Weasel Of Doom

Breaking the tradition of inflicting more testosterone on the world, Shannon and Eric had a baby girl early this morning. Welcome, little one.

Well, my place of employment decided to get on the “let’s screw people while they are down” bandwagon, and announced that there will be program and staff cuts come March. Why yes, I wanted to spend the whole month of February wondering about job security, thank you very much. (For the record, I do not feel that my job is very secure, hence the hint of bitterness you are tasting :-)

My Dad has been badgering me on GoogleTalk (I have only myself to blame for teaching the parental units how to use the internet for long-distance parenting) about my plans in case I do get laid off. The conversation went something like this:

[Dad]: So what do you want to do if you are laid off?
[Me]: Sit at home, read books, play computer games, knit, and crochet.
[Dad]: The bank will foreclose on your home.
[Me]: Then I will sit in my cardboard box.
[Dad]: What about the children?
I considered typing “they will sit in their individual cardboard boxes, of course!” but decided Dad will not find it amusing.
[Me]: We will send them to live with Grandma and Grandpa in Russia.
At this point Dad went to have a smoking break.

Still, one has to plan for the future, so I did some brainstorming. Ladies and gentlemen, you have been warned!

Weasel’s Plan For Staying Solvent

1. Sell BelovedSpouse’s organs on the black market. (This assumes his organs are worth something. Must investigate further.)
2. Become a gestational surrogate. (I figure I have about 10 years of child-bearing left in me. Awesome bonus – somebody gets to have a baby out of it, who otherwise wouldn’t have.)
3. Market BelovedSpouse as a sperm donor (“Guaranteed* to have a boy!” *Guarantee based on past performance, not a predictor of future performance, no money back in case of girl.)
4. Commercial egg donation. (Include pics of cute kids. You can’t tell what little pains in the butt they can be from the photographs.)
5. Prostitution. (Someone must want a middle-aged somewhat-overweight Russian-accented hooker, right? Right? I mean, there is no accounting for taste, right? Nothing some darkness and a lot of alcohol won’t cure…)
6. If all else fails, give plasma. (Yes, it does not pay much, but better than nothing, right?)

Did I miss anything?

The setup:

Way back this summer, before ChairmanMao was born, BelovedSpouse and I went to IKEA and bought stuff, including an indoor swing and rope ladder for the kids. Fast-forward to January 1, when my Dad finally got the swing and ladder installed for us, attaching them to the beam already holding the ceiling fan in the room-before-the-great-room, the one that holds our expensive (but well worth it) fireplace. Mom tells us a weird dream she had, which involved being on a train with Nazis, and signing some kind of paperwork promising cooperation with them.

Ta-da-da-dum:

We (Mom, DemonChild, ChairmanMao, BelovedSpouse, and I) are sitting in the TV room, watching Wall-E. Dad and Squeektar are enjoying the swing. Squeektar wanders in. There is a muffled thud from the somewhere in the house. A minute later, my Dad walks into the TV room, his hand to his mouth. My first thought, “Oh my god, something terrible happened.” A quick look-around reveals that we are all present and accounted for, however. Dad is not saying anything, but motions me to the fireplace room. Once there, it takes a few seconds to sink in that one end of the beam holding ladder, fan, and swing is now on the floor. Dad finally takes his hand away from his mouth, revealing an upper lip that looks like it was used to catch the aforementioned beam.

The resolution:

Three hours and six stitches later (one on the inside of his lip, five on the outside), we are back home. Good thing we live two minutes away from a hospital!

[Dad, calling Mom from the ER]: Now we know what dreams about Nazis mean. Next time, don’t sign anything!

Lessons learned:

• Dad has one uber guardian angel.
• The beams in the fireplace room are fake.
• And nailed to the ceiling.
• Nailed, not screwed.
• To the actual ceiling. No studs were harmed in the installation of the beams of fakeness.
• Dad still cannot believe that somebody would do a thing like that, despite all evidence that somebody had indeed done it, and he (Dad) has stitches to prove it.

BelovedSpouse and Dad disassembled the beam after the kids went to bed, and Dad had re-engineered the way the beam is attached to the ceiling, so in theory it is a lot less likely to fall onto our heads now. Or at least if it does, it is going to take a significant chunk of ceiling with it.

Amusing language barrier episode:

[BelovedSpouse]: Your Dad wanted a blow torch. I told him we don’t have one. I am afraid to ask why he wanted it.
[My Dad]: I can’t believe you don’t have a flashlight!
[me]: Torch = flashlight in British English.
[BelovedSpouse]: *big sigh of relief*

The lip, explained:

[Me]: Dad, how exactly did the beam ended up hitting you on the lip?
[Dad]: I suspected something was not right, so I stood on the swing. And looked up.

Yes, we are lucky Dad has a face left.