Final Resting Place

Well, having become a parent, my wife and I decided it was time to make some plans for the future.  She was concerned with life insurance, estate planning, and wills.  I however, being the practical one, was primarily concerned with what should be done with my dead body when I die.  


Now, some may opt for burial or cremation, or even something more unusual, like being made into a jewel or shot into space.  But none of those are for me.  Nope, I want to be taxidermied.  Before you go all judgmental on me, let me explain.  I am not talking about some two-bit redneck hack who specializes in deer and grouse.  No, nothing like that will do.  I want to be preserved by the genius, the artist, the maestro who created this:

Behold, the Gripsholm Lion.  Yes, dear readers, believe it or not, this was once a lion.  It was the pet of King Frederick I of Sweden, and upon its death was sent to be preserved.  The only problem was the taxidermist had never actually seen a lion.  Or, judging by the job he did, any other kind of animal.  Seriously, how many animals have a tooth centered in the middle of their mouth?  


Though perhaps not the most lifelike recreation, you have to admit it has panache.  And that's what I envision for my own remains.  I mean, he can certainly capture my shifty eyes and my disturbingly long tongue!  


Okay, so a minor problem with my plan may be the fact that he created this in the 1730's and has been dead for going on 275 years (assuming, rather safely, that he was executed after unveiling this to the king, who had actually seen the lion prior to death), but I am holding out hope that somewhere in the far reaches of the world of taxidermy there is his spiritual successor, ready to take up his cause and create anew.  I'm imaging a blind hermit.  Probably missing a few fingers.  Oh, and with palsy.  Yep, that should do it.  

Commuterism

As often happens to addicts, my cycling problem has finally begun affecting my work.  I used to be able to keep it together, I had it under control.  I went to work and, well, worked.  I would then come home and bike, and never the two should meet.  Well, other than the time I made the mistake of having some new cycling clothes delivered to work and a co-worker proceeded to put my jersey on over his work clothes and run around the office.  I work at a very serious and staid company, obviously.


But now, well, I've begun to commute to work by bike.  I know, I know, it's disturbing, but at least I'm admitting I have a problem, it's a step, right?  Yeah, I don't know if admitting it is going to do much for the poor temp who was surprised by me in my spandex one morning.  A man in spandex is, let's face it, about as disturbing as anything, but to be surprised by it within the work environment, in the early morning, before you've even had your coffee, well, it's just not fair.  


In an effort to minimize the disruption, I've tried to arrive earlier and leave later, but unfortunately it just results in the same unfortunate dedicated workers being constantly exposed to my, well, exposure.  I've found if I just pretend that I'm invisible and don't talk to them at all until I am fully showered and changed they can just pretend they didn't see me in spandex and it seems to be for the best.  It helps if I don't make ghost noises and rattle chains, but it is hard to resist.


Now is the point in my blog where I am supposed to tell you all the wonderful benefits of commuting, and give you pointers on why you too should take it up.  But, well, I just can't be bothered.  Frankly, as a cyclist I was always told by others how and why I should commute and it just never worked for me, despite a few efforts.  It just happened that a combination of factors all aligned to make it a nice fit now, but, like most things in life, what works for me probably won't for you.  Well, unless you work at my company, and live in my neighborhood, and have a similar anger issue with rush hour traffic, and have similar time constraints in life.  If that's the case then you sound pretty awesome and we should ride together sometime.


*My wife, my best critic and (only) editor is away right now, so please forgive the lower quality of the next few posts.  We apologize for the subpar product and will work to keep such disappointments from affecting your Tulibo experience in the future.

Helping?

Well, another step in Kiki's development today, she sat on the potty on her own volition!  I know, we've alerted the papers and most major networks, I assume they'll be over soon.  But, whilst sitting on the toilet she asked a question that, though seemingly simple, totally stumped us:

"How do you pee?"


Ummmmm...


Well....


I must say, I never really thought about it.  I just kind of, well, peed.  


But do you push?  Relax?  Push in a relaxed manner?  Relax in a pushing manner?


Somehow, I sensed that "You just do" was not the recommended parental response.  


So, being a failure as a father I turned to my most trusted advisor for some advice.  Yeah, Google.  


But, amazingly and shockingly to my sense of all that is right and true in this world, Google was of no help.  Nope, nothing but yahoo questions of how women pee (hint, they don't have to hold their penis), and queries about peeing in space, on a boat, in a plane, on a submarine.  Basically, every form of transportation.  Apparently peeing while in a vehicle is a bigger problem than I ever realized.  


So, having been failed miserably by Google, I turned to the second smartest person I know. Monsieur Wikipedia (he's fancy).  There, I discovered this:


Voluntary control

The mechanism by which voluntary urination is initiated remains unsettled.^[8] One possibility is that the voluntary relaxation of the muscles of the pelvic floor causes a sufficient downward tug on the detrusor muscle to initiate its contraction.^[9] Another possibility is the excitation or disinhibition of neurons in the pontine micturition center, which causes concurrent contraction of the bladder and relaxation of the sphincter.^[3]

So, basically, no one knows how to pee.  Hooray, I'm no longer a failure as a father, we're just a failure as a species!!!

Also, apparently my daughter is a scientific genius.  I mean, what's the difference, really, between Galileo staring into the night sky and asking why, Darwin watching the finches and asking why, and my daughter sitting on the toilet and asking why?  That's right, there's no difference, she's a genius.  Well, I've got to go clear a space for her nobel prize.  I'm thinking somewhere in a bathroom would be most appropriate.