I've managed a restaurant before, so I know all about food safety regulations and what one needs to do to ensure that something like the current E-coli outbreak gets avoided. Ray, however, appears to be getting by on looks (not much to work with, really) and sass (too much to work with, sadly), and little actual cooking knowledge. Case in point, her celebrated "Seven minute meal." This meal was essentially chicken over salad. Yep - chicken in seven minutes.

I won't go into all the details, but she fried chicken breasts that had been pounded thin and put them over a simply dressed arugula salad. Simple. Well, simpler than the person cooking it, in theory. The problem was that she used the same pair of tongs to pick up the raw chicken, toss the salad greens, flip the chicken, plate the dressed greens, then plate the chicken. She never washed the tongs at all. I go through at least three sets of tongs when I cook to avoid such cross-contamination, unless I've used my hands and washed them several times. Not Ray - apparently hitting that Seven minute mark is more important than food safety.

This, coupled by the government's slipping regulations on general food safety and the FDA, leaves me wondering why we haven't died yet from some super food bug.

One of the adverts during the Rachael Ray show was - and I swear this is true - for a school for budding medical professionals. However, there's a catch. Here's the verbatim voiceover from the advert for Sanford Brown Institute, given over a visual of two young women smiling and nodding enthusiastically:

"Do you dream of a career in the growing healthcare industry, but can't stand the sight of blood? Then don't worry!"

This institute trains people to be medical billers and filers. No lie. That's it. They train people to file, because they can't stand the sight of blood. I honestly don't know what's more stupid: the ad, the institute, or the whole flipping idea. It almost made me want to shoot myself...

But I can't stand the sight of blood.

Lucas re-released the Original trilogy on DVD (again) recently "for a limited time!" Previously only available as a trilogy 3-pack, they are now available individually. For five bucks more per film. Why bring this up? Well, they're the same versions as in the 3-pack, with new covers. And one new special feature each. What's the feature? The original, unadulterated, theatrical versions of the original films from their release in 1977 (Star Wars), 1981 (The Empire Strikes Back), and 1983 (Return of the Jedi).

The original announcement was met with much celebration, which lasted for about ten minutes. Then the news got out that these would not be remastered in any way. They would simply be the same transfers from when the films were mastered onto laserdisc some 10, fifteen years ago. Now, I don't have a fancy setup, so I don't care. However, apparently everyone else does, and they're pissed. Apparently they don't realize that Lucas will more than likely remaster these for the 30-year anniversary mega box due next year, and this is a test run to see just how much cash we're willing to spend on these films over and over again.

I did pick up the Star Wars disk while it was on sale for about 15 bucks, mainly because it's the one Lucas bastardized the most when he made "Special Editions" and trashed the original negatives of the films. When he added special effects to make dozens more X-Wings during the battle with the Death Star, I thought it was a bad idea because even though it looked cool, it took away from the essence of the story: suddenly the Rebels looked far more formidable than they actually were, and not the ragtag bunch who hadn't a hope or a prayer. The CGI insertion of the slug-like Jabba over old footage was okay, until they had Han "climb" Jabba's tail, making it silly.

Then came the clincher: Han shooting Greedo in the cantina? Nope... Out of nowhere, the story was changed radically, and Greedo shot at Han first. Suddenly, Han's character, as was Greedo's, was made far less interesting. (Greedo was just made pathetic - what kind of bounty hunter can't hit a shot from three feet?) Lucas defended his decision, saying that it was a better message for the kids watching the film to have a hero not shoot first.

I disagree. The whole essence of Han Solo for me, for all of my life, was that here was this self-centered rogue who cared more for money and his own hide than anyone else around him. Over time, while in the company of a small group of people who felt completely differently who were paying him for his aid, he begins to realize what his life has become, and that he has a chance to redeem himself and be someone better than he was back in that cantina.

By the end of Return of the Jedi, Han Solo is a completely different person, while remaining the same charming rogue. That is a feat of storytelling aided grandly by Ford's acting and the direction of Irvin Kirschner and Richard Marquand. In one swipe of a digital pen, Lucas took all of that away.

Now, I have no qualms with Lucas wanting to do that. They are, as he has said several times in his own defense of these and other changes, his films to do with as he sees fit. What I have a problem with is the twofold disrespect of the fans. This reaction has two roots.

First is that Lucas keeps re-releasing these things in various new packaging in a blatant way to gouge the fans to extract as much cash from them as possible. Star Wars fans are as vehement about their saga as Star Trek fans, and will spend almost anything on anything branded from it. Lucas clearly knows this, and constantly releases sub par product to simply keep the copyrights alive. With a 30 year anniversary DVD boxed set due next year, it is all but given that these original prints will be cleaned up and remastered (not an expensive process, by the way) for the set, so why else would Lucas release them "for a limited time?"

The other reason I get cheesed off at Lucas about this issue is that while I have no problem with him changing his films on a regular basis, I believe he should make each version readily available. I honestly don't care if he isn't happy with the 1977, 1981, and 1983 versions of the original films. It's what the older fans know, and they are what we want. We don't want the version where Luke is polka dot and played by E.T., we want the screwy, goofy version that has the flaws and quirks we grew up with. Why? It's our nostalgia, just as the serials and westerns that inspired Star Wars are Lucas' nostalgia.

Why do I bring this up? Because I have a daughter. Don't see the connection? Try reading the same story to your child over and over again for a week at his or her request. Now let someone else read it to your child for a week. How long do you think it will be before your child says "that's not how (so-and-so) reads it!" Hell, Sam doesn't talk well yet, and we get it already. (Sidebar to Sandra Boynton: do all of your books have to be songs? I just do not sing well...)

This whole back and forth about the various versions of Star Wars are the ultimate "that's not how so-and-so does it." Lucas changes the story every time he tells it, but we the fans want to see the story the way we remember it, the first time we saw it. When we were little kids, transported for the very first time a long time ago, to that galaxy far, far away.

I just hope Lucas wakes up and realizes that before all of his older fans just give up on him and his stories, and start telling stories of their own instead.

There are limits. Generally they involve recipes with, say, okra, or when she will do something truly screwy like marinate a filet mignon in bottled Italian dressing.

And then there was this oddball casserole that aired lately.

It started with six slices of bread, crusts removed and buttered on both sides, then placed in a buttered baking dish. Yeah - the extra butter seemed redundant to me, too. This is topped with thin-sliced ham from the deli. Then comes the mystery ingredient #1 (wait for it). This is topped with six more slices of double-buttered bread. This layer of bread is topped with grated cheddar cheese and crumbled bacon, and mystery ingredient #2 (trust me).

All of this is then covered with a slight variant on a french royale (eggs and half and half, except that Paula actually used one cup of cream and one cup of milk, salt, pepper, and fresh grated nutmeg). This is all then baked for about 45 minutes.

Essentially what she has made is a Casserole Croque Masseur, based on the ham and cheese sandwich that is then soaked briefly in a royale and fried on both sides like french toast. For the most part the casserole is appealing. But wait, you say... What are those "mystery ingredients?" Ah - thought I'd forgotten?

Not so. Let's go in reverse, though, shall we? The second mystery ingredient - sprinkled with the bacon and cheese - was crushed potato chips. Screwy, but not entirely unimaginable. It gives some saltiness and crunch. But then, so does the bacon, so the chips really are unnecessary. Odd, certainly. And then there's mystery ingredient number 1, layered (rather thickly, by the way) between the ham and the second layer of bread. What is it?

Nope - not okra. Nope - not even green tomatoes (shoot - that'd be really good!)... No...

Bananas.

Yep - monkey chow. Supposedly this is based on the idea that if people get pineapple on their ham pizza, then why not banana on a croque masseur? How about the idea that it sounds nasty? How about the fact that most people still can't get past banana and peanut butter sandwiches, and that's a more natural combination? How about the fact that bananas and cheese casserole go together like George Bush and diplomacy?

Yuck.

Coach Allen is still revered here in Virginia long after his death, while his son is still an idiot. The former Governor Allen, a Republican, has beaten his Democratic opponents in the gubernatorial and senatorial races in the same way Bush has: through the virtue that he, unlike his opponents, is visibly breathing.

Recently however, Allen, during a campaign stop being filmed by opponent James Webb, made one of those verbal blunders that can come back to haunt politically like "read my lips." During the speech, Allen turned to the gentleman filming the speech for Webb and welcomed him to America, and called him out by name: Macaca.

"Macaca's" name is actually S. R. Sidarth, and despite being of Indian decent, Sidarth is an American citizen. Unfortunately, so is Allen, which makes him eligible to run for office.

I had a lot more to say about Allen and his campaign. I was going to wax philosophic about Allen and his lack of ideas, his inability to solve problems, and his general ignorance.

Thankfully (or perhaps sadly) Allen has basically done all that for me. His inability to keep his shiny cowboy boots out of his mouth (apparently not just recently, but even in the past whilst on the football field) has made him too easy a target. While his opponent, former Reagan staffer turned Dem Webb isn't an ideal candidate either, he is somewhat more articulate than Allen.

But then, so is a can of soup.

Perhaps when Allen loses this next election, he will have plenty of time to kick back, relax, and learn a new phrase: Hakuna Macaca, which I understand means "Please remember my daddy 'cause that's alls I gots left!" when (according to Allen's grandfather, I believe) it is translated from the original Hebrew.

One more thing: am I the only one who couldn't help but think "antacid" every time you heard "Joe-mentum?"

"With Longevity on Court, Stevens's Center-Left Influence Has Grown."

Stevens's? Even *I* don't make that mistake, and my gpa is closer to the president's than (I would assume) the Post's editor's! (Or is that "editor's's?")

One of the performers was Vanessa Williams, former Miss America. I love it when she shows up at these patriotic events, because I always end up with giggle fits remembering that the Christian Coalition stirred up so much dust about her past that she was forced to resign as Miss America, and nowadays the Republicans are the ones who ask her to perform for them.

As for this year's 1812, it was more like just "12." It was apparently a new arrangement, drawn up by the same people who declared our mission in Iraq accomplished far too early. The orchestra started up with the opening few bars of the 1812, with the traditional slow buildup on flute and piccolo, then about 30 or so seconds in whammo! Cannons go off and we're off! They launched right into the climactic part of the overture, cannons firing, cymbals crashing, tympanis being hammered...

It was as if Tchaikovsky had premature ejaculation. Typical Dubya production, I suppose: can't wait to shoot his guns off.

DeeCee Dog and Pony Show, Part One: Ever seen the wonderful Frankenstein parody Young Frankenstein? Peter Boyle does a wonderful job overacting the part where he is dressed up in a tux and paraded around the theater just prior to belting out "Putting on the Ritz" in a duet with Gene Wilder. He is paraded around like a fool. Why do I bring this up? Because this is exactly what Teddy Leonsis and George "I'm a little" McPhee-pot did to Alexander Ovechkin, having Ovechkin even deliver their picks. Someone should tell these jerks that just because Ovechkin called out the picks' names does not mean they won't be blamed if the picks don't work out.

Bobby Clarke, former goon player and current general manager for the Philadelphia Flyers, really is an idiotic ass. He swaggered up to the podium with all the cocksureness of your typical dumbass Texan politician. However, this nimrod gets up there, and promptly forgets the name of the young man he wanted to draft. After a second, he finally spits out "Oh! Claude Giroux!" I'm sure that gives young Mr. Giroux lots of confidence about his future with the organization. Clarke better have signed this kid with a nice bonus.

DeeCee Dog and Pony Show, Part Two: For their second pick, when Leonsis and "Lack of" McPheelings... Sorry... When Ovechkin picks goaltender Semen Varlamov, Bettman and the Caps brass are left to stand alone on the podium for a good two to three minutes because apparently nobody told them that Varlamov was the only first round prospect not in attendance for the draft. Watching all of these dorks (ironically, except Ovechkin) mouthing various iterations of "what do we do now? I don't know" was a hoot.

Alright. I admit it. For all my going on to family and friends that it really didn't matter to me if and when she finally said it... It was really cool.

More than cool, really. It was one of those "aww" moments that melts a Daddy's heart. You know, like when she wakes up from a nap, or first thing in the morning, and her eyes open up and she sees you and just smiles. Or when she's crying from feeling rotten and you pick her up and she stops crying and just nuzzles into you. In other words - it makes me feel like her Dad.

It's just one of those moments that reminds me that I did the right thing, having a child. It's also one of those moments that scares the hell out of me, making me wonder if I can keep this up for another, oh, fifty years. For my mom, rearing me was probably a lot easier than my brother's childhood, but still... I wonder sometimes if I have half the strength she does to be the parent she is.

And then I wonder what's wrong with my brother and my father, and why the hell they disconnected like they did to my nephew and me. There's another man out there (and you know who you are) who I consider my real brother who not only had several children of his own over the past 18 years, but also took in two young girls recently, and would probably take in a dozen more without batting an eye. What's wrong with our society that a man who at the time of my birth was a complete stranger to me but now is closer to me than much of my own blood is a greater role model for me as father than my own father?

And then I look into my wee little angel's eyes...

And I am not angry at my actual brother or my father. I simply feel sorry for them. My nephew is fighting through so much to raise himself and become a man that his grandmother can be proud of, and he will succeed far beyond his own father's potential.

And my own father will simply never know the beauty that is his granddaughter.

Whereas my Mom, on the other hand, gets to hang out with her on road trips, watch her grow up before her eyes, and giggle as Sam gives her parents the same diaper-changing fits as I did to my Mom, 33 years ago.

And to think, two years ago I didn't want a kid.

However, this past week has been a bit tough. The aforementioned road trip was the three of us and my mom to South Carolina for a bit of a family reunion so mom's aunt could meet my wife and Sam. I haven't seen Aunt Doris in years - 21 to be exact. What would have been about 7 hours down became more like eleven with the addition of extra stops for bad knees, upset stomachs, crankiness due to car-seat unhappiness, and the occasional coffee and diaper needs. And that was just Sam!

The reunion was basically a church service, followed by a large dinner at the church. (I'm sure you are all familiar with my take on organized religion by now. If not, once the old ICRVN archived are up, I'll link you to them, but let's just say I don't have any problems with religion or spirituality. I have problems with churches.) My wife was worried that Sam might be a little rambunctious in the church. Heh. Nope. Sam was perfectly behaved.

I was the problem. Well, Mom helped.

I won't go into great detail, save that it was a Southern Presbyterian Church, pretty much lorded over (intended) by a Baptist minister with a flair for the obvious. His wife was the church soloist. The church was built by one of my ancestors, and my family name is all over the stained glass and remembrances. My family name is also on several street signs all over the area. Needless to say, this itty bitty town in central South Carolina is home. After the service, the pastor came to us and thanked us for coming (he was smart enough to recognize us as new, at least), and Mom told him who we were in the family tree. This used car salesman couldn't even fake an "Oh, really?"

Which made me feel much better about what I had done during the service.

Although I contend that Mom started it.

The choir was not great, but they were serviceable (pun not intended this time).

They were led by a woman who as I said is married to the pastor, which saves on gas money going to and from the church. That's the most positive thing I can say. She talked of remembering, and how it related to Mother's Day, which wasn't really a stretch since Mother's Day had only been the week before. Although, since much of the congregation did seem to be seniors, perhaps they did need the recap. After all, many of the women I met were color coordinating their dresses with the shade of blue from their hair.

Once her soliloquy about remembrances and memory was over, she launched into her song, which ironically I don't think I will ever truly forget. Well, I may forget the title, or the lyrics...

But I may never forget the refrain.

"...Preh-SHEE-US MEHM-reeeeees..."

I want you, for just a moment, to trust me. I want you to take your cordless telephone, and turn it on, and dial, say, the number for time and temperature. Then take the phone and microwave it. Okay. That ungodly squeal and popping that happened just before the phone exploded?

You have just shared in the experience of the church solo.

Well... Almost. Take that noise, and imagine it sung by an inebriated Dale Evans, as covered by, Yoko Ono.

Feel free to icepick your brain into pudding to avoid such a thought, if you prefer. I would have liked to, were I then in possession of such an object.

However, all I had at the time was my dear mother. Who just looked at me, and crossed her eyes. Fine, I thought. If she wasn't going to behave, neither would I. I leaned into my wife, as if I was being a loving husband, touched by the moment. I whispered into her ear "Trigger just shot Dale Evans."

She somehow managed to hit me without anyone seeing. As the song continued, as the soloist wrapped up ("...Preh-SHEE-US MEHM-reeeeees...", which by the way actually had me longing for Debbie Boone), I leaned in again and whispered "sing it, Yoko!"

Smack! This time with Sam's teething key toy. Fair enough.

The service ended, my wife chastised both my mom and I, and we went into the dining hall. Her chastising held little impact, though, because of her laughing. Unfortunately, when I made a plate for my wife and I, my being away from home for so long bit us in the tuckus. I had forgotten that when you have barbecue and potatoes, you are not presented with brown gravy, but with the remaining barbecue sauce, which in this part of South Carolina, is the vinegar-based sauce. Good, but tangy. Particularly when you put on as much as I did, based on how much my wife likes gravy on potatoes and rice.

Thankfully there was much (real) sweet tea to be had... And real collards! (Not that Virginians can't cook good food, but some stuff just eludes Northerners. And no, no one this close to DC is really a Southerner, particularly when it comes to food.)

So, what ended up being a one and a half day visit in SC following a total of almost forty hours of driving left the three of us wiped out completely, and home just in time to continue our routine. And return to the hole in our ceiling.

A water spot had shown up just before we left, and we had to have a plumber out to fix the leak, and now the hole remains while we wait for the association to get back with someone to repair the hole cut into the ceiling - back in May.

And in that time, a bit of a cold swept through the house, starting with my wife, then through Sam and then me. Sam was the worst, though, since it was her first cold. It was mostly just triggered by allergies, but since we were so off schedule and sleep deprived and wiped out from the trip, it hit us harder than normal. Sam and I are still a little bit sick, but mine is more due to fighting a migraine at the same time.

Because we don't want to overmedicate Sam, we're giving her a little less than required for the allergies, so her recovery is a little slower, so it's now down to a mild runny nose.

When it started though, she was miserable, having trouble breathing and producing some really impressive snot. At one point, she just looked up at us and there was this two-inch bubble of it just emerging from her nostril, and she was looking at us with those big eyes as if to say "what?" Either she understood something wasn't quite right with her nose at that moment, or she couldn't understand why we were looking at her with this combined look of amusement and horror, all while trying to find a tissue.

As all you parents know, Sam doesn't like having her nose messed with, so trying to help wipe her nose, or worse, aspirate it, isn't easy. However, I would much rather have to hold her head down and fight her a little bit to use the junior turkey baster to help my daughter breathe and deal with her first cold this way than have her first cold be one involving flying poop.

When that happens, I want to be in a hotel room, with someone else doing the cleaning, so all I have to do with Sam is comfort her, and aim her tush. Let the hotel maid deal with it. Better yet... That's the time to visit the Reagan Library.

For the first time in nearly a year, my wife and I had a date. The last time she and I went out together for the typical "dinner and a movie" was July 9, 2005. I'm sure you can figure out what happened after that. We've been busy since then. Since we're movie geeks (remember, we met through Wendy at Suncoast even though she continues to deny setting us up) and we had seen the first two X-Men films in the theatre, we set everything up to see the third and potentially final one in the theatre as well.

My wife's mom would watch Sam while we did a little shopping, had lunch, saw the film, then meet her mom and Sam for the "prisoner exchange," and we'd come home.

Well... I was still just sick enough that everything was in doubt. Finally we scrapped everything but the movie, since it was our only opportunity to see a film in the theatre for some time, although we're holding out hope for the chance to do this again for Superman Returns and Pirates of the Caribbean 2.

So... Was X-Men 3: The Last Stand worth it?

Bryan Singer has made some harrowing, violent, and dark films that are brilliant, character driven explorations of our society. He managed to take one of the more successful yet convoluted comic book mythoses and craft an enjoyable and relevant pair of films that is faithful to the source material, successful by "Hollywood" standards, and compelling and well made in comparison to modern films. because of what he was able to do for the X-Men universe of characters, Warner Brothers dangled a lot of cash and the grandest of all comic book properties in Singer's face: Superman. Singer bit, and he left X3. Three directors quickly came and went, with Fox refusing to budge on their release date in order to beat Superman Returns to the box office.

Enter Brett Ratner.

I've written about him before, about how he remade Manhunter into Red Dragon, and turned a taut crime drama into something I hope not to find in my daughter's diaper. Manhunter featured William Peterson in his pre-CSI days in a role very much like his Grissom character on CSI. In fact, it surprises me that Manhunter isn't more popular because it's more CSI-like, focusing on the way in which the killer is caught, than on the fact that Hannibal Lecter helps the detective. Ratner's remake balloons Lecter's story to gross proportions, making the real killer and the hunt for him almost an afterthought. Anthony Hopkins was creepy in Silence of the Lambs, but Ratner's direction reduced him to sick and slimy in Hannibal.

Ratner also directed the Rush Hour action films, which featured Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. The Rush Hour films were entertaining in that "well, they didn't suck" kind of way. They helped introduce many to Jackie Chan, and helped many more become just aware enough of Tucker to make sure that he would be avoided in anything else. If this helps, Chan had to be talked into Rush Hour 2, and apparently he's having to be heavily pressured into Rush Hour 3, all because of Ratner's involvement. (Chan, in a strange mirroring of Orson Welles, apparently may use monies earned in the US to fund his Hong Kong projects.)

Ratner was the fourth director attached to X3, and the final one to stick. My own personal theory on why he stuck around is that Halle Berry was playing Storm. Ratner has a bit of a reputation of getting... close (or trying to) with the prettiest of his female stars on films he directs. It would certainly explain just how much of a jump in screen time and importance Storm makes from the first two films to this one, particularly when you consider that despite her Oscar, Berry is not that strong an actress. Singer was able to get a fairly decent performance from her in each of the first two films.

I'm not sure Ratner could get water from ice, even if you spotted him a blowtorch.

Another key difference in the staff between X/X2 and X3 is the writers: X2 had Zak Penn, David Hayter, and Singer credited for the story, and Hayter, Michael Dougherty, and Dan Harris for the screenplay. The story was tight and the dialogue fit. For X3, it felt more like the last two Batman films as directed by Joel Schumacher. The only writing credits are Penn and Simon Kinberg. No mention is given for whether or not they both worked together, or one then the other. Because of the animosity over Singer's departure (James Marsden's role as Cyclops was dramatically pared down by Fox and producers after Marsden accepted a part in Superman Returns), I suspect that Kinberg is someone brought in later, but that there are several un-credited writers who worked on the screenplay.

There is a lot of dialogue that is worse than the worst line from X-Men uttered by Storm when she knocks out Toad that we all groaned over: "Do you know what happens to a toad when it's hit by lightning? Same thing as everything else."

That line would be one of the better ones in X3.

X3 is full of many of the hallmarks of Ratner's career. And that's what's wrong. Ratner is a film school graduate. Many film school graduates these days learn one of two things: how to make a film, or how to make a movie. Yes, there's a difference. If you go and learn to make a film, it means you took all the classes, ignored all the crap about learning other people's techniques, kept your own style and voice, and kept copious notes on the technical stuff. If you went and learned how to make a movie, it means you learned everything about the Hollywood system, which people to copy, and why, and who to hire cheap to come in under budget, etc.

Ratner did the latter. Every movie he has made has made a lot of money. They aren't great, but they're damned successful, because the masses enjoy them.

With X3, he is supremely lucky that Ian McKellen, Hugh Jackman, Kelsey Grammer and Patrick Stewart can actually act. Their performances, as well as those of young actors Shawn Ashmore and Ellen Page (they outshine young Oscar winner Anna Paquin), save this from being a remarkably awful work.

Without engaging in all of the comic book continuity errors and arguing over whether or not the deaths and "de-powerings" should or should not have occurred (since some or many of you have not yet seen the film), I will simply say that I enjoyed going out to see the film, despite being sick.X3 I liked finally seeing the Danger Room and Beast, and it was nice to finally see Iceman as he should be. Grammer was perfectly cast as Beast, ironic since he wasn't cast by Ratner. Ratner would have probably cast a wrestler or something, since he is also notorious for re-using people from his previous work for some reason, regardless of whether they are right for a role or not. If you've seen either Rush Hour or Hannibal, you'll recognize a good number of faces.

X3 is definitely the Return of the Jedi of the X-Men movies. No... It's The Phantom Menace of the X-Men movies. It could have been a lot worse, and it was at least aided by having been planned and mostly plotted by Singer. Ratner then could only do so much damage, no matter how much he tried.

When the DVD is out I'll go into more of a detailed analysis of the actual story, which despite some of the goofy dialogue, was good.

So... Again... Is X3 worth it? Um... We had gift certificates, which helped quite a bit. Had we paid full non-matinee price, my answer would be no. It's worth an inexpensive matinee showing if you liked the first two and want to know what happens to these characters. Do be warned that there are far more fight scenes in X3 than in X-Men and X2 combined. Also, unless you have watched every cartoon and read every comic, you will not recognize everybody in the group scenes. I still don't know who half those characters were...

Sporrans go around the waist, not the neck.

It did seem stupid that the Spelling Bee was primetime television on ABC while the Stanley Cup playoffs were buried on a network known for fishing and bull riding.

One thing I saw on the road trip had me wondering just how long it had been since the gas station condom machine was refilled when one of the condoms was labeled "Freedom Tickler."

Another odd bathroom sighting on the road trip was the most peculiar bit of graffiti: E=MC2.

A note to advertising companies: enough with the adverts of four idiots screaming out what they're eating! From the twits in the car screaming "chicken!" four different ways, to the one in the restaurant where they end with "vegetable medley!," I think we get your message: Restaurants have food! We get it! So, from now on, when I get hungry, I'll really try and remember that, okay? Now quit it.

Well, our wee lass reached one year this past July, and she is now about to celebrate fifteen months with yet another growth spurt. (I know. In my family, there aren't two more nerve wracking words than "growth spurt.") Sam's already two and a half feet tall as of one year, so if she hits three feet by eighteen months, we're in trouble. She's already wearing size five shoes.

The biggest change is just trying to adjust to how much time Sam demands. I knew that there would be a lot of work having a kid and being a parent, but I wasn't ready for the amount of time and attention she demands right now, even when it's both my wife and I with her. That's one of the major reasons why the ICRVN hasn't been as up to date as I would like of late. It takes a lot of time to read Pajama Time for the fifth time... In an hour.

Some of the cool things that have happened in the last few months include Sam starting to count (okay - we're helping - but she's got the idea), identifying parts of the body, and the coolest thing: she's ticklish!

My wife's even getting in on the goofiness, having created the song that is the title to this particular piece, based on the old Monty Python "Spam" sketch. She can't believe (and she's right) that I didn't think of it first. Sam, however, isn't so sure, as she just looks at me funny whenever I sing it to her.

Maybe it's my singing voice. Who knows.

Well, rather than inflict that upon you, how about we recount some of the latest adventures of Sam! Wonderful Sam!

We begin with...

Sam started her birthday by enjoying some spalsh-time in the pool with her Mom and my Mother-in-law. My M-i-L's neighborood pool has a wading pool, and Sam takes advantage of it. She even had some fun with a beach ball, as you can see. She worked up a bit of an appetite, and was ready for her treat: her first birthday cake!

Sam wasn't too sure what was going on at first. She sort of looked at us, then the cake, back to us, then the cake. She then slowly reached out to the cake... And then it was clear whose child she is. My DNA is all but gone. When I was a child, according to my Mom, I planted myself head first into my cake. Sam just started in on the icing. As you can see, it didn't take long for the sugar high to take effect, and the crash to hit soon after. My wife and I actually had to force her to try the cake. She wasn't too impressed. By the end, she was covered with icing, and a bath was in order.

Hey! What's that?	Nice ball.
I'll take it!	Hah! What a birthday!
Squish...	Cake?
No - the frosting's just enough.	In fact...
More please.	What? Something on my face?
I can fix that.	Hrm. Fingers sticking together...
Ahhh... Sugar high.	Can't talk, eating.
Hi.	Beware the cute, wired one!

By reaching the one year mark, Sam also was given the go ahead to transition from formula to Whole Milk (a welcome change for Mommy & Daddy, since the cost of milk is literally one-tenth the cost of Sam's formula). We started slow, since as a child I had a severe dairy allergy. We started with organic milk. If you are familiar at all with Sam, you know what her favorite animal is. You can see from the photos she was happy to see an old friend on the milk carton. (Note the milk moustache in later photos...)

Um... What's going on?	What the...?
Yum!	I'm liking this mascot!
Shlurp!	Hmm...
Hey! Not bad!	Do I match Daddy now?

Sam has discovered a new snack sensation. Or, you could say, a new favorite snack has been... Spawned.

This bag can't be empty...	Feh.
I see you!	Mmmmm... Goldfish!
Quit hiding!	Can't keep me from my snack!

As she gets older, we have several new options for clothes, allowing Sam to show off new looks.

Determined and on the go.	Like the barrette?
Ready for dinner... And cake!	Just chillin.'
Yo.	Quit it, Daddy!
Me and my long locks!	Getting ready for her UVA days...
Flower child?	All set to go to work with Mommy?

Not sure how or why, but every now and again, she'll do something goofy. (Really? My kid?) She may be mimicing me when I relax in the easy chair in the living room...

What?!

Somehow, it just doesn't look comfortable.

Sam enjoys... No, demands that we read to her. Over and over, in fact. So much so that she has a few favorite books that get read several times a night. One of the newest additions is Sandra Boynton's Personal Penguin.

Time to read!	Penguins!
Are you my Personal Penguin, Daddy?	Muffin Man, my tuckus!

More fun with Sam and her favorite toy, her cow Shakes.

Sam set down Shakes just as you see it.	Hrm... Time to choose?
Nope! I gets 'em both!	Two Shakes in this Tale!
ALthough she does have a favorite...	Could it be bedtime?
That's a clue...	Second clue for Daddy...
One Shakes has a leg up on the other.	Midnight snack: Oxtail!
(Milking it...) Two Shakes by the tail.	Coming Next Summer: Shakes on a Dame!