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Millenium cable drew the last straw. I’m so sick and tired of them that I’m severing the ties of our relationship, despite the fact that I’ll miss some of the perks they provide. Although my problems lie mostly with their customer service, not their cable service, I’m honestly dissapointed with both.

Millenium’s cable service has its ups and downs. They certainly offered me a nice package. Digital cable, with all the movie trimmings, and a cable modem were provided for a very reasonable price. The picture was clear and matching digital decoders decorated both the bedroom and living room. I was in cable heaven. The problem was that, even with all those choices, cable TV was and is not my focus. I’m a certified geek. I don’t need my MTV. I need my yahoo.

That’s primarily where they failed me. Over the last several months, their cable modem service has been intermittent. Sometimes it would go down without warning. At others, my connection, and particularly my connection to onlineracin.com, was crap. Latency was out of control. Pings over 200 make me frown. Pings over 600 make an invisible vein pop out on my forehead.

Some of my pain could have been overlooked if their customer service line (and I say line because I’m convinced they only have one) wasn’t completely and utterly useless. I’ve spent hours – yes, hours – on the phone trying to find someone – anyone – to listen to my complaints. An hour of busy signals normally preceeded a daunting thirty minute wait to speak to a human being. The commercials you hear during this time are almost comforting compared to the constant buzzing you heard to get to that point.

I can say nothing worse about their service than I know their phone number by heart. I don’t even know my own brother’s phone number off the top of my head. Don’t call us, I suppose, and we’ll never call you.

My dissatifaction reached its peak during the latest snowstorm. I had spent the last month calling about internet connection problems of one sort or another. Things were finally working when a snow plow came by and knocked over our cable box and, along with it, all Millenium related services. It took us two days to get through to a service representative. Two days later a technician, who didn’t even bother to visit my doorstep, came out and fixed almost nothing. We had a little cable here and there but no cable modem and no digital cable. Two more days of calling yielded a service representative with an attitude. Two days later we called Comcast. Comcast came over the very next day.

Our deal with Comcast means we lose our precious movie channels and our second decoder box. I’ll take a working cable modem as my replacement. At this point, I would have done just about anything to never have to call Millenium again.

Our ex-cable company finally called back to check up on us on Wednesday. I take great joy in the fact that my wife reported to them that Comcast was installing cable while they spoke. Please cancel us. Thank you very much.

Saturday morning, the wife and I spent a good while entertaining our wide awake child. It was a blast, made all the more fun by the fact that participation in these playtime sessions is becoming less and less one sided. What was once a steady trickle of progression, has now become a flood.

It seemed like yesterday when our little boy had no control of that heavy thing above his neck. Now I sway him left and right, amazed that his little noggin stays upright and steady. Attentive eyes track my movement. A craned neck makes its appearance when I stray from sight.

He’s also begun to verbally express himself. It’s yet to approach speech. That’s quite ok with me. The pleasant sounds of cooing are much better than the tearless alternative. They could form their own nature soundtrack – an album that only a parent could truly love.

The biggest present I received this week came in the form of a smile. An occasional smile had passed his lips before but this one was different. This one came in direct response to my goofiness. It was repeatable. On Sunday, a great one greeted me at the side of his crib after a short nap. It warms the heart. It feeds the soul. One smile can strike the sleepless nights from memory. One smile makes it all worth it – so totally worth it.

His metamorphisis into a child has begun and, I must say, it is happening much too quickly for my tastes. He changes in a day. The change seen from the eyes of his weekly or monthly visitors must be staggering. I have no doubt that I’m watching him grow up to be something special. He already is.

The snowstorm over the weekend had us buried and, in some cases, it still does.
The combination of my Trans Am’s torque and the height of the snowfall made me believe that waiting for the spring thaw would be a good idea; no sense digging out what I can’t drive. I’m not sure but the melting snow on my car may be a more official indicator of the season change than that silly groundhog. On the other hand, maybe not.

After some sweat, tears, and a bit of digging, my other vehicle threw down the shackles of the clingy white stuff and ventured into the world. It was a fun trip. My normal excursion to work was highlighted by the sights of giant earth movers and abandoned cars buried in snow drifts. The Xterra rumbled over the terrain, just happy to have terrain to rumble over. The feeling of a good snow pack underneath your no-so-paid-for SUV is a bit like wanderlust. That four wheel goodness wasn’t a total waste of money. Let’s drive around the neighborhood just for fun. Let’s do it again.

A couple days later most of the snow has been pushed to the side. The little powder left near the road is now nasty shades of black and brown. No one need remind my shovel and I that I live on a corner lot. This whole sidewalk thing is vastly overrated.

Parts of me are still wishing for Sunday to return. Watching the snow fall while you sip hot apple cider in front of a fire is my idea of relaxation. Other parts of me are beginning to yearn for spring. Once the rains of this weekend wash away the weather of last, the T-tops of my Firebird will be waiting. The baby is ready to see much more of the sky. His mother will be pleased to accomodate him.

I hope this snow wasn’t a one time deal. In a few years, I’ll have another shovel next to me and a sled yearning for the slopes in the shed. Tiny snowboots will be on order. They better have something cold to walk on.

It’s going to be a stormy kind of weekend. Stormy in a good sense,
that is. I know, snow can be a bitch if you have to travel, but
there is something about the prospect of buckets of white stuff falling
from the sky that gets me excited. The fridge is full. The wood is
split and nestled by the fireplace. The Wootton family is home, safe
and sound. Let’s do it.

It’s always fun to watch the snow totals fluctuate as a big snow approaches.
Every forecaster wants to be the first to predict doom. Every network
wants the ratings (Frosty the Snowman spotted at Walmart – news at eleven).
This time not only can’t the networks agree but
neither can my web sources. There seems to be some consensus that
Sunday will be the day of reckoning. The actual total, though, is
still quite up in the air. Somewhere between five and twenty inches
of snow is virtually assured. I can’t wait.

I’ve found that I no longer have the patience to watch the news.

It’s not immediate enough. I don’t care about the miraculous rescue of some man’s poodle. I want to hear about the impending war and I want to hear about it right now. Don’t push me off to Sally or Rod for a sidebar. I don’t respect their opinions. Their knowledge of canines is surely lacking. A kitty at home does not count.

The internet has me spoiled. Not only can I pick and choose what news I want to hear, I can pick specific angles or writers. Related information is at my fingertips. If I want hear what others are saying, I simply pick a new site (like
here, here, or here), unafraid that the news I desire has already been covered and the station has moved on to other material.
Often I filter out the noise right from the start.

I’m particularly bad when it comes to the weather. Why should I wait twenty minutes into a broadcast to hear that it is snowing outside? I can find what I need in seconds along with radar maps and satellite feeds if I want them and only if I want them. Put the pointer down, Bob. I just want to know if I should wear a coat.

More and more, I find myself searching for news with a mouse in my hand, not the remote. Fact finding missions leave me staring at the search screens of CNN or MSNBC. Waiting for clock to strike 11:00 pm or for Larry King to leave his desk is a thing of the past.

My son will never know that there was a time where you had to sit through the fluff to get to the information you want. He may think of the television as an extension of the internet, rather than the other way around. Heh — I thought it changed my world.

Much to my dismay, I’ve found that I have a system for changing my
son. I should have known it would happen. Our once well-decorated shelf
is no longer; functionality won out over form. Baby wipes replaced
knick knacks. Diapers now reside in the previous home of picture
frames. It didn’t take us long to realize the tools of the trade
needed to be handy.

Now these tools are used in a sequence of very repeatable steps. Just
as a carpenter hones his craft, my skills have been sharpened to
a razor’s edge. I do this completely without showing my butt crack
(even though a butt crack is still definitely involved). Here are the steps:

The Preparation

Lay Cambell down on the table, making sure that no remnants of the
last change remain. Just where did that spot on the sheet come from?

Pull out a baby wipe. Ready the pee rag. You want these
two primed and ready. If needed, prepare the Desitin by opening
the tube and squeezing just a bit out the top. You don’t want
to be searching for tools once the fireworks begin. In this case,
it is him with his pants down, not you.

The Change

Release the shoot. Set the pee rag in place. This is purely
a protective measure.

Remove the diaper, taking care to keep the child clear of
the waste below. Wipe the bottom clean, making sure to get
every crease and crevice. This is not a job for the shy.

Quickly replace the old diaper with a new one.
You never know when Mount Saint Campell can erupt.
Your speed could make the difference between filling a new diaper
or firing a round across the changing table. (I can assure both
of these events have occurred. In fact, this morning, he filled
three diapers. Yes, three.)

If the fountain of youth erupts, hope that the stream can be directed
into the rag or led into the new diaper. Take heed. An unprepared
parent can end up with a wet child or a wet shirt. A golden shower
does not smell like lemons.

The Finale

Close up shop. One last note: we have a boy. The last step
before the diaper is sealed is just as important as the change
itself. I sum it up in two words:

periscope down.

I’m not so sure I have the authority to do this but I’m not
going to let that stop me. Circumstances have intervened.
It has become necessary. I’m moving Valentine’s Day.

I’ve always assumed Valentine’s Day was secular in nature.
Cupid, the son Venus, the Roman goddess of love, is the
poster child. Candies and flowers decorate its borders.
Love, in this instance, didn’t seem to have a direct connection
to the church.

But, history
tells
me different.
It turns out the holiday may have been a convenient way for the
Catholic church to rid the world of some old Roman traditions they
didn’t much appreciate. That’s all fine and good but the fact that
the church, not
Hallmark, officially declared
the date makes my action a bit more dubious.
I hope Pope Gelasius doesn’t mind.

The reason I’m doing this is to counter a recent change in lifestyle.
The wife and I are now
parents.
We, being lovers (even if, in the future, it’s in that, “Ewww, mom and
dad.” sort of way), would still like to celebrate this romantic holiday.
However, this just isn’t as convenient as it used to be. In other
words, you try to find a babysitter on Valentine’s Day.

An official move should rectify this problem, provided the word doesn’t
get out. You see, we are moving Valentine’s Day but we aren’t
going to tell everyone else. They are free to celebrate on the old
Valentine’s Day, oblivious to the fact that the holiday has been moved.
Go ahead. Give candies on the 14th. We’ll try not to laugh and point.

If you are interested, and this is strictly on the down low, the new
date is the second Saturday of February. Yes, I realize this means
it will no longer occur on the same day every year, making it
more of a kin to Mother’s Day than April Fool’s Day. At least
there’s a precedent for this. I’m all about tradition.
This year, because we got a bit of a late start, it will occur on
the third Saturday of the month. There was a lot of paperwork
to fill out. It’s the exception to the new rule.
I’m also all about personal convenience.

You may worry that I will abuse my newfound power over the calendar.
It must, no doubt, be held responsibly.
Rest easy. Thanksgiving is staying right where it is – for now.

For the last 4 days, I’ve been disconnected. Millenium, my
current cable provider, had a surprise in store for this
weekend: they were “upgrading” the lines. Lucky for me, it
was the gift that kept on giving. The end result was that
I didn’t have access to the internet from home for quite
a while.

I put “upgrading” in quotes very much on purpose. It’s not
the first time and it most certainly won’t be the last time
an upgrade occurs in my neighborhood and I never see any
benefits. I’m not begrudging Millenium in particular.
Being used and abused by a cable company is par for the course.
I’d probably shed tears if these mysterious upgrades were
accompanied by offers of discounted service. Without
the proper amount of bitching, the meter
keeps on ticking even when service stops.

Four days away made me very aware of how much I rely on the world
behind my little mouse pointer. I needed to know what
was on television and I had to consult a TV guide. The shuttle
went down and I had to rely on the newspaper for facts. I
wrote a quick
blog and had to resort to 3 1/2 inch floppy to
transport my words to a machine worthy of internet access.
A 3 1/2 inch floppy! Is there no justice in this world?
The little lights on my router would occasionally blink and
then fade away in dispair. I felt its pain.

The three weeks I spent at home with my son left me with
similar feelings of disconnection. Although, in this case, it was the
focus on something not the lack of something that
fueled my separation anxiety. The baby controlled my
sleep schedule. Cold weather prevented expeditions
outside. It was me, the wife, and the baby. Everything
else was secondary. The world was definitely still turning.
It was just hard to see from the bedroom window.

Now that window is open. I’ve returned to work. But the
blessings are mixed. I see less of my wife. I see less
of my son. On the other hand, I see other adults on
occasion and get to plug into the real world for short
periods of time. There’s also the nice side benefit
of being able to provide food for my family without donning
a codpiece and spear and venturing into the nearby woods.
It fills some holes while leaving others empty.

I just wish I felt I was venturing into the world rather
than being dragged along by it. The happy faces at
home tug me away from the hustle and bustle.
Maybe that’s why I’m always so anxious to return to them.

Some pictures stick with you, forever emblazoned in your subconsious.
The fragments of space shuttle
Columbia falling from the sky
on Saturday morning formed one such picture. The helmet to the right
is a stark reminder of the loss of life it included.

By odd coicidence, the wife and I watched Columbia rise
from the sky two weeks ago. I was quite excited.
I hadn’t witnessed a live lauch of the shuttle since I was young.
We just happened to turn on the TV. I waited 20 minutes
for the countdown. Incredible science wrapped
in a fiery display of power. For a couple of minutes, I was
that kid again. The anticipation was real. Danger does not
have to be explained to a child of my generation. We remember
Challenger. We remember the last time it happened.

I was in middle school. Class was stopped. A TV was rolled into
the room and we were shown a story with not such a happy ending.
As a kid, I don’t know if I truly understood the events.
Something was wrong but it’s meaning was tough to explain.

As an adult, I don’t know if I can do much better. The event
itself is tragic. But the world is full of tragedy. One of
my biggest memories of Saturday was that my first thought, and
the thoughts of many others, lead to questions of terrorism.
It didn’t help that I learned of the event via a telephone call:
“Did you hear the news?”

The difference in this case is that tragedy befell an American
icon. The shuttle bears our stars and stripes. The
passengers
inside were heroes. They had the job that every little boy’s
heart desires. This felt a bit personal.

My son visited church for the first time this morning. The pastor
mentioned he was glad we picked this day. The joy of a new life
could temper the loss still fresh in the minds of the
congregation. I hope it helped. The shining faces around me
made me believe it did.

Now we hear concerns about launching another. These concerns sound
silly. It is
dangerous. That’s no surprise to the brave souls that don the
orange spacesuits quite regularly. Not everyone returns. But that
won’t stop us; it can’t stop us. Whatever pause is necessary between
this one and the next should be short. Those that put
their life at risk for the advancement of science should not have
to wait in the stars for long before we send them some company.