “Daddy, Baby’s crying! Help!” Daddy grabs the paci and inserts into the Intern’s mouth; said baby is now happy and quiet. While I am doing this Jr is saying to the Intern: “it’s OK Baby, Daddy’s gotcha, it’s OK!”

If you don’t have kids you might not understand but I damn near teared up at that one. Then I watched Horacio Ramirez give up a three run go-ahead homer to the Texas Rangers and a few tears did actually run down my face. Stupid Mariners. Good Stinkboy though.

We are almost to the one week point of having the new lad at home, so I believe it is time for a Kjel.org retrospective on the week that was:

Thursday the 12th.

We show up Thursday morning at the hospital. To say that the CFO was ready to be not pregnant anymore is the understatement of the year or quite possibly the decade:

Everything went pretty smoothly and by 2:00 or so Mommy and Baby were in the recovery room, recovering. Mommy was much more lucid then she was last time, as was Daddy. The reason? My advice to any good sirs reading this is that should your lady ever have a c-section stay north of the curtain. Last time I peaked over and saw a doctor scooping into the CFO’s guts with what looked like a garden trowel. A surgical trowel, at least, but still a trowel. I threw up a little bit in my mouth at that. It was a mistake I did not repeat this time.

The baby, fresh out of the oven. Representin’. Word to the A.K.:

Friday the 13th.

Mommy and baby spent the day chilling out at the hospital:

Saturday the 14th / Sunday the 15th.

The CFO and Baby check out of the hospital on Saturday and head home. I even give her a ride. We have visitors for what seems like forever over the weekend and then finally we get a bit of peace and quiet by late Sunday afternoon. The CFO is commanded in no uncertain terms to sit, but she keeps wanting to do stuff. Unbeknownst to her I increase the dosage on her narcotics and she becomes passive like a little lamb. Perfect. By early Sunday evening I leave the CFO and various boys inside sleeping, pour myself a double (I think I earned it) gin and tonic and head out into the twilight to water the couple of plants still alive at the HQ. Quite a pleasant evening.

Monday the 16th - Friday the 20th.

Early in the week it is beginning to dawn on the Jr. VP that the Intern isn’t “going home” or leaving any time soon. He is generally OK with that, and even hysterically funny at times (I’m a baby! Waaaaa! Then he grabs for the CFO’s boobs. . .), but also a bit troubled. Stinkboy is used to undivided attention, and there’s just no way to provide that anymore. Plus, since the new Intern sleeps all the time (except when you want him to, like, say, at night) Mommy and Daddy (but especially Mommy) are pretty tired most of the time and just can’t handle him. Thank God for TV. And for cookies. And for naps for Mommy. And for the Jr. VP remaining in “school” during the day. And for Delivered Dish.

My office has been very accommodating this week, but I really can’t do half days like I have been for too much longer. It’s not like I work for a college or something. As the wise ghostbusting sage Dr. Ray Stantz explained: “Personally, I liked the university. They gave us money and facilities, we didn’t have to produce anything! You’ve never been out of college! You don’t know what it’s like out there! I’ve worked in the private sector. They expect results.” And my pals in the industry have been cool too: take a look at this. Who knew I was so nice?

All in all, a decent first week. The Baby is fine health-wise and still getting the hang of the whole “hey look, I’m alive” thing. Mommy is feeling OK and is developing a very nice Oxycodone addiction. I may need to roll a few street people next week when her prescription runs out. The Jr. VP is soldiering on as well as he can, but he is the Best Boy in Town (claims to be, anyway) so I have a feeling he’ll be fine. And the CEO? Frankly, he’s never been better.

About 3 years ago or so I slid one under the CFO’s radar. It looks like I may have done it again.

It’s really too bad the new Intern’s middle name means “Wuss”. Still: He’s a man. He’s a warrior.

HQ status report: The CFO seems fine, but she complains about being sore and very very sleepy. She also tells some crazy story about being unable to lift anything or walk more than 200 feet in any given day. Whatever. Just in case though Kjel.org is strictly rationing the CFO’s activity. Common phrase right now at the HQ: Sit down, I’ll get it!

The HQ is beginning to run low on certain provisions; this afternoon me, the Jr. VP and his intern might go foraging. Sleep tight CFO.

It’s baby time! Mommy and the Jr. VP’s new intern are doing fine. I’ll give a full play-by-play (with pictures!) in a day or two.

Kjel.org is at Code Red: Severe risk of infant attack. Tank is due in 16-18 hours. Precautions are being taken: the Jr. VP has been confined to his quarters and the Kjel.org elders summoned. The CEO will report tomorrow as able. Query this space and/or the Chiefs Educator and Bride for updates. Or I suppose you could call me. Anyway, news by tomorrow afternoon.

Don’t worry Stinky, she never said anything like that about you. As far as you know.

The CFO is at Tank minus 36 hours this evening. Did I mention that she loves the fact it was 102 degrees today? I’ve been told that most of the other 8.92 to 8.98 month pregnant women in town right now do too.

Tomorrow Kjel.org is taking the day off and going to the Children’s Museum, a park or two, maybe the zoo, pizza for lunch, and anywhere else we can think to take the boy that might assuage the CFO’s and my conscience. Sorry Jr. VP. You’re a very good boy, and you’ve had a good run, but it all comes to end Thursday morning. Don’t take it personally. Look on the bright side: you aren’t losing a Mommy and Daddy. You’re gaining an intern. View this as a promotion. Please don’t scream too much over the next few weeks, and if you can find it in your heart not to bite anyone involved here Daddy will make it worth your while.

The Jr VP wore two thirds of a Twix bar on his face during our drive home the other day. He and I had stopped at the Thefty to buy groceries, and he was so supportive and helpful (”Good job Daddy!“) when I managed to select three peaches that weren’t rotten — they’re for the CFO, don’t worry) that I thought it would be nice to get a treat he and I could share in the car on the way home. Since the Twix comes in two pieces, I thought it perfect. A poor decision in retrospect.

I forgot it would be 90 degrees in the car when we got in. Jr took a bite (Candy bar! Yay!) and liked it, but on bite #2 he missed his mouth and got chocolate up his nose. I saw it and laughed. Big mistake on my part. So as we are driving up SW 45th, I’m looking into the backseat and saying No! Stop! Take a bite! while trying to avoid swerving into the other lane, and he is drawing on his own face with melted chocolate and laughing and laughing. It’s not every day I have to beg and plead with the boy to please take bites of candy, but there we were. By the 7-11 on SW 49th even Jr. recognized that we might have a problem: the words “Daddy! Napkin!” bubbled up out of his chocolaty mouth several times. Sorry I didn’t get a picture.

I found a new best friend over the weekend. Bought him is actually more accurate. He looks a little like R2-D2, but is better: could R2 turn evil hot air into pleasant cold? I think not. I call my new best friend “A.C.” Here is a picture of him, regulating:

Glorious. I’ve been trying to increase the size of Kjel.org’s carbon footprint (since there seem to be so many folks slacking off on that front lately, and the damned climate isn’t going to change itself. Unless of course global warming is not caused by man and is instead part of the natural cycle of things, but I digress. . . ) and I think this is going to help quite a bit. Sure I’m heating up the neighborhood, but the HQ is a sanity inducing 70 degrees. And my enemies list will stay safely tucked away where it belongs. Odds that it might otherwise have come out tomorrow? Looking high:

Kjel.org got sandwiches and went to the park today for lunch. The Jr. VP got his standard Sub: white bread, ham, cheddar, and olives. No other topping or condiment. He devoured it. We played and ran, then we came home to watch baseball. 2/3 of Kjel.org is currently napping, and then this evening the CFO’s brother is coming over with a pizza. A pretty calm normal Sunday. If only Stinkboy knew that it was the last of it’s breed. Sad in a way, but by one week from today his world is going to be an entirely different place, and he seems to really like the place as it is right now.

The theoretical “baby brother!” that he talks about and points to in the CFO’s belly (and yells It’s OK! We’re gonna get you out soon!)to even is going to become reality. Is he ready for it? No way to tell. My gut feeling is that he’ll be fine, especially since there are decent odds that Tank will end up being a miniature version of Jr. There would be absolutely nothing at all wrong with that in my book. Aside from the head-butts. If Tank is different in that respect I would be OK with it.

The Chiefs Educator and Bride sharing a kiss:

Chief Bride watch out! It’s a Kodiak bear!

An organizational update: we are at exactly Tank minus one week as of noon today. The CFO continues to soldier on, barely. Not sure how much longer she can take this especially since Tank seems to really enjoy punching her various assorted organs. He might be a boxer when he comes out; apparently he’s got tremendous reach. Bladder, kidneys, spleen, lungs, brain — he nails them all repeatedly with lefts jabs and right hooks. According to some reports he’s also been observed trying to chew his way to freedom. He won’t get far without teeth, but through her grimaces the CFO might argue that he already has at least a few.

From a UK newspaper:

I KICKED BURNING TERRORIST SO HARD IN BALLS THAT I TORE A TENDON!

Someday I too would like to be quoted thusly in a newspaper, or at least have a quote like that be accurately attributed to someone I know. The Chief Sniper maybe? On that note, allow me to issue a formal Thank You Chief! for your assistance with the furniture moving at the HQ the other day. I’m sorry we came up with a better solution than the one we briefly contemplated; I was really looking forward to seeing you bench press that bed. Stupid brain(s).

A few words from the Man himself. Substitute “inalienable” for “God-given” if need be, but the truth still holds:

“Somewhere in our growing up we began to be aware of the meaning of days and with that awareness came the birth of patriotism. July Fourth is the birthday of our nation. I believed as a boy, and believe even more today, that it is the birthday of the greatest nation on earth… In recent years, however, I’ve come to think of that day as more than just the birthday of a nation. It also commemorates the only true philosophical revolution in all history. Oh, there have been revolutions before and since ours. But those revolutions simply exchanged one set of rules for another. Ours was a revolution that changed the very concept of government. Let the Fourth of July always be a reminder that here in this land, for the first time, it was decided that man is born with certain God-given rights; that government is only a convenience created and managed by the people, with no powers of its own except those voluntarily granted to it by the people. We sometimes forget that great truth, and we never should. Happy Fourth of July.”—Ronald Reagan

Now go drink some beer and blow up something if you have not already done so.

And here comes the heat:

As much as the CEO dislikes hot weather, I would agree that perhaps the CFO has a worse time of it right now. Tank arrives no later than next Thursday, but I have a feeling the CFO wouldn’t mind if he wanted to poke his little head out a bit before that.

A “well, duh” article in the British press the other day:

Babies not as innocent as they pretend
Whether lying about raiding the biscuit tin or denying they broke a toy, all children try to mislead their parents at some time. Yet it now appears that babies learn to deceive from a far younger age than anyone previously suspected. Behavioural experts have found that infants begin to lie from as young as six months. Simple fibs help to train them for more complex deceptions in later life. Until now, psychologists had thought the developing brains were not capable of the difficult art of lying until four years old. . . Infants quickly learnt that using tactics such as fake crying and pretend laughing could win them attention. By eight months, more difficult deceptions became apparent, such as concealing forbidden activities or trying to distract parents’ attention.

Until four years old? Had those experts ever even seen a small child? The Jr. VP has been deceitful since the day he first became self-aware. Hell, at 2.5 years old he’ll lie, pass off blame, (Daddy did it, not me!) steal, fake injuries, and pull off any number of otherwise underhanded activities to accomplish his goals. He is good with strategery in that way, and I salute him for it. Now Stinkboy, tell me where you hid the remote, and don’t lie to me this time . . .

Kjel.org went to the Hillsdale Farmers Market on Sunday. We’d never been to that one before; I liked it. It was nicely done, easier to navigate than the one downtown, and had a little bit of everything. We bought some berries, cheese, and some fresh pork chops. No yak though. Dammit.

The Jr. VP had fun too, but he was also very conflicted: he likes a big day out, but the Market was teeming with dozens of big mutts (leashed of course, but doesn’t matter to Stinkboy) and one very very small one. While the small one was the height of comedy (Lookit this! Lookit! A baby dog! Hahahahah!!!) the big ones make him nervous. He typically wants Daddy to carry him in public places when there are dogs around but the lad is built like a fire hydrant and is getting way too heavy for this kind of thing. I’m going to get him a sword or a cattle prod or something so that he feels confident he can defend himself against any mean pooches he may encounter.

God knows he won’t able to run from them: Jr. was sprinting into the HQ’s kitchen later in the day, slipped on an invisible banana peel and did a header into a kitchen cabinet; with how loud the boom was I was surprised the wood didn’t crack. He cried a bit and had an owie on his head, but the worst part for him was the thought that he might have to put ice on it. He likes to play with ice, but as soon as it is applied medicinely it becomes a method of torture. No!!! No ice!! Fine, but don’t bitch to me later about the black eye and that lump on your skull. It turns out that even without the ice he was fine, and I had the opportunity to teach Jr. to say “I bit it” instead of “I fell“. That oughtta confuse the ladies at “school.”