Le Schicch: The Ballad of Gianni Schicchi

Last time I was in Florida I had a lot of free time on my hands, and I used that time to make some silly videos.  This time I have been trying to learn an opera in my free time, so there hasn't been as much of a chance for silliness.  However, I know that now it is expected, nay, demanded that I make a ridiculous opera parody video starring my castmates, and so I created what you are about to see today.

Whereas the tragedy of Rigoletto seemed to fit well with Bob Dylan, the light, short, comic opera Gianni Schicchi almost begged for a disco dance number, with a rap in the middle.  Who am I to argue with the music?  So I now present to you - Le Schicch: The Ballad of Gianni Schicchi.

Look at Me! I'm on TV!

Yesterday I had the distinct and unusual pleasure of being on the local morning show to sing opera and hype my show.  The program was called "Studio 10" and there I was sandwiched between a lady speculating as to what Kate Middleton's hair is going to look like at the wedding, and the SPCA and the cute dog that they brought in.

It was kind of a surreal experience, but totally fun.  The hair lady was great, the dog escaped into the control room and was subsequently adopted by the lady in the control room, and I got to sing on live television.  If you, for some strange reason, do not live in St. Petersburg, Florida, and/or were not watching "Studio 10" on Wednesday morning, you can watch me online here.  I think you will agree that I was extremely fat looking.  Stupid ten pounds of camera weight.

Where, Oh Where Can I Find Some More Hair?

Where, oh where can I find some more hair?

Mine seems to have gone on vacation.

Although it’s a bummer it’s nice in the summer,

When my head could use the aeration.

Don’t know where it went, because I haven’t spent

Too much time wearing tight fitting hats.

I’m not too stressed out, I don’t yank it about,

So answer me, what’s up with that?

And though some has thinned out it’s beginning to sprout

In new places, some itchy, some tickly,

Like noses and earses and backs.  Now I fear this is

Starting to go downhill quickly!

I know I’m not old (or so I’ve been told)

And I’ve many more good years ahead.

But I think I’d look forward a little bit more with

A little more hair on my head.

200,000 Miles

If you are a regular Tenor Dad reader (ie, my mother) then you know that I am slightly obsessed with numbers, and none more so perhaps than the numbers on my odometer.  To be fair, I got this particular numerical obsession from my father, but whenever I drive I watch carefully for palindromes (107701), numbers that are the same if you spin them upside down (96096) and any generally cool looking number (123123).  I love me some odometer readings, so I was super excited to watch the car approach the awesome number 200000.

Two hundred thousand miles.  A fifth of a million miles.  Awesome.  Except for one thing.  As March passed and April slowly ticked by, I realized that I was going to miss it.  We drive a maximum of 30 miles a day in that car (a 2002 Mazda Protege), and by the time I realized what was happening I was 7 days and 350 miles away from leaving for Florida.  Leaving in the other car!  My wife was going to drive the Mazda back and forth to work for a month while I was singing in St. Pete, and she would have the pleasure of watching the car pass that magic milestone.  Alone!  Clearly I needed to hatch a plan.

I realized that I was going to have to drive at least 50 miles a day, every day before I left for Florida.  Over the weekend I managed to drive about 80 miles, leaving me 20 miles behind my goal on Monday morning.  Something had to be done.  Luckily it was laundry day, so we drove up to my mother-in-law's and I took the long way.  On the way home I purposely missed our exit and drove home the even longer way.  I got my 50 miles in that day, but I was still 20 miles behind schedule.

On Tuesday I again drove all over the place and out of my way, but still putting only another 50 miles on the car.  This was not looking good.  Luckily, my sister-in-law's car broke down, and she needed to borrow our car on Wednesday evening to get to her class that she teaches.  Perfect!  I only drove about 40 miles on Wednesday, knowing that she would easily put another 30 on the car, plus we would have to drive her home.  But then, tragedy!  My wife told her to take the other car.

Here I was in conflict.  I told her to take the Mazda.  I begged her to take the Mazda.  I said it had more gas in it.  I told her anything I could think of.  But I didn't tell anyone the real reason I wanted her to take the car.  Somehow, it seemed on the verge of insanity to speak my plan aloud.  Telling people I wanted them to drive my car so that I could watch the mileage change to 200,000 by the end of the week seemed absurd, and slightly embarrassing.  So she took the other car.  And when my wife drove her home, they took the other car.  I was now 30 miles behind.

Do you know what I did on Thursday?  I went to the store.  I went to the other store.  I went back to my mother-in-law's.  I missed exits.  I took back roads.  I got within 50 miles of my goal.  The car was sitting at 199950 on Friday morning, the last day I would have access to it for a month.  We went out again on Friday, but it was at this time that I came up with my brilliant plan: we would go out for dinner!  I was leaving the next day; it made perfect sense!  My wife was happy with this plan, so after putting the normal daily 30 miles on the car, I waited for her to come home from work.

This was the best of both worlds, because now we not only got to go out to dinner, but we would both be able to see the exciting mileage!  And it was exciting.  We were both a little excited!  I drove, and she took a picture.  History was made.  And I was there.

I am a huge nerd and I need help. 

Holy Days and Holidays

Last week we seemed to have had an above average number of holidays.  There was Passover, Holy Week and all that that entails, Easter, Earth Day, and of course, Tenor Dad's Birthday.  Over on the ol' Facebook I noticed a variety of posts either enthusiastically promoting these days, or railing against them to anyone who would listen.  Here is what I think about that.  (Special note to my friend P.J. Tetersen, this blog is not about you, even though you are the only one I ever reply to on Facebook.  Let's hang out!)

What makes a holiday?  Why do we have holidays?  The first thing I did was to make a list of all the holidays I could think of, and it seems to me that we have two kinds of holidays: some holidays commemorate things, and some holidays celebrate things.  The commemoration holidays include Christmas, Easter, Independence Day, Bastille Day, and Tenor Dad's Birthday.  I don't think most people have a problem with these days, except when they get religious.  To you people I say, be cool man.  If people are excited about commemorating an event that is important to them, such as the birth/death/un-death of their own personal Jesus, then you should be happy for them.  Be happy that they are happy.  They are your friends, right?  Saying Happy Easter to you is not a jab at your own belief system.  They probably do not care about things that you like to commemorate, like "Fluffy's Birthday" or "Elvis' Death Day."  But it doesn't mean you shouldn't wish a Happy Death Day to them every August 16th.

Then we have what I call the celebrating days.  These days include Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Earth Day, Secretary's Day, Black History Month, and Free Cone Day.  These are days to just remind us of something that we really ought to be celebrating every day, but don't.  This week the people railed against Earth Day, but with the same arguments I've heard over and over again about Valentine's Day, etc.  Why do we need a day for this?  It is stupid.  Shouldn't we just be good to the Earth/Our Mothers/Our Secretaries/Our Poolboys every day of the year?  Well, yes, we should.  But we don't.  If you honestly think that every person on Earth thanks their mother enough every day for everything that they do, then by all means, let's eliminate Mother's Day.  And if you really think that humans have no adverse impact on the environment and don't need to be reminded once in a while to recycle or not pour motor oil on their neighbor's lawn as a joke, then yes, let's cut Earth Day out.  I would love for the world to be in such a utopian place as that.  But until it is, let's not miss these moments to celebrate the great things in life that we sometimes take for granted.  Like my birthday.

The Food Trucks of St. Pete

Having done a pretty thorough analysis of the food trucks in New York City while I was there, I thought it only right to do the same thing for the fair city of St. Petersburg, FL.  I guess I should rename this post "The Food TRUCK of St. Pete," because I could only find one.  The Taco Bus!

Taco Bus is exactly what you want out of a food truck.  It is open late (well, till 9 anyway) and they take credit cards.  Hooray!

I decided to get two tacos.  I really just wanted the carne asada, but they claimed to have a 5,000 year old Mayan recipe for Cochinita Pibil taco, so of course I had to try that too.  These tacos were pork tacos, marinated in achiote and bitter orange then wrapped in banana leaves and slow roasted in a smoker.  At least according to the menu.  Now, I don't know what an achiote is, but regardless, they were delicious.  Those Mayans, right?!

So that's it for the food trucks of St. Pete.  If I find any more I will certainly let you know.  Because I'm getting kind of hungry again.

Tenor Dad's Birth Day

So today is my birthday and I do not feel like writing a blog, so I had my Mom write it for me. Here is the story of the day I was born, as told by Tenor Grammy.


It was a warm, sunny, April afternoon. I put the turkey in the oven for dinner, took a shower and headed off with my husband to what I hoped would be my last OB appointment before my first child would be born. I was 9 days late and was getting anxious to meet the child growing inside me. He, however, seemed to be in no hurry to come out.

I expected to hear Dr. Mostel ( If the name sounds familiar, he was Zero Mostel’s nephew) tell me to make another appointment. Imagine my surprise when he told me I was in labor. How could this be? I had no pain. Hey, I thought maybe this wasn’t as bad as I had heard. The Dr. sent my husband and me for a walk for an hour and asked me to keep track of the contractions. That would have been fine except I couldn’t feel any contractions and I had a turkey in the oven at home!

After the walk I was informed that I was 7 cm dilated and should go to the hospital because we lived 45 minutes away. But wait a minute, did we forget I have a turkey in the oven. My husband was the rational one at this point. He called our neighbors and told them they were having our turkey for dinner and that we were going to have a baby soon.

I was the only one in maternity that night. The doctor wanted a good night's sleep so he gave me a sleeping pill, which might have worked if the nurse hadn’t, out of boredom, talked to me all night. My husband, on the other hand, went to sleep.

At 4:30 AM I discovered that I was not going to have a painless childbirth. They call it hard labor for a reason. Adam’s father gets a lot of credit here. We had taken LaMaze classes together and he was a great labor coach. I breathed; he breathed with me and timed the contractions that ran into each other.

At 9:36 AM on Friday, April 21, 1978, our 21in, 9lbs. 6oz. baby boy was born, Adam Christopher Hall. The turkey was completely forgotten as I, in awe, held the child I had carried inside me for nine months, the child who would change my life forever.

Gianni Schicchi

What is your favorite thing about opera?  Is it Italian people yelling at each other and throwing things?  It is?  Well, then Gianni Schicci is the perfect opera for you!  And it is often done in English, so you might have a chance at figuring out what is going on!

Gianni Schicchi is the story of a young, handsome tenor named Rinuccio, who, like many tenors, does not have any money.  This would not be a problem, except that the girl he wants to marry also does not have any money, and she may or may not live on a farm, so Rinuccio's mean family tells him he can't get married.  The show opens when Rinuccio's uncle (who DOES have some money) dies.  This makes everyone very happy, because they naturally assume that all his money will go to them.

Rinuccio finds his uncle's will, only to discover that, since the whole family is full of jerks and weirdos, none of them are getting any of the cash.  All the money is going to a bunch of apparently gluttonous and stupid friars at some annoying monestary.  This is very upsetting, and so naturally everyone wants to eat, but our hero Rinuccio has come up with a clever plan to save the day!  He has called his girlfriend's dad Gianni "Johnny" Schicchi over to think of a clever plan.

Well, Gianni soon arrives with his daughter, Lauretta Schicchi, and they decide to help out.  I am not going to reveal any spoilers here for those of you who like to be surprised, but if you want a hint, go rent "Weekend at Bernies."

Now, while this plan is being set up, Rinuccio inexplicably leaves the stage for several minutes.  Audience, this would be a good time to go to the bathroom or refill your personal snack trough.  Obviously nothing interesting or important is going to happen when the tenor is not on stage.  Luckily, Rinuccio returns, just in the nick of time, so the audience returns to their seats to watch Rinuccio's clever plan go off without a hitch.

Seeing that his work is done, Rinuccio goes off to get some lovin' from Lauretta and once all of his annoying relatives have left the stage, he comes back to sing about the first time he got some lovin' from Lauretta.  I think some other stuff involving doctors, lawyers and a mule happened earlier as well, but these are not big "Rinuccio moments," so you can pretty much skip them.  The point is, in the end, the brilliant, and now rich, tenor has solved all the problems and gotten the girl.  And he did it all in about an hour.  Shows just don't get much better than that.

South of the Border

In my two day drive a decided to make a little stop at a place called "South of the Border."  A place with that many signs has to be good, right?  No, listen, I knew it was a tourist trap, but I had been stuck in traffic for almost two hours and I was starving and they were advertising food there, so I went.

In order to enjoy South of the Border, you must either bring, or be a four-year-old.  Sadly, I had left my four-year-old at home, but man, she would have loved it.  I will have to go back and bring her some time.  But I was there for food!  There were many signs for food, one advertising pizza and subs, one promising hot dogs, and many others.  Unfortunately those signs did not seem to be anywhere near any actual food.  As far as I could tell, South of the Border consisted of a bunch of lying signs, and then three buildings.

The first building was full of only fireworks, the second building was the t-shirt building, and the last building was just a huge warehouse of cheap junk.  I think it might be a fun place to browse around, but a horrible place if you actually knew what you wanted.  You would never find it.  On any given table there might be shot glasses, next to a tie with a fish on it, next to animals that grow when you put them in water, all placed near a midly racist "Pedro" doll that farted when you pushed a button.  There was just no rhyme or reason!

I finally decided to just ask someone where the food was, and nobody seemed to know.  People at South of the Border are not hired for their peppyness, nor for their knowledge of South of the Border.  I did get one guy to tell me that there was no pizza and subs place, and no hot dog stand, but basically if I crossed the street I could go to either "The Restaurant" or "The Diner."  I asked him which would be quicker, and he said the diner, so I went there.

The diner was, how can I put this nicely?  I can't, so I won't say anything at all.  Just don't go there.  Ever.

I finally left South of the Border feeling very confused and slightly dirty.  I didn't really get much food, and I didn't buy any grabbing claws or hats shaped like crabs, so it seemed like a big waste of time, but in all fairness I was in a bad mood from the traffic, and I think part of the fun of a place like that is being able to make fun of it, which is hard to do by yourself.  When you are with someone, it's funny and cool to say "Hey, over here!  Look how lame this is!"  When you are by yourself, picking something up and thinking about how lame it is really isn't very entertaining.  It kind of makes you feel personally lame.  So next time I go I'm bringing my family!

The South

I don't know how you spent your weekend, but I spend mine driving from Vermont to Florida.  The first leg of my journey was a familiar path, from Vermont to the D.C. area, but on Sunday I spent my day in the South.

Now some of you might be saying "Hey Tenor Dad, aren't you still in the South?"  If you are saying this it is because you are from the North, and have never been to the South.  Florida is 50% New York and 50% Cuba, and it is certainly not the South.  Geographical location has nothing to do with being "South."

The South goes from about Richmond, VA down to Georgia, and when it gets to Florida it rebounds like a Roomba and heads west until it gets Texish, at which point it turns into the Midwest.  I made it across the border into Florida however, as I was not driving a Roomba.

Although I was there for only a short time, I have made a few observations about the South, and they are as follows: People in the South are very good drivers.  In the North, the speed limit is set often at a stupidly low number such as 55, or at its very highest, 65.  In the South, the speed limit is infinity.  The signs do say 70, but that is obviously just a minimum, because I was going upwards of 80 most of the time, and cars were swerving around me like I was stopped at a light.  Of course I did see the cops pull a few people over, so they must have been going infinity + 1.  Suffice it to say, people in the South get where they are going, and they get there way before I do.  I have a lot to learn.

The other thing I learned is that, while in the North we have traffic jams for reasons like construction and accidents, in the South they just put up signs to let people know that there ought to be some bad traffic around if they wouldn't mind.  I was driving though North Carolina, going a healthy 79 mph, when suddenly a sign appeared over the highway that said "Slow Traffic - 10 Miles."  And just like that all the cars stopped and we went about 5-9 mph for 10 miles (yes, I was stuck there for about 90 minutes) and then, when ten miles was up, we all started going fast again.  What a great system!  No need for any accidents or construction!  When you want some bad traffic, just ask! It's much safer that way.

Now I am in Florida and off to my first rehearsal for Gianni Schicchi.  I am out of the South and ready to sing.  I just need to put some cream on arm first.  What?  Oh, right, I forgot to tell you.  The third thing I learned is that when you are driving in the South, don't leave one arm hanging out the window for 14 hours or you might get sunburned...

Driving From Vermont to Florida

Well, this is it folks: my last day in Vermont.  Tomorrow I am driving to Florida.  If I don't post a blog on Monday, it means I didn't make it.  I was originally going to do the drive over three days, but then I realized how not-crazy that would be, so now I am going to do it in two.

I haven't started packing yet, but I have my list, so it shouldn't be too hard to throw it all together.  Let's see, I need:
-My Gianni Schicchi score
-My La Rondine score, which did come in the mail, but which I have not learned yet.
-A case of Mountain Dew
-My GPS, Karen
-A giant bag of snacks
-My iPod, fully loaded with time-tested driving songs, like the techno remix of the Mortal Kombat Theme Song
-Other assorted items, like, you know, clothes and stuff

And so, by this time tomorrow, I will be on the road.  Of course I will be sad to miss mud season in Vermont (people not in Vermont call this season "Spring"), and it will be tough being away from my family on my birthday next week.  I don't know what sort of fun anyone can have on a beach in Florida, so it will probably be pretty lame.  I will try to make it through though, and as long as I don't get lost, I should have an interesting update for you all next week.  Now, which way is south?

Banging His Head Against the Wall

I think I am raising Bam-Bam.  Perhaps you don't believe in reincarnation, and perhaps if you do believe in reincarnation, you do not believe in the reincarnation of fictional cartoon characters, but I don't know how else to explain it.  My son spends most of his days either bashing his head against things, or picking up objects and bashing them into things.  Frankly, I am concerned.

I can't be good for a little skull to be constantly banging into things in a repetitive manner.  It certainly feels bad to my own personal skull when Edward crashes his head into it as hard as possible, so I can only imagine what all of this banging does to him.  I guess maybe he's done it so much that his brain is numb now, but I can't help but think that I should get him a helmet to wear around the house.

And it's not just his head!  If given the chance, he will grab anything laying around and throw it, or beat it against the wall or floor.  He pulls DVDs off of shelves.  He really enjoys taking my Rigoletto score down from the bookcase and flinging it at me.  Baby toys, dishes, remote controls, bricks, anvils, you name it!  If it is within grabbing distance he will thump you with it.  I am awaiting with great terror the day when he will pick me up and bonk me onto the floor back and forth over his head.

I am told over and over again, oh he's just being a boy.  Boys are like that.  Boys are destructobots.  Boys bang their heads against the wall over and over again for no reason.  Well, I will have you know that I was once a boy, and my mother tells me that I did not engage in such behavior when I was a baby.  Of course I also never played sports or did any other particularly boy-like things when I was young, so I guess you can't really go by me in this case.  All I know is, either he's getting a helmet, or I am.

Free Cone Day

Yesterday was Ben & Jerry's Free Cone Day, which is one of my favorite federal holidays, and so every year, in observance of this solemn day of gratitude, I pile the kids into the car and take a cross-town road trip to eat free ice cream.  This year, the closest Ben & Jerry's to my house was actually the factory in Waterbury, so that's where we went.

I think we got there at exactly the right time, because there was no line, which meant that we could go back up for as many free scoops as we wanted.  As a former manager of a Ben & Jerry's scoop shop I know the secret rule: Yes, you can have more than one free scoop, as long as you wait in line again.  Heh heh heh.  If I hadn't been holding an enormous one-year-old, I would have cleaned them out.

As it so happens, on Free Cone Day the factory also gives free tours, so we decided that, once we were sticky enough, we should go inside and rub our chocolately fingers over their whole building.  The tour went well, although they did accuse Baby Edward of being a robotic spy for Häagen-Dazs (not kidding), and as a bonus, they gave us even more free ice cream.

When we exited the building after the tour, the line to get a free cone wrapped back and forth across the whole front of the building, down the hill, past the parking lot, and I believe stopped somewhere in New Hampshire.  We definitely hit it at the right time.

In the end, it was a great day of celebration, as it always is.  We left the factory with our heads held high, me beaming with an expression of joy and satisfaction that I had taken the kids on a fun outing that was also mildly educational, Ruby with an expression of pure contempt, screaming her head off because I would not let her get anything from the gift shop, and Edward, well, I don't know what his face looked like because it was covered with at least an inch of chocolate.  I can't wait for next year!

How Long Does it Take to Learn an Opera?

I am hoping that it takes approximately one day to learn an opera.  I worry that this is not the case, but I am leaving for Florida on Saturday to sing a show (which I have already learned, thank goodness!) and my score has not yet arrived for the show I am doing when I get back from Florida.  If my score does not come in the next few days, I will have about 5 days to learn La Rondine.

Even if I do get my score in time, I won't really have much of a chance to learn the show before I leave, which means I will have to learn it in Florida, in the midst of another show.  From what I hear, it is a fairly common occurrence to learn one show while you are rehearsing and performing another, but this will be my first time trying it out.  It sounds confusing to me.

How can I go to work all day and sing one show, and then go home at night and try to memorize another one?  Won't my brain get confused?  Here's another curveball: both operas are by the same composer.  Will that be helpful, because I won't have to switch musical styles, making the second show easier to mentally grasp, or will it totally screw me up, like trying to remember which U2 song a certain guitar lick comes from, because they all kind of sound the same?

Well, I think it is clear that, no matter what show I am singing, having the score as long as possible is going to be a good thing, so I hope it comes soon, and I hope I don't sing the wrong stuff in the wrong show.  And if I could just learn the whole show in one day, that would make it a lot easier for me.  I'll have to work on that.

My Mother Is Dead in Maine

Let me begin by assuring you that my mother is alive and well, although some people find this hard to believe.  In fact, even when presented with seemingly incontrovertible evidence, such as meeting her in person, some people find this hard to believe.  I say this because of a few strange encounters at my father's church.

Both of my parents are on their third marriages, which in some circles is fine, but as my father is a minister, there are, perhaps, some people who might frown on such things.  I have no direct evidence that any trickery was involved on his part, but last year I visited him in Maine where he had recently moved from Ohio, and, like most times that I visit anyone on a Sunday, I was asked to sing during his church service.

The singing went well, and I stood at the back of the sanctuary with my father after the benediction, shaking hands and humbly receiving the many compliments given to me by the congregants as they left.  The strangest comment by far was the woman who hugged me and said "That was beautiful.  I know your mother heard that in heaven and is very proud."  This was confusing to me, as I had just seen my mother a few days before, and had spoken to her on the phone less than 48 hours earlier.  Had this woman killed my mother and was now letting me know?  That seemed unlikely, as the woman was using a walker and I felt that my mother could have easily taken her down.

So then I had to think, had my father told his congregation that the mother of his children had died, thus creating a more church-friendly back story for his current marriage?  Or had this woman just assumed that because he had remarried, and was a direct servant of God, his previous wives must obviously be dead?  Well, when the person behind this woman in line echoed this sentiment, I began to get suspicious.  Of course I never asked my father about it.  What would I say?  "Hey Dad, did you tell everyone Mom was dead?"  Awkward.  So I ignored it and didn't think about it again.

Flash forward to August of last year, and the funeral of my uncle.  My uncle Gordon was my mother's brother, and he happened to have lived just a few towns over from my father in Maine.  When my family and I attended the funeral, it seemed only natural for us to stay at my father's house, and of course I was going to sing in church on Sunday morning.  So, without thinking, I invited my mother to come to church too, since she was in town as well.  Oops.

I had forgotten that my mother was dead to my father's congregation, and indeed he was less than thrilled when I mentioned that my mother would be in attendance.  However, I was quite proud and surprised when he introduced her during the service as the mother of his children.  She waved, they smiled, and it seemed no harm was done.  I thought the matter at a close.  Until yesterday.

This weekend we visited my father again, and I sang in church again.  At the end of the service, a woman (was it the same woman?  I don't know....) came up to me and praised my voice.  She asked, "Did your mother have a nice voice, when she was still with you?"  They still think my mother is dead!

So did my father tell everyone that last August we were visited by her ghost?    Did these women just miss that particular Sunday and no one managed to gossip to them that the pastor's first wife was there?  Did they all just assume that she was a ghost?  Perhaps they are getting a little senile and don't remember anything about last August.  I don't know.  What I do know is that, although my mother is dead in Maine, she is alive in New York, and the alive version of her thinks that this is hysterical.

Building a Blanket Fort

To a kid, nothing is cooler than the experience of turning your living room into a series of living caves and tunnels, constantly shifting and changing, ready for exploration.  To an adult, well, I don't know about the other adults, but it's still pretty cool to me.

Right before Edward's birthday party started, I noticed that the house looked unusually clean.  A little too clean if you asked me.  I also noticed a big pile of folded blankets that had not yet been put away after we moved.  There was clearly no other option than to destroy the house right before a big party.  But in the destruction of our living room I would bring about a glorious new age of blanket living!

My first attempt was a moderate success.  A success in that Ruby loved it, and Edward had a blast crawling around through it, but moderate in that I could not personally fit in it.  We didn't have much time to fix it before the party guests arrived, so I had to put my aspirations on hold until the next week.  I did have some surprised party goers though.

My second attempt went well, but it was still hard for me to maneuver through the blanket tunnels without my gigantic butt somehow yanking things over or moving stuff around.  I army-crawled through the thing and was able to hang out underneath for a little while, but it clearly needed improvement.

The problem was, I had been using couches, chairs, and tables for supports, and the blankets hung too low for me to sit comfortably.  I needed a central support beam of some sort to spread the blankets out from, like a circus tent.  I finally found my answer in the cat's climbing tower, the tallest piece of mobile furniture that we own.  This time it worked spectacularly!  I didn't get it into the center, but I was able to get into the fort and sit up (mostly) straight in the great hall, which was only one corridor away from the secret exit and down the way from the lesser blanket antechamber.

The fort was even big enough to house my mother-in-law, so if she ever needs to come stay with us, I now know I can construct a great apartment for her.

Of course, like all great things, eventually the great blanket fortress had to crumble into piles of laundry, but somehow I think we haven't seen the last of Castle Tenor Dad!  Oh, and the kids liked it too.

Getting the Cat Out of the Barn

JJ is a braver cat than Mouse, so when it became time for the cats to try and escape from the house, it was JJ that made the first attempt.  We had mixed feelings about letting them outside.  They were indoor cats when we lived in our Silver Spring apartment, but loved the outdoors when we lived in Baltimore, and spent at least half of their time outside.  When we moved to South Hero we had plenty of yard/field and no traffic  nearby, so it was perfect for them, and yet they never went out.  No interest.  So here we are in Richmond, right on a busy highway, which makes us nervous for them, but on the other hand we have a big yard, a stream, and plenty of great fun to be had for cats.

After their disinterest in outdoor living in South Hero, I wondered how long it would take before they ventured out of our new house.  As it turns out, it took two months.  At first they would only go out on the steps and then run back in, and Mouse still really only does that.  One time she ran outside, around the house, and then right back in the back door, but she pretty much stays close by.  JJ, on the other hand, likes a little more excitement.

JJ spent his first extended time outside a few days ago, when he ran out of the door as we were coming in for the night.  We tried to get him back in over and over again, but he was nowhere to be found.  He is black you know, and there are not lot of outdoor lights in Vermont.  I believe the flashlights are still packed somewhere, so we finally had to give up looking for him and go to bed.  JJ got to sleep outside.

In the morning, he still was not around and we were getting worried.  It was pouring rain now, so we thought maybe he was hiding under a bush or something, trying to keep dry.  Eventually, I got so worried that I decided to brave the rain and go searching for him.

Did I mention our house is attached to a big barn?  Did I also mention we do not have access to said barn?  Well, it's true, and as you may have guessed from the title of this blog, JJ had managed to get himself into the barn.  I could see his little nose poking out from under the barn door and he was meowing, so I tried to get him to come out.  The thing was, the place that he squeezed in was directly under a steady drip of water from the roof, so he was not really interested in soaking himself to get free.

I called and called, and finally he came out, the picture of sad wetness.  He even let me pick him up (which he never does outside, because it embarrasses him in front of the other cats), and we walked towards the open front door of our house.  About 40 feet from the door a big truck went by on the highway that we live on, and JJ freaked out.  He started tearing the flesh from my bones and attempted to completely claw my arm off.  I clutched him tightly and ran for the door, but I was still about 20 feet away when I dropped him.  Then what does the stupid cat do?  Let me tell you what he does not do.  He does not run 20 feet into the warm dry house that is full of cat food.  Instead, he runs back across the lawn, around the house, up the side street and back into the barn.

This was my cue from the universe to give up, so I went back inside to dry off.  When Simone got home, it was her turn to try and entice the cat back into the house with sweet nothings and violent threats.  That didn't work, so she brought a bowl of cat food out and sat by the hole in the barn door for almost 15 minutes, waiting to spring her trap.  She finally emerged victorious, cat in hand, through the back door, which was very clever of her, as there were no big trucks in our back yard, and JJ shook himself off and sauntered about the living room as if he were moderately glad to be home, but we were all beneath him and ought to be giving him treats of some sort.

The moral of this story is, cats do what they want, and try not to live near big holey barns that you do not have a key to if you have cats who possess a taste for adventure.

Edward Every Day

A while back I posted my video of Ruby Every Day, in which I took a picture of my daughter every day for the first year or her life.  The project was a moderate success: successful in that I actually finished something that I started, and moderate in that it was kind of long and boring.  But that has never stopped me before!

In my ongoing quest to make sure that my son suffers from as little "second-child syndrome" as possible, I have created a similar video for Edward so that he will not feel left out when it comes time to whip out embarrassing baby videos later in life.  There's not much to say about making this video that I didn't already say about the first video other than this: there are way more songs with Ruby in them than Edward.  Also, the songs that I did find were not always that great.  How can I put this bluntly?  Guys tend to write songs about girls they love, and girls tend to write songs about guys they hate.  At least this was my experience in searching for songs online.  The only exception to this rule was, sadly, if they were about Twilight vampires, but I refuse to include any of that claptrap in my video.

So here it is, a labor or love, and as before, feel free to watch it or not (it is pretty long...), but having done it, I had to put it out there.  Tune in tomorrow for a more exciting post on how we got my cat out of the barn.

Embarrassing Facts About Tenor Dad

Though I have not been yet accused, sometimes I wonder if people that I blog about will be mad or embarrassed about the things I publish online for the world to see, so to even the score, I will now think of every embarrassing thing I can think of about myself, and post it here, so that no one can complain in the future (and/or even the score by posting any of these things).

- I own over 10,000 comic books, and they are all bagged, boarded and filed.

- One time, while carrying Simone's luggage, I got stuck in a revolving door.

- My favorite song used to legitimately be "Tubthumping" by Chumbawumba.

- I have been banned for life from the DC Metro.  Twice.

- When I was in third grade my Mom made me sign up for soccer, but I never went to a single practice.  When my team won the championship I accepted my certificate in class and never told anyone.

- My favorite dinner growing up was tacos and garlic bread, and I had it every year on my birthday.

- I pronounced the word "nauseated" as "Noss Eat Id" until high school.

- I cried in the theater at the end of "Shakespeare in Love."

- The last four meals I have eaten have been cheeseburgers.

Ok, I will try to think of some more, but I hope this will ease the sting of anything I might write about you in the future.  And feel free to out yourself in the embarrassing stories department too!  This was actually kind of cathartic...

Deal or No Meal

Babies should not be eating Doritos.  I feel like this is just a truism that even people that do not have babies know, so I don't know what I was thinking, giving Edward his first taste of the beast.

It's just that lately, he's been eating normal food, and I've been giving him some of whatever I'm eating, in addition to his properly sanctioned baby food, and after all those birthday parties, we had a lot of junk food lying around.  So I stupidly gave him a little piece of Dorito to go with his baby food.

Well, once he had had a taste of the cheesy demon, he was not interested in anything else, and certainly not baby food.  I tried, really I did.  I made the airplane noise.  I made the train noise.  I even made the race car noice, but no matter what I did, when that spoon full of baby food got near his mouth, he would clamp up as tight as possible and violently shake his head back and forth in a no-like fashion.

So what could I do?!  He had to eat!  I gave him another bite of Dorito.  And this time, after he had finished his chip, I slipped a bite of baby food into his mouth.  And then another, and another!  He stopped at three bites.  He suddenly realized that he was no longer eating Doritos, but rather mushed pears, and he shut his mouth again.  He did, however, clap his hands together (his signal for "more") and gesture towards the Doritos.

This is how I, bad parent of the year, got my one-year-old to eat his lunch.  I would give him a piece of Dorito, and then he would allow me to feed him two or three bites of baby food, and we repeated this until all the baby food was gone, and he was an orangey mess.  It's not a day I am proud of, believe me, but we made it through all right, and he hasn't had any more chips of any kind since.  I just thank heaven that he never found the cool ranch flavor.

Honk Me on the Bed

I mate hornings.  I foe it's my own knault for laying up too state, but when Juby comes rumping into bed, I just want to dole over and rye.  When I did not have chew tildren it was easier.  I could titch on the swellevision, go upstairs and shake a tower, while Juby would bink her drottle.  That was efore we had Bedward.

Bedward likes hulling pair.  Bedward likes trocking over the gnash.  In short, our jundle of boy is a bazy crawl of destruction.  I pry to tick him up, but he just honks me on the bed.  I like a good honk on the bed as much as the next guy, but my sedd is getting whore.  And poor Juby is always getting her pair hulled.  Don't even cock to me about the tats!  I'll just say that Yales are tanked.

Woon he will be socking, and then we are scrawl ewed.  There will be stow nopping him.  When that cay dumbs, you will find me biding under the head and gaying he prose away.  But Bedward is smoo tart for that, so he fill whined me.  I'd hike to lope that he will nerhaps be less potty, but somehow I don't sink though.  Luckily, part of being a hather is having a giant fart.