This weekend, we spent a couple of days at the cabin with Mike and Whoa-Nay, as Shef calls her.

Shef is so in love with Whoa-Nay that it’s a little scary. Upon waking at five each morning, he looked into my eyes and beseeched me to find Whoa-Nay and let him plaster her with kisses. Because I too have affection for Whoa-Nay, I kept him out of her bedroom until eight a.m., but precisely as the second-hand marked the arrival of that decent hour, I sicced him upon her.

“HI, WHOA-NAY!” he shrieked about a hundred and fifty times per day. For a full hour on Saturday afternoon, she engaged him in a frenzied game of peek-a-boo from behind the couch. He was so gleeful, he couldn’t really function.



After he went to bed, the rest of us grown-ups went about cabinly business: triple-fisting at dinner, trying desperately and vainly to finish a game of Trivial Pursuit Nineties Edition, and losing control of bodily functions.



Well, to be fair, the bodily function problem was really mine alone. It started innocently enough when I sipped some water just as Whoa-Nay was relating the punchline of a hilarious story. As a result of the laughing, I choked on the water and kind of spat up in my napkin.

“She’s totally throwing up,” Mike narrated calmly, as I tried my darndest to be discreet.

Then I had to excuse myself to the bathroom because I was in danger of wetting my pants from laughing so hard about vomitting at the table.

Even removed from the group, I couldn't stop the laughter. When I got back, the sheer force of my guffaws caused a third, truly unfortunate incident: a gaseous emission that packed just a few too many decibels.

"Are you sure you don't need to go back to the bathroom?" Mike inquired as I doubled over in a fit of laughter and humiliation.

Whoa-Nay howled and pointed. "I'll never forget this!" she yelled. "You hit the TRIPLE!"

It was really kind of the highlight of the weekend, humor-wise, and even so you might be wondering why I'd confess this to the internet. The reason is simply that it will make Whoa-Nay very happy, and after spending thirty-six hours with Shef attached to her leg, I'm willing to grant her just this much.

The sophs made masks, devising symbols for the Much Ado characters’ dreams, fears, and intentions, and conflicts. The idea was that the masks would fit right into the dance scene in Act II, scene I, the one where Kate Beckinsale gets wooed by Denzel.

I was more or less pleased with the products, despite certain limitations. For instance, one snarky fellow had this to say during his presentation:

“This is the mask that I think Don John would wear… I mean, if he were forced to wear a paper plate to a masquerade ball.”

Indeed. Just one more reminder that this is tenth grade English and not Project Runway.

Last night, I went to bed before nine because I couldn’t see the book I was trying to read. Shef, never a good sleeper, has been in full-effect lately with then night-wakings and the wailing, and it seems that sleep-deprivation has finally begun to affect my vision.

“You’re going to have to sleep in your crib,” I tell him.
“Sleep with Mommy,” he relplies, breathing sweetly into my neck and holding on tight.
No flies on him, I suppose.

Anyway, I decided it would be best to simply go to sleep, get up early, and do the reading before my curriculum planning meeting this morning. Sadly, several circumstances made this plan unfeasible:

1. Dan was up with Shef from 10-12, and I was up with him from 2-5.
2. There was freezing rain, so my 15-minute commute was doubled.
3. When I arrived at school, I reached into my pocket and discovered I was in possession of Dan’s car keys.

I made it home and back to work with five minutes to spare before the bell, but I never recovered from the discombobulation, really.

Shef will be two in a month. I think he has kind of a long attention span for a two-year-old because throughout his life, his obsession with the vacuum cleaner has not waned.

Here he is with the vacuum cleaner a year ago:




And here he is last week:



There is a little stick at my mom’s house that he pretends is also a vacuum cleaner. In fact, his pretending has gotten quite good – we pretend to eat plastic food, we pretend with finger puppets, and he pretends that he wants to use the toilet.

He knows that if he pretends this last thing, there’s a good chance I’ll let him flush, which is totally worth the trouble of getting naked and pretending to push.

Today, I finally made the call to Dr. L., famed podiatrist. On Tuesday, the 21st, he will begin the process of bringing me to a wart-free existence. This professional help is something my friend Molly, who has had warty feet herself, has been urging for months. I was reluctant because of the nightmare which was my first wart treatment. You might not remember, but I do – it was ghastly and black and oozy, and really quite painful.

“I’m tryiiing the Dr. Scholl’s treatment,” I explain defensively, over and over again, trying not to think about the pedicures and public swimming pools I might be missing out on.

Molly purses her lips and shakes her head. “If you’re going to do anything on your own with this mess, you’re going to need to get in there with something sharp and just dig it out.” Then she squints her eyes and pantomimes a series of short, violent stabs.

Sadly, experience tells me that self-surgery is easier said than done, so I'm surrendering myself to Dr. L. Let's hope he can eradicate the colony because I'm really tired of those damn warts.

Yesterday, I headed downtown St. Paul to participate in the "Frozen Half Marathon," which was true to its name, as it was
frigid -- the windchill was -1. In addition to the inclement conditions, I faced another barrier, in that I'm not really in shape for this kind of running. I've only run once in the last three weeks, and my last run of more than four miles (a leisurely ten-mile tour of the lakes with inspiring pal, Sheila, who finished 2nd in this race) was about five weeks ago. Any sane person in my situation would have bowed out, but not me. I like to finish what I sign up for, dammit.

The first ten miles were nice -- fun, even. I maintained a solid nine-minute pace, and then predictably, pretty much exactly at the ten mile mark, I fell apart. I urged myself minute-by-minute toward the finish line, and ended up posting a 2:02, a mere 32-minutes behind Sheila.

Despite the discomfort, I'm really happy I did it. Even the relatively acute gastrointestinal distress I experienced as a result of my effort was more-or-less worth it. I needed a kick-start in my training, and I think this has done the trick.

Tonight, I went to Sociale with my new pal from work. She’s Texan and republican, but remarkably cool in spite of these bad facts.

Here’s the thing: Sociale kicks ass. Let me add a disclaimer that it is not so good for vegetarians. However, for those of us who partake of the succulent bovine, Sake to Me Beef Stir Fry is really going to hit the spot.