embark on a blog post if you don’t know what you’re going to write. That’s my advice to you, should you ever happen to find yourself with a blog.
Actually, there are a couple thoughts been rattling around in my head. Firstly, I now find myself giving twitter another try. I’m not sure why or what it’s going to do for me, but by gob, I can keep up to speed on what Wil Wheaton is doing from minute to minute, and what’s so bad about that? Also, there’s a nice twitter app for my iPod Touch, so I’m “leveraging some synergy” there. I have to stop reading Valleywag, clearly.
Secondly, I realize more and more every day that I’m the kind of person who can re-watch things I love. Like Arrested Development (“who left the cap off my f*#king Glisten?!”). Or anything in which Clint Eastwood carries a gun. I love that — in space — no one can hear me scream. I’ve noticed something new and wonderful each and every time I’ve viewed The Shining and Blade Runner, and I watch movies very closely.
But the wife is more the “one and done” type. Which is fine, I guess. Last night, we were sitting on the sofa (or couch, if you prefer [or you're Canadian]), waiting for the season finale of Top Chef to air, and watching episodes of AD off the ATV. Leah, in her boredom, was on the phone with her sister, or her mother, or someone, exclaiming for the umpteenth time that we were watching Arrested Development again. No sooner was the lament out of her mouth than we both broke out in laughter at the vision of Tobias giving George Michael an inadvertent eyeful as he climbed into the top bunk in his loose-fitting denim cutoffs. And I considered, what’s the harm in repeated viewings if there’s still joy to be had?
Thirdly, Ava seems to be going through a phase right now that makes her extremely crabby and quick to anger. This morning was OK, but the last couple days have seen tantrums the likes of which we’ve not experienced. I’m talkin’ lying-on-the-bed-or-floor-screaming-at-the-top-of-the-lungs-for-minutes-at-a-time tantrums. Supper Nanny stuff. Nasty. I don’t think she’s sick. I suspect a growth spurt, maybe. One thing I’ve found that calms her is to hear stories about when she was a baby. When she came into our bed at 6 this morning, I told her about the time we spent in the hospital when she was born. I looked over at her face while I spoke, and she appeared to be listening to a tale about fantastic people, places, and events from some ancient time. I guess that’s what it was. I felt like some village elder passing down an origin story, hoping the details would stay in my daughter’s mind and the minds of her children until the end of the world.