The institutional mouthpiece of Kjel.org

Alright, what the hell? At some point today I’d hoped to go outside and play with a certain couple of lads. However, despite the fact that it is less than 30 hours away from April 1st it is currently snowing hard (and sticking) at the Kjel.org HQ. Not enough snow to go out and play in mind you, but enough to keep us indoors. Damn you Al Gore! So many empty promises!

In other news three boys are still alive. One is presently asleep, one is on the internet and wondering what the hell to do about dinner, and the other is watching Mr. Incredible and Frozone battle a giant spider-robot. I hope the Jr. VP chooses something good for dinner; when this movie is over I am gonna be hungry.

Number of boys wearing PJ’s at the HQ right now? 3. Boys wearing matching PJ’s? 2. Boys wearing night-time diapers? Also 2. Number of boys presently, and, finally asleep? Again, 2. Boys sitting on the couch enjoying a Battlestar Galactica DVD, leftover pizza and a, shall we say, generous measure of single malt? Just 1. So far, so good.

I may have just discovered the secret to the CFO’s and my happy marriage. Don’t worry Chief Educator, you should be fine too.

Status report noon Saturday: Boys in pajamas? 1 of 3. Diapers? Clean(ish). DVD player? On. Pizza? Inbound. Pink Eye? In remission. Hopefully.

The CEO is being tested right now: the CFO left early this morning for Atlanta. It is technically for work, but I tried to convince her to treat it like a vacation. God knows she’s earned it. Anyway, three boys are holding down the fort at the HQ for the next several days. The odds look good right now that all three of us will be alive when she returns, but the situation is fluid. I’ll update when (and if) I can.

On Easter Sunday the CFO attended her church and worshiped. On Easter Monday I went to mine and did the same. I attend The Church of Rock. Me, the Man from The Dalles, that man’s brother (who I also guess is a Man from the Dalles) took in a show from The Cult last night. It was pretty much what you’d expect; a lot of old people rocking out. The band must be getting old too: the show actually started and ended on time and everyone was out of there by 10:45. I even got home at a reasonable hour. Now if I could only do something about the ringing in my ears . . .

Did you know that there is a holiday called Easter Monday? Until I was informed that the boys’ ’school’ would be closed on Monday I’d no idea such a thing ever existed. I don’t get a holiday on Monday. Damn Latina immigrants like those employed by the ’school’ — they get all the breaks. Every last one of them, I tells ya!

So the CFO and I had to figure out what to do Monday. Fortunately for us the Kjel.org Chief Future Sister-in-law is coming over to babysit for us for most of the day, so problem avoided on that front. So to say that Kjel.org owes her one is the understatement of the year. This year so far anyway.

Scene: the four of us sitting around the dinner table tonight. The Jr VP: Mommy, let me smell your drink! The lad leaned over and took a big whiff from the bottle of Widmer “W” 08 (a red wheat beer — quite tasty) sitting front of the CFO’s plate. He pronounced it Mmmm, delicious!!. Then, Daddy, let me smell your drink!. The lad scrambled over and put his nose to the rim of an imperial pint glass containing the entire content of an aluminum Rainier tallboy (Yes, I was also wearing a stained wifebeater and no pants. Why do you ask?) and inhales deeply. Mmmm, also delicious!! When I asked he wouldn’t say which beer he thought smelled better. His palate is not too sophisticated yet since of course he is only three. I didn’t fully appreciate the majesty of the Rainier tallboy until I was six or seven.

The CEO went to the doctor today, my usual guy out at the Urgent Care near Washington Square. My ears and sinuses have inexplicably hurt for several days now, not to mention the sense of world-weary ennui that has just recently descended upon the CEO. I suspected some sort of infection. According to the doctor I was right. The same dosage of Amoxicillin that they would advise for a sick polar bear is now coursing through my arteries and/or veins, and I anticipate no more sinus problems and an upgraded world view any time now.

I missed an awesome chance for humor at the clinic today and I am still kicking myself. Metaphorically, anyway. The nurse asked me a ton of questions when I arrived (ie Do you smoke? Are you allergic to any medications? You do actually have insurance, right? — that kind of thing.) At one point during the course of this interrogation she asked Do you regularly take any vitamins? Out of my mouth before I could think: “Not really. Vitamin C sometimes if I feel like I might be getting ill but that’s about it.” I realized 15 seconds after answering that question that the proper response would have been “Yes, just last night I administered to myself 16 ounces of Vitamin R. I plan to do it again tonight.” Dammit I can be stupid sometimes. I hate missing chances for comedy. ‘Comedy’ that would at least make the CEO chuckle, if no one else.

Suck. I (and the CFO) had a plan tonight to rock out with . . . The Presidents of the United States of America at the Crystal. As it turns out? No dice. Two boys currently have pinkeye. You can’t ask a babysitter to come over when that is the case. I volunteered to stay home and the CFO and one of her friends were gonna go, but it turns out the CFO is sick too and is already in bed by 8:45 on this Friday night. Our rock-n-roll lifestyle indeed. We’re pretty crazy here at the Kjel.org HQ.

This ad is pretty awesome but I’m still not ever buying a Pontiac. I might make an exception for an early 80’s black Trans Am. Depends if it comes with Turbo Boost or not.

The lede from a certain article in today’s Seattle Times contains a lot to get one’s mind around:

Monkey that bit 3 has a history of being “mean”
SPOKANE — A monkey accused of biting three people after escaping from its owner’s South Spokane home is the same one blamed for hurling feces at federal agents investigating a diploma mill operation a few years ago.

I’m a little bit conflicted: one the one hand, if a monkey is going to take it upon himself to bite me or mine that furry little bastard better hope he can outrun buckshot. On the other, I tend to support any creature who has actually “hurl[ed] feces” at a federal agent. Especially if the agent is investigating an occupation I might someday take up: I’ve often thought that starting a diploma mill operating a “university” that is not necessarily “accredited” (Fortress College — you would see ads for it on daytime TV) could be quite lucrative. Just call me “Dr. CEO”. “Professor” would also be acceptable.

When the CEO was a preschooler my mom didn’t like me playing with toy guns and tried to prevent it whenever possible. She finally gave up on that effort one day in 1977 when she watched me and another preschool aged friend bite our pb&j’s into a couple of .45’s and proceed to blaze away at each other during lunchtime. I still like to do this at work sometimes, depending on who’s across from me in the lunchroom.

The Jr. VP is no different, but at least I realize that the fascination is a natural thing, albeit in some not-entirely-understood-way. It’s not like we ever encourage or encouraged him to “shoot” things, and there is not too much shooting on PBS or the Disney channel or in the movies he watches or in any of the games we used to play. Why do little boys insist on shooting stuff? It’s in the genes is my argument. Or it’s a penis thing. Who knows? There is something about little boys and their pretend guns that is impossible to deny.

Kjel.org is doing what it can. Enforcing a “no-shooting” rule at the HQ would be impossible, but I am trying to implement a “no-shooting-other-than-open-season-on-Monsters-with-no-bag-limit” rule. That means no shooting Mommy, Daddy, the Intern, or anyone else, real, imagined, or otherwise, unless it is firmly established beforehand that said target is, in fact and verifiably, a Monster. These are the best rules of engagement the CEO can reasonably hope for; the CFO simply threw up her hands about boys and their guns a long time ago.

The lad’s favorite boomstick at the moment is a complicated weapon made out of Lego that he carries around a lot and calls “Monstershooter.” You’d probably not be surprised to hear how common Monsters attacks are at the HQ right now. Daddy! Another Monster is getting Mommy! “Again? Oh no! Do you have Monstershooter?” Right here! “Then cap that Monster’s punk ass!” Pshew! Pshew! I got him! I got him! “Great job Stinkboy! Head back to base for debriefing and cocktails!” Or a juice box, as the case may be.

I’ll admit that it is maybe not the best thing in the world for a three year old to be “shooting” and “killing” things. But if the lad is into gunning down Monsters that are coming for Mommy or the Intern, I’ve got to think that that is not the worst thing in the world either. It’s up to the Good Guys after all to drop the goddamn Monsters; if that is the role the Jr. VP sees himself in then I’m not too worried about or ashamed of his gun-play. In fact, I feel pretty much the exact opposite of those two words about the Jr. VP.

Good hunting, Stinkboy.