Another hair cut, another ...

I got my hair cut today.

all of them

but one.

Sheena calls it the worst hair cut ever.

That's saying lots, because last time there were about nine hairst right in the middle of the front that stretched two inchest past the rest.




Or the time before where there were missed clumps all over my head.

I should point out that all cuts were by different people. 

The real problem with this cut is that it is short. Before scissors touched my hair she asked, "what is one thing that you would never want to have happen to your hair?"

I said go bald.

technically I didn't go bald.

But only technically.

I've decided that I'm going to begin naming my hair cuts. This one will be known as the quick dry. Or maybe better yet, I'll now be telling people I'm quick drying. I'm not evern certain there's enough hair to retain water. I may not even need a towel now.

The hair cut before will be referred to as "the rogue" because that clump in front disregarded all the rules.

The worst part about all this, despite my wife not being able to look at me, is the response from my son. When he wakes up from a nap he is all smiles. It's a rule. It has always been that way. Now that my hair is shorter than his, some paradigm has changed. When I went in to get him after his nap he was, instead of ear to ear smiles, frightened. He didn't recognize me. I leaned in to pick him up and his lip quivered. He was frightened.

That's no good.

Want to see the cut?

Anyone have a hat?

It might look longer than it is. That's because it is longer at the crown, you know, where a lot of guys go bald. Maybe that's what she took from my comment about baldness.

If you don't see much of me for the next few weeks, it's because Sheena isn't letting me out in public.

the worst time to shop

I stopped at Wal-Mart yesterday on my way home from work.

There are a few important facts to get straight before I go on with this:
    1. Wal-Mart is super close to where I live and the most convenient place to do basic shopping,
    2. I had previously finished Sheena's valentines gift,
    3. I had recently killed a potted plant Sheena purchased for our dining room table.*

So I stopped in to pick up a new plant and quickly realized that in many ways 5pm on Valentines is a horrible time to shop at Wal-Mart, if you're a guy. "How many ways?" you ask. Well, let's count them.

1. The seasonal aisles (the ones closest to the entrance) are packed with guys purchasing candy that, I'm assuming, they're hoping will help them impress a lady or will help drown their loneliness.

2. Every female in the place gives you a dirty look for waiting until the last minute to purchase something that is supposed to express your never ending love. Or they're thinking, what kind of a valentine's gift is toilet paper?


3. You can't get anywhere near the card aisle. Even if all you want is a sympathy card or to wish someone well, forget it. Guys are taking a number to see what's left of the cards. No doubt more than a couple people got cards with the word "birthday" crossed out and "Valentines" written in sharpie. I've never seen so many people in a card aisle before.

4. Any move you make could inspire a guy, and therefore either make or break the valentines day of his girl friend/fiance/wife, or hoped to be girl friend/fiance/wife. The guy in line behind me was purchasing a box of chocolates and two clear storage totes. I don't know where he got the idea but that is not a winner of a gift. The guy in front of me had a fern: that's at least headed in the right direction. Another gentleman saw I had a pot of mini daffodils and after proclaiming me a "genius" he grabbed one too.**

5. The female cashiers have a tone about them. They say the words "happy valentine's day" but you hear "I better remind these guys what day it is because they probably forgot."

In conclusion: are there good times to shop at Wal-Mart? Yes. They've got great deals and everything you could possibly need. But are there times to avoid? You better believe it.

Next Feburary 14th I'm going to check out the 5 pm scene at the 7-11. I bet some crazy stuff is going down there.


* who knew you could over water flowers?
** To the lady that recieved the mini daffodils, if they aren't your thing I'm sorry. I didn't tell him what to buy, but made no attempts to stop him. Also, I got the best ones. By far. You see, my pot was the only pot that had a large number of  flowers yet to blossom, so there were flowers for yesterday and many more for tomorrow. While yours are fading and dying my wife's will still be blooming strong. See, I know how to pick them. I don't know how to keep them alive, but I know how to pick them. If you loved the flowers then forget all that. You're welcome.

The Problem With Being Knuckleless

1,907 Days.

Or if you prefer, five years, two months and and 20 days.

I've learned a lot about myself since saying "I do" to Sheena 1,908 days ago. I've mentioned often how my understanding of my head size has changed.

I also learned I have no knuckles.

Eash finger is essentially a tapered sausage. They are fattest where they attach to my hand and narrower at what I'm sure my ring calls, "The beginning of freedom."

Having tapered sausage fingers is essentially only a problem if you try and wear a ring. Prior to our wedding, the only ring I had any interest in wearing was a ring pop. You remember those delectable mounds of sugar shaped like a massive diamond? Tasty right?

Well, now that I've taken to wearing a ring on the finger, conveniently named the "ring finger," the days since our wedding have become one epic battle to keep from loosing it.

The ring tried to escape me while surfing. It's rather difficult to paddle for a wave with a clenched fist, but I won that battle. It even tried to swim to freedom through a  bathroom sink drain, but was no match for me and my wrench. And there have been too man incidents to count where my ring has jumped from my digit at the sudden extension of my fingers.

I've learned from each of these incidents. I no longer wear it while swimming of any kind. Our drains all have guards on them. And my left hand no longer makes sudden moves.

However, the battle almost came to an end yesterday, with the ring winning.

We headed up the mountain to go sledding. Before locking the van I took my ring off and put it in what I thought was secure location. I knew that if I kept it on, at some point I'd take my glove off on the hill and my ring would disappear. So leaving it in the vehicle is the safest place. Perhaps my house would have been safer yet. I had driven half-way down the mountain when I realized my ring was no longer where I put it. It was somewhere on the snowy road, most likely right next to where I was parked, but it was snowing heavily and the ground was no longer the ground we recognized. We went back but between the dark, the fresh snow, and the multiple lines of tire tracks over where we were parked, it seemed the ring was gone for good.

I went to bed thinking about the 1,907 days of blissful ring wearing. I wondered if there was a betting pool somewhere with people wagering on how long I would be able to keep from losing the ring. My sleep war far from restful.

This morning I woke early readied myself for the day and went back up the hill in the morning light. But this morning I went up armed with a weapon I knew the ring could not withstand. I carried a metal detector. It even had a ring setting. I thought one last look would be in order. If I didn't find it, I was preparing myself to resume the search once the snow melted.

In less than 120 seconds I found the white gold devil.

It seems to have been driven over multiple times. It hasn't lost its shape, but the snow in and around it was packed tightly. You can't even call it snow anymore. It was the frozen and watery equivalent to coal. Freeing the ring was like extracting a fossil from rock.

So, we had a scare, but we're at 1,908 days and counting. Let's see how long I can keep this band where it belongs.

Naming Offspring

Naming offspring is never easy.

Are we seriously the only species to do it?

I know very little on the subject. In fact, I'm sure I know more don'ts than dos.

Here's one from the other day: Don't discuss baby names late at night. It may very well have been that 11:30pm is the first time the two of you have been able to talk all day but don't make that the time to discuss Jr's moniker. I'm certain that most of the ridiculous names kids are burdened with are dreamed up late at night by brains deprived of sleep and rest.

Earlier, I was on a website, Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing,  that shars tips on what not to name your kids. To check it out go here. Here's a few rules I found on there today written by D: Goodman:


Q: What should I name my kids?

A: I can't give you the perfect name. I'm much better at cursing the darkness, anyway. But here are a few tips I've gleaned from digging around bulletin boards, books, and the tons of e-mails I get from readers:

• Generally avoid nouns. You're asking for trouble.
• Do a Google search for your name ideas. If all you get are porn sites, white supremicist groups and pictures of My Little Ponies - it's a bad name.
• Look at lists of the most popular baby names for the last three years. Steer clear of the top 10, and definitely steer clear of any names that suddenly jump from #150 to #25.
• No celebrity names. Your kids will immediately hate this celebrity, and be horribly embarassed forever.
• If you like a common name, but don't like how it's spelled, tough. Either use the usual spelling, or find a new name. Andrywe is NOT a name.
• Most Americans are assimilated cultural mutts, without much connection to their ancestry. If you want to reconnect with your heritage, go to the library. Do not name your kid Bronwyn and think you are now in touch with your 1/16 Welsh side.
• A stupid sounding name is still a stupid sounding name even if its meaning is "beloved queen" or something else nice.
• Do not name your kid with elementary school bullies in mind. If it isn't incredibly obvious (Gaylord, Fartoff), they're going to get that little bit teased like the rest of us were, and there's nothing you can do about it.
• Try these on for size: "Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I'd like to introduce you to the new CEO of MultiGlobal Corp., [blank blank]" or "Also on the presidential panel is MIT's chief biochemical researcher, Dr. [blank blank].
• Assuming your child will live to age 70, s/he will spend 16% of their life as a child, 10% of their life as teenagers and 14% as senior citizens. The remaining 60% of their lives they will be adults. Plan accordingly.

I think I'll be taking these to heart. 

Dear Floss Picks

It should be stated that I am a long time supporter of the fight against gum disease.  I am not a user of floss picks, but I am behind you whole heartedly. I encourage products that ease people towards better oral health. 

However, it may be getting out of hand. 

What I mean is, Floss Picks, you may be making it too easy for people to clean their teeth. 

And here's why: I should never find myself in a situation like the other day when I encountered an individual using you outside. In front of Canadian Tire is no place to clean pits of pastrami from between your bicuspids.  That's gross.

"Never let lunch fester between your Incisors" is a slogan I wish to put on a t-shirt. Can't you picture it? The shirt would feature some big old from teeth with a chunk of romaine the size of Greenland wedged in there, and those words hanging around like the garlic dressing on the breath.  That shirt would be awesome. 

However, I don't want to see anyone doing anything about it. There are restrooms for that. 

Do you know what happens when people floss their teeth? 

Their teeth get clean. Which is awesome, but particles of nastiness go flying all over the place.  Can we keep those particles where they belong: like on the mirror?  When people floss on the sidewalk I might end up stepping in it. Or worse yet, what if a bit of food were to fly into my eye? 

I just threw up in mouth typing that question. 

I love you floss picks, but could you please make it a little less convenient for people to use you in public places? 

Wiplash

I've had my share of wipe outs. I've hit my head on a lot of things. I've fallen in very creative and unfortunate ways. Three times I've been in car accidents where the vehicle was written off. I have scars on my body that have no known cause. I have scars with known cause, but the explanation makes no sense.

And yet very few major injuries.

No concussions.*

No severed appendages.

Very few broken bones.

No whiplash.

It amazes me that those last four lines are true. I don't know how I've made it this far without having spent more time in the hospital. This is especially true of those days when I was learning to drive a whole new class of vehicles that you can't just "shift" into drive.

Learning to drive standard was a lot of fun, but it rattled my brain around something fierce. Some youth would ask to go for a ride in the Eurovan, while I was mastering the nuances of a clutch, because it was the closest thing to a carnival ride in our town. Perhaps I should have charged admission, or at least enough to cover the gas, but I was driving anyway.

The day after I bought the van I wanted to drive it to church. But I was nervous. I didn't want to stall in front of everyone in the parking lot. At the grocery store everyone was anonymous. On the highway it didn't matter I'd never see them again. But at church, I knew these people and they knew me. I was hoping to spare myself some embarrassment.

So I practiced.

In the driveway.

Back and forth. Back and forth: wearing ruts in the dirt and taking years of life off the clutch.

My parents driveway isn't long, but long enough to get comfortably in first gear before slamming on the breaks. Then I'd throw it into reverse and find my way, literally, backwards to the start. I'm sure I put a good twelve kilometers** on the odometer.

For 45 minutes or so I was working at this trying to get to the point where I could roll through the church parking lot smoothly. I din't care so much what happened on the open road, but I wanted everything to be elegant in that parking lot.

Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out. Clutch in. Clutch out.

The van lurching, rolling, stuttering, jerking every which way. And my head right along with it. Now, my cranium has impressive girth. So there is considerable mass sitting atop my neck. And numerous laws of physics at play. Adding to that, my hair was much longer at the time--carrying momentum, and adding effect if nothing else.  Yes, my hair was whipping back and forth.  It's a wonder I didn't sustain any injury as I was bouncing around.  This was what I imagined riding a mechanical bull to be like. The Eurovan was my giant, blue, made in Germany, mechanical bull.

After all that it was time to leave for church. It was time to see what the outcomes of my practicing would be.

It wasn't pretty.

It wasn't smooth.

You'd think I hadn't practiced at all. I guess that's the outcome of never getting to second gear.

I was in the wrong gear as I attempted to hop the curb into the parking lot.*** The van then, mostly because of the wrong gear thing, began to shake violently and I was certain and explosion was immanent.

Fortunately, no explosion.

But there was a whole lot of head turning.

Eventually my driving skills improved. The headaches went away.  I rarely turn heads in a parking lot anymore.


*at least not that I know of

**I'm sure it was more like .12 but much of my memory may have been skewed by rattling.

***The entry into that church's parking lot is like the entry into any parking lot, in that if travelling the right speed you barely notice the bump. However, if you're not travelling the right speed, let's say because you're in the wrong gear and made poor estimations of how much time your much-heavier-than-you're-used-to vehicle needs to slow down, you may in fact find that "small barely noticeable bump" have an affect on the van much like a mogul would on a downhill skier. The van never went air born, but it certainly hopped.

Just Like Mommy

There is no denying that Makiah wants to be just like her mom.

Whatever Sheena is doing Makiah wants to be in on.

But now there's something new, and we're not sure if this is imitation, participation, or mockery. Because the list of things that Makiah wants to do just like mommy now includes vomiting.

Sheena's body does not like being pregnant. For Sheena pregnancy is nine months of nausea with a 90% chance of chunks. It's the only time in our marriage when she spends more time in the bathroom than I do.

A few weeks ago Makiah began walking around the house making retching sounds. She would then run to the toilet, shover her face in the bowl, and begin fake hurling. Then she lifts her head and exclaims: "me sick." And retches some more.

It's adorable.

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I'm not so sure Sheena is all that flattered.

Name That Fetus

I'm never sure what to call it. It, seems inappropriate. It is the worst possible thing to call your child.

Yet "it" is the only thing that seems to fit right now. We don't know if it's a him or a her. We're pretty sure it's not a "them." All we are certain of is that it is an it.

That being said, I'd like to come up with something better by which to name our fetus. I suggested "#2" but Sheena vetoed that one fast.

And, by they way, "Feeti" was also shot down.

So, I'm hoping that you will help me come up with a name. Consider this a "Name That Fetus" Contest.

Here is a picture of the little guy/girl if that helps. You  can see the face quite well. It's sure a cutie.

Leave a suggestion in the comments and if we* like the name for our fetus you might win a prize**.

Please leave as many suggestions as you like.

Good luck.



*I say "we," because apparently Sheena gets a say too.

**by prize, I mean that you might win a pat on the back and a hearty congratulations next time I see you. If we ever develop a t-shirt that uses the name in a clever way such as "_______________ on board" with a picture from the ultrasound, we'll send you one. But you should know now that the odds of that happening are slim.

Wedding Lessons

I learned a very important lesson from the wedding of Sheena's brother last weekend.

Well, several lessons.

The first, and most serious, is that when you're officiating a wedding be very careful when, where, and for how long you pause. For example, a pause right after you say "You may kiss the bride" is highly appropriate. They need time to kiss without you yabbering through it.

However, a long pause right after you ask the groom: "Do you take [the bride] to be your wife" confuses the groom. When you're nervous, and in front of a room full of people, and especially when you're not used to being before a room full of people, a second feels like an hour. Your groom will begin to wonder if you're waiting for him to respond. So, if you leave a pause after that phrase, don't be surprised if the good says "I do."  It seems like you're asking him a question.

And you are.

So, if you're officiating a wedding, watch the pauses.

The second thing I learned is that it's becomming popular for weddings today are borrowing from 1960's TV shows. Let me demonstrate this with a picture.

This is a picture of the truck the couple used to leave the ceremony. It's an old white. Yes that's a rocking chair in the back for the bride to sit on.

This is the first wedding I've been to with such a vehicle for the newlywed couple. However, it wasn't the frist time I've seen this truck. Standing there watching them leave, I kept thinking I'd seen this vehicle, and scene, before. Then it occurred to me. I had seen it. 

This is a picture of the Beverly Hillbillies from the 1960's TV show. It looks crazy similar to the truck pictured above. There's even a rocking chair in the back. I'm sure somewhere, I've even seen Granny sitting in that rocking chair up there.

I am now going to be looking for other 60's TV show inspired weddings. Wouldn't a batman themed wedding be amazing?

"Holy inappropriate first kiss Batman."

That would be awesome.

The last thing I learned is that it doesn't take much for my wife to return to her roots. This picture serves as witness.

Can you identify Sheena?

She's in there along with members of her family. It's scary how naturally she dressed up for the reception. She heard the reception was a red neck theme and out came the flannel, gumboots, suspenders and grubby t-shirt.

I almost didn't recognize her.

I'm a little bit afraid of what might happen if we move to too small of a town. And it totally explains why Makiah's favourite footwear is her pink rubber boots. She just wants to be like mommy.

2 Year Old Bieber Fever

Thank You Girls in our youth group who taught my daughter to sing Justin Bieber's Baby.

The four hour dive to the island today was wonderful with a two year old singing: "Baby, baby, baby ooh."

Thank You very much.

Competitve Sleeping

I had some trouble sleeping this morning. Then a funny thought poped into my head:

What if sleeping was a competitive sport?

Not that I think sleeping would be easier with the pressure of worrying about whether I was winning or loosing at it, but it was a crazy thought.  As with most crazy thoughts, my brain began to explore it. Coincidently, this led to more trouble sleeping.

Here are some of the thoughts:

If sleeping were a sport what would define victory?

Would it be for longest span of uninterrupted slumber, or for being able to function on the least amount of sleep? Or  would it be something else?

And why shouldn't sleeping be a sport? They made eating a sport, so perhaps more of our everyday routines should be turned competitive. And if more of our everyday routines were turned competitive, what else should be?

T.V. viewing
Grochery shopping
Thank You note writting

I think I'd most love to see a competition in sarcasm detection.  That would be crazy.

What about you, what everyday routines would you like to see turned competitive?

Baby Beats

This video is brilliant. A great way to spend a minute on a Friday.


found on tots and giggles

On Weddings

It was Valentine's Day yesterday.*

Chances are, you either know someone who just got engaged, has been engaged for a while, or is about to become engaged.

All of that is to say, you're about to go to a wedding.

Wedding season is closing in.

It seems as though I've been to a lot of weddings, with one as recently as this past December, and another one coming up in March. All this has got me thinking about some of the different weddings I've been to. Some have been a blast, and some not so much. What makes one fun and the other a test of endurance?

You might feel differently about these things than I, but here is a chart that's been pretty helpful, and accurate, at predicting how much fun I'll have at a wedding. And if you find yourself trying to decide which box to check on the RSVP, perhaps this will help you decide.

*I thought I should point that out in case you missed it.

Little Miss Backseat Driver

Sheena and I have been trying to help our daughter learn colours.

She's getting it, but on occasion will shout "Pink!" for absolutely no reason.

Which leaves me wondering: is there such a thing as colour turrets?

But then, then, she'll do something absolutely brilliant like point at the different colours on her jammies and tell you what they're called. This makes us fell like good parents, and we pat ourselves on the back for a brilliant job educating our daughter.

Yes, she's quite smart.

Perhaps too smart.

The other night Makiah and I were driving through town and while stopped at a red light I began making funny faces at her in the mirror.  This is a common event while driving. Then something new happened. I'm in the middle of my best goofy face, one that usually causes her to bust out laughing, when she begins pointing straight ahead and shouting "Green! Green! Green! Green!"

I look up and see the light has changed.

As I start to drive away I look back and she my daughter all proud of herself. While it's wonderful seeing  her full of self-confidence, I can't help but wonder if she's more proud of herself for corectly identifying the light colour, or prompting my driving.

I think it might be more the latter.

I can't believe that she's not even two and already an excellent back seat driver. I'd be more proud if it wasn't kind of annoying.

Dear Shirt Maker

Dear Shirt Maker:

I'm sorry.

I saw your shirt, the one pictured here, and I immediately assumed you made a mistake. And then, as I was on the verge of making copious amounts of fun of your error, I thought I should perhaps look into things and I discovered that you, fine shirt maker, are not a failure but are, in fact, far more culturally sensitive to the country of Brazil than I.

I have known for years that the language of Brazil is Portuguese. But I did not know that in Portuguese Brazil is spelled with an "S," and therefore this shirt is far more supportive of all things Brazil than I realized.

And so, dear shirt maker, you have inspired me. I'm feeling compelled that, from this day forth, there is only one right way to spell Brasil.

So thank you shirt maker, for the lesson, the inspiration, and the covering for my hairy chest that I'm certain no one in Rio De Janeiro would ever wear.

Tuesday Tree Trimming Tradition

Tuesday Night we trimmed our Christmas tree.

I think.

I have to admit that I'm not one hundred percent certain what this expression means.

Growing up I thought  trimming the tree was what you did to get it into the house because dad came home with one that was too big.

Almost every time I use the word "trim" I'm talking about cutting something away.

As in, I trimmed my daughter's bangs.(1) Or, because it disgusts you so, I trimmed the hair on my big toe.(2)

In a related note, I thought trimming the turkey was what you did to fit it in the roasting pan.

As many of you know, and I recently learned, trimming can be cutting away and decorating: removing or increasing, subtracting or adding.(3)

Trim is like the Christmas version of Aloha -- only instead of hello and goodbye it means two other opposites at the same time.

Many have the Christmas tradition of trimming: either a tree, a turkey, a beard, or something else. Whether understood or not, Christmas is a time of tradition.

As my wife and I prepare to celebrate Christmas with our daughter for the second time, I've been thinking more about the traditions that we're passing on to her. Until this week I didn't think I had a lot of Christmas traditions. Then we started to decorate the tree and it wasn't done in the manner in which I like(4), and I realized that I may have more traditions than I thought.

Here are some other traditions I'm holding to: stockings, Birthday Cake(5), presents under the tree before Christmas Day(6), Christmas Eve service, and I think that's it.

But I wonder if there's an important tradition I'm missing. I know some people read the Christmas story together every year. Others always have Chinese food on Christmas eve, which sounds excellent. And lots of people have traditions I've never heard of.(7)

So, any suggestions of Christmas traditions we should consider incorporating into our celebration?


- - -
1. for her sake I've never actually done this.
2. now doesn't that sound like a rejected Seuss rhyme?
3. Oh how I wonder what is going through a mathematician's head right now as he ponders trimming.
4. Okay, here are the following ingredients necessary to decorate a tree properly: 1. a bowl of nuts and bolts, 2. Egg Nog, 3. A Christmas tree, 4. working mini lights, and 5. Festive Music
5. That's right, because it's my birthday. Now, I'm not too picky on what the cake looks like, it can be Christmas pudding with a candle in it, so long as it's birthday themed.
6. Because the fun in opening presents comes after days, or even weeks, of trying to figure out what they are. Then you get to see how often you were right, and there's score keeping, and the whole day turned into a competition. It is awesome.
7. No joke here, just wanted to achieve the perfect number of footnotes. Mission Accomplished.

Dear P-trap

Dear Sink P-trap:

Thank You!

I cannot say that emphatically enough.

Tonight you saved me from a world of emotional and physical hurt.

Normally I don't think all that highly of you. It's not that I think lowly of you, I simply give you little consideration except to chuckle at your name.

I understand the role you play as gatekeeper. You stand watch over the forgotten points of entry into my house. At night I deadbolt the doors and lock the windows. I never think to secure the pipes. Yet there you are keeping predators from entering my sanctuary. You enable me to sleep deeply, soundly, safely without ever wondering if I'll wake to the smell of sewer gas roaming my halls.

Yes, now and again I hear of water born pathogens such as snakes and alligators entering homes through the pipes, but that's not your fault, perhaps we humans haven't given you all the tools you need. You're a dip in a pipe, how much should we expect?

And so I must apologize for all the times I take you for granted.

Tonight you bailed me out big time. I will be forever grateful, for while I was washing my hands my ring fell off and slipped down the drain.

Now don't go blaming the drain. I know you two are at odds because of such issues. It isn't the drain's fault that the installer never provided the drain with the pop up top. The drain's only half installed so back off!

I take full responsibility for the ring washing away. You see it was a very hot day when Sheena and went ring shopping and my hands were swollen. Now on cold days, such as today, my fingers are so thin that it just pops right off.

And today as I saw my wedding ring disappear into the plumbing abyss, I was so thankful that you where there watching my back. The gatekeeper extraordinaire, standing tall, keeping predators from entering the house, and our most prized possessions from running away.

If it wasn't for you I'd be ring-less tonight.

I will, from this day forward, be singing your praises o mighty P-trap.

Gratefully Yours

Chris Miller

Christmas Shopping

Did you know that you can type "What should I get my wife for Christmas?" into a Google search and get a ton of responses?

It's true.

Out of frustration, because I have a horrible Christmas shopping track record, I mound myself turning to Google for help this year.

In years past I've gone the whole rout of trying to listen to Sheena's "hints" about what she wants for Christmas. Then Christmas day would roll around and it would be revealed that I failed miserably at deciphering what she wanted. "What do you mean you don't want four boxes of that tea? Were you hoping for five?"

This year, at first, I took a new approach. I developed an ingenious way of getting the answers I wanted. I formed a question so brilliant, so simple, so perfect that the most amazing Christmas list ever would be developed. I knew that these seven words were going to deliver the best Christmas presents ever: "Sheena, what do you want for Christmas?"

It's brilliant isn't it?

Here's what I got in response:

- A perfect daughter.

At first I thought, Sweet, I'm done.  But then I grew unsettled.

I wasn't as satisfied with the answer to my question as I hoped. Oh sure, there was also some nonsense in there about a sowing machine (way over our spending limit) and something about a pillow.

A pillow?

Here's why Sheena is not going to be getting a pillow from me for Christmas: For the past two years she's be in pursuit of "the perfect pillow." We have a room full of pillows as a result of her vain efforts. I imagine that she could Frankenstein a pillow together of all the parts of the worthless pillows that she has "invested" in. Pillow shopping has become something of a hobby for her--right along with pillow complaining four days later.

I don't believe that my efforts will change things so I'm moving on.

And without her help I turned to the internet.

So you can Google "What should I get my wife for Christmas?" but I'm warning you, the answers there aren't very helpful either. You get the male responses (flowers, bath stuff, spa package) which some women might like, but mostly you get women weighing in on how your wife really needs a new husband: perhaps one who doesn't turn to the internet for help in shopping for her.

So then I made two lists. The first is of all the stuff I know she does not like: bath stuff topped that list pretty easily.

The second list was all the stuff I want. This list proved very helpful. Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where George Costanza made all his decisions by thinking of what he would normally do and then doing the opposite? I basically looked at the list of what I wanted and then bought the opposite.

I'll let you know how that works out.

Dear Sweden

Dear Sweden:

Really???

the image is originally found here on this is why you're fat.

Dear Makiah

Dear Makiah:

It's time I made a confession: we were laughing at you the other night when you ran into the couch at full speed while trying to make it to the bathroom.

We fully understand that the delay with the couch made it impossible for you to make it to the toilet on time.

You should know that we are very proud of you.

I hope that one day you will be able to admit how funny the situation was. Sometimes I wonder if you do funny stuff like that on purpose. I recognise this probably wasn't one of those situations.

You should know that we will probably laugh if it ever happens again.

Oh, and while I'm at it, I'm also very sorry for all the horrible outfits I put you in. I'll try and delete all the pictures.