My stress remedy

This, my friends, is how I combat stress:

Grief post #8654

The cuckoo clock just cuckooed.

If my father was here he would have looked at his watch and announced that the cuckoo is 4 minutes late.

Yesterday he would have pointed out that it was 3 minutes late.

The day before - 2 minutes.

The day before that - 1 minute.

I guess I need to adjust it.

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Really, I'll eventually slow down on these grief posts. I'll eventually not feel like I'm all tied in knots.

In the meantime, I'm considering therapy.

The little, or not so little, things

One of my father's prize possessions was his baby grand Steinway. He bought it sometime when I was a kid - sometime in the 1970s, I think. We must have had another piano before that, but I don't remember.

I think I can speak for my siblings, in this case, to say that we will always think of that piano as one of the things that symbolizes our father - his love of music, his ability to play any jazz standard by ear.

We won't be able to think of the piano without thinking of Christmas Eve parties, when we shouted out requests and my dad played his renditions of Blue Christmas, Route 66 and Paper Moon.

One of the things I love about the Steinway was that my dad was so proud of it. He definitely believed that owning the Steinway established him as a member of the musical elite. It wasn't referred to as a piano or even a baby grand, it was always "the Steinway."

The fate of the piano is now up in the air. Any of the five of us would like to have it, but it ultimately belongs to my mom, who will probably sell it. My dad had been talking about unloading it - he didn't play it anymore and I think seeing it made him sad.

Of course, he never did take the steps to sell it, recently using the excuse that the Steinway market was in a downturn. In truth, I don't think he could ever have parted with it.

On Tuesday, September 16, Henry Z. Steinway, the last Steinway to run the piano-making company, died.

When I heard the news, all I could think of was how my father would have responded to the news. It would have been the first thing we talked about when I got home from work. He would have said something about how most people aren't well-informed enough to know or to care about the death of a Steinway. An elitist to the last.

But I wouldn't have pointed out his snobbery. I would have been proud that I was "well-informed enough" to know what was going on in the world of elite piano-making.

I didn't realize it, but I guess that 40 isn't too old to still want to be Daddy's little girl.

Oh well.

I did it

Stupid profile over there on the right of the page. Okay, you win world. I finally updated it. One parent.

I'd like to tell each of you who pressured me into updating it to fuck off.

But that would be rude and I'm not sure how long I get to use the grieving excuse.

Show your support

If Sarah Palin is elected to be the next almost-President of the United States, I'm going to have an elective hysterectomy and send her my uterus. I'll enclose the following note:

Dear Ms. Vice President,

Congratulations on your new job. As a working mother, I know that it can be demanding to hold down a job and raise a family. It's important that we build in efficiencies that allow us to make our lives more manageable.

With that in mind, I'm sending you this gift. I figure that it'll be easier for you to control my body and reproductive decisions if you have my uterus close at hand.

Take care and good luck with that whole glass ceiling thing.

Your friend in state-sponsored feminism,

Carolyn Wallach

Now accepting donations

Wolfgang wrote this story last week. It just came to him, he said, and so he wrote it down.

Bob's Bad Day

Bob's day started as normal. He woke up at 6:30 to his alarm clock, showered and went into the kitchen. He poured what was left after the rat infestation in his box of Frosted Flakes into his bowl. While Bob ate slowly with his solitary spoon, he regretted not having any milk. On his way out of the apartment, he brushed spiders off his suit and noted the frayed notice of foreclosure pinned to the door.

It took Bob 15 minutes to scavenge a taxi fair by way of digging through his pockets and begging. By the time he reached his office, it had started raining, and Bob had forgotten his key. It was another half hour until another of his co-employees arrived. Bob reached his cubicle and sat in his cold, hard chair. He opened his briefcase and its soaked contents poured out onto his desk.

Bob turned to start typing when he remembered his computer had broke and began to write all of his memos by hand. He was halfway done with the second memo when his pencil broke. He reached for another, only to find that that had been his last. Bob rose and walked all the way to the other side of the office to sharpen his pencil. It was almost time for lunch when Bob remembered the pen in his pocket.

Not being able to afford lunch, Bob continued to work. Slowly but surely, the out-basket filled and the in-basket emptied. Finally, at 8:00, Bob triumphantly placed the last memo in the out-basket. On his way out the door, Bob was stopped by an executive. The man told him that he had received Bob's note, and informed him that a promotion was in order and gave Bob enough money for a taxi fare and a McDonald's dinner.

Bob reached his apartment with the idea of just going directly to bed. He showered, brushed his teeth and got into bed. Bob was slowly drifting off to sleep when a man burst through the door and shot Bob. Bob was alive long enough to see the man take all his belongings and evacuate through the window. Then everything went dark.

And there you have it. Please send whatever you can for my son's future therapy and/or his defense lawyers.

Yeah, I don't know.

A little effort

School starts tomorrow.

Well, actually, school started for Wolfgang last week, but it was only one kid, and he's 13 so he's pretty much on his own, anyway. School starts for the younger two tomorrow.

And I'm ready. Yes, I am.

This year looks like this: three boys, three different schools.

Last year, I took the approach of winging it - which meant that I never got any forms in on time, never remembered to take vacation or conference days off from work and found out about field trips when the kids got home with souvenirs that other pitying parents bought for them.

In some ways, it was an experiment. How much do I really need to pay attention?

More than I did, it turned out.

So, this year, I'm ready. Yes, I am.

I bought a white board.



It will solve all my problems. I drew a calendar on it and started to organize September. It's already got vacation days, open houses, guitar lessons, cross country practice, time capsule deadlines - the whole kit and caboodle.

I'm on it, man.

At least for this, the last day of summer, the night before the first day of school.

Will it work? Who the hell knows. But at least I'm trying.