Saturday, September 16, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Don't touch the mascot
This morning, I decided to take Reilly out to breakfast at the local diner. Lately, we have fallen into too much of a routine in the morning--wake up at 7:30am, bottle at 8:00am, breakfast at 8:30am, to the playground by 9:00am--so I decided it was time to mix it up.
The diner was neither cute nor boring, and was decorated in that odd beachy style that is synonymous with Florida and somewhat resembles a bistro crossed with a Tiki hut. We sat ourselves in the middle of a bunch of regulars and I looked over the menu. There was only one waitress working the joint, a pretty woman who lit up at the sight of Reilly. After answering the usual opening salvos (How old is she? What is her name? etc.) I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an english for me, a biscuit for Reilly.
While we waited for our food, Reilly snacked on Goldfish crackers and made friends with the locals. She was waving and smiling and playing cute with everyone. In no time, she had become the mascot of the restaurant, and the regulars were watching her every move, laughing when she threw her spoon to the floor, tsking when she crumbled her biscuit and used it to decorate the table. (The biscuits were great, by the way, homemade and cooked like a muffin.)
At one point, a man approached Reilly and said something along the lines of, "Aren't you so cute!" and gave her leg a gentle pinch. Reilly looked at me for approval, and I smiled to show her the man was okay, even though inside I was screaming "Don't touch the baby!" The man mentioned he had two daughters of his own, blah, blah, blah, I couldn't pay attention because I was trying to decide what the story was with the whole touching the baby thing.
In The City, no one would dare touch someone else's child--but down south people have no problem touching Reilly's face, arms, leg, whatever. Even though Reilly initiated contact with the man, I still think it is appropriate for a stranger to ask the parent before grabbing some thigh fat.
The thing is, I like how familiar southerners are, how they make eye contact, say hello to strangers, and make small talk without any pretense. But I have to draw the line at the baby touching. Even if my daughter is the mascot of the restaurant.
The diner was neither cute nor boring, and was decorated in that odd beachy style that is synonymous with Florida and somewhat resembles a bistro crossed with a Tiki hut. We sat ourselves in the middle of a bunch of regulars and I looked over the menu. There was only one waitress working the joint, a pretty woman who lit up at the sight of Reilly. After answering the usual opening salvos (How old is she? What is her name? etc.) I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an english for me, a biscuit for Reilly.
While we waited for our food, Reilly snacked on Goldfish crackers and made friends with the locals. She was waving and smiling and playing cute with everyone. In no time, she had become the mascot of the restaurant, and the regulars were watching her every move, laughing when she threw her spoon to the floor, tsking when she crumbled her biscuit and used it to decorate the table. (The biscuits were great, by the way, homemade and cooked like a muffin.)
At one point, a man approached Reilly and said something along the lines of, "Aren't you so cute!" and gave her leg a gentle pinch. Reilly looked at me for approval, and I smiled to show her the man was okay, even though inside I was screaming "Don't touch the baby!" The man mentioned he had two daughters of his own, blah, blah, blah, I couldn't pay attention because I was trying to decide what the story was with the whole touching the baby thing.
In The City, no one would dare touch someone else's child--but down south people have no problem touching Reilly's face, arms, leg, whatever. Even though Reilly initiated contact with the man, I still think it is appropriate for a stranger to ask the parent before grabbing some thigh fat.
The thing is, I like how familiar southerners are, how they make eye contact, say hello to strangers, and make small talk without any pretense. But I have to draw the line at the baby touching. Even if my daughter is the mascot of the restaurant.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
When it is the parent who really needs the spanking
Last Sunday, Reilly and I headed out for our morning session at the local park, as we do every day. The park was very busy, and I was surprised to see that there were many fathers in attendance--a rarity around these parts. It wasn't until I overheard a conversation between two of these fathers that I realized what was going on:
"Wife made you take the kids out?
"Yeah. Gotta wear 'em out before football comes on."
"I hear ya."
It was a little sad for me to realize that the other dads were at the park almost as a punishment for the afternoon they were about to spend before the television. Even sadder was the fact that they weren't really playing with their kids, just sitting on a bench and watching them. One young girl asked her dad to ride the purple dinosaur with her. When he refused, she whined a little, and then he punished her for whining by making her sit on the bench with him. Sad.
At one point, I was watching Reilly as she "drove" the wheel bolted on to one of the playsets. As I stood there, a young girl (maybe five years old) came over and shoved Reilly off the wheel, causing her to fall.
Instinctively, I said, "No, no, no, young lady! That is NOT nice!"
Her father, who had witnessed the scene, rushed over, took her by the arm, and said, "You're going to get a spanking!" and proceeded to bend her over his knee, right there, and spank her ass.
Now, I'm not going to get into the whole spanking debate, but I will say that I have no intention of hitting my child, and that the whole scene made me feel very uncomfortable. I was so nonplussed that I lifted up Reilly and walked back to the car to go home. The whole way, I kept my eyes to the ground, not wanting to have the other fathers see how embarrassed I was.
Of them.
"Wife made you take the kids out?
"Yeah. Gotta wear 'em out before football comes on."
"I hear ya."
It was a little sad for me to realize that the other dads were at the park almost as a punishment for the afternoon they were about to spend before the television. Even sadder was the fact that they weren't really playing with their kids, just sitting on a bench and watching them. One young girl asked her dad to ride the purple dinosaur with her. When he refused, she whined a little, and then he punished her for whining by making her sit on the bench with him. Sad.
At one point, I was watching Reilly as she "drove" the wheel bolted on to one of the playsets. As I stood there, a young girl (maybe five years old) came over and shoved Reilly off the wheel, causing her to fall.
Instinctively, I said, "No, no, no, young lady! That is NOT nice!"
Her father, who had witnessed the scene, rushed over, took her by the arm, and said, "You're going to get a spanking!" and proceeded to bend her over his knee, right there, and spank her ass.
Now, I'm not going to get into the whole spanking debate, but I will say that I have no intention of hitting my child, and that the whole scene made me feel very uncomfortable. I was so nonplussed that I lifted up Reilly and walked back to the car to go home. The whole way, I kept my eyes to the ground, not wanting to have the other fathers see how embarrassed I was.
Of them.
Monday, September 11, 2006
From the Archives: September 11, 2001 - Age 25
(It feels odd, being away from the City this year, on the five-year anniversary of September 11th. Somehow, I can't bring myself to write about it it. In some ways, this is a good thing. In the past, I felt compelled to write, so overwhelmed was I with the emotions from that event. This year, I will post something old, to show that though this day lives with me, it is a wound that is closing.)
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001
Of course, I write this entry with a heavy heart. Usually when I relay my writing from paper to print, a certain amount of editing is done. Today, I will copy my entry exactly as I wrote it in my journal because it clearly shows the chaos and panic infused in each second. There were two TV’s, several radios, and a few working internet lines and phone lines where my information was coming from--so much of it is incorrect now. The quotes are overheard conversations. All errors are in brackets. After-the-fact commentary is in parenthesis.
Well, if this isn’t a journaling opportunity, I don’t know what is. For once this is outside of my experience.
On my way to work this morning [saw] as I hit 47th and Madison, someone yells, “My God! The World Trade Center is on fire!” I looked up and stopped dead in the middle of the street gaping, every hair on my body on end.
When I got to Bear Stearns the news was flooding in—people were panicking, calling wives, friends, all huddled around one office TV.
On the radio the panic was evident, all airports, bridges and tunnels were closed, rumor of hijacking spread, I wondered if the 737 had people on it.
The sight is still with me, my heart remains somewhere digesting in my stomach, to see such an immense building the fire and smoke was tremendous from some 50 [?] blocks away. I wondered why I heard no sirens, then when I got to work I found that it happened just minutes before I saw it. (I witnessed the event at 8:55am, right between the two plane crashes). The ambulances had yet to respond.
I hope everyone at the trade center was late for work today, but I know this to be impossible.
The radio broadcasters are panicked and spreading panic blaming Guiliani, blaming FAA, calling on the president, calling for war.
The sirens are constant now.
I'm at Bear Stearns—no one is working, the market is closed, our Internet, which runs through the trade center, is down, the phones ring but no one answers, we’re all in shock.
The sirens are constant.
“My wife is…”
“My sister is…”
“My ______ is…”
“…working there today.”
“I can’t get through!”
“The Pentagon is closed.”
“The White House is evacuating.”
“I saw it on TV. The second plane, it went right through the floor!”
“I can’t work. John, I’m going home, my husband…I can’t work. I CANNOT WORK! It’s too creepy.”
“The whole city is shut down. Good luck, then.”
“Okay, bye.”
People are in shock, people are crying on the radio. The Pentagon was hit by a plane now. People are calling for a nuclear strike.
This is out of hand.
“The biggest travesty of our lifetime.”
“This appears to be escalating very rapidly.”
United nations has evacuated.
My thoughts turn to my brother.
“It’s getting ridiculous, it’s getting bad.”
“My cousin…”
People’s faces are slack, pale.
My greatest fear, justified, is that right now someone’s finger is hovering over a big red button.
“My son’s school is across the street.”
The secretary is frantically ransacking her desk, crying. I hear shuffling and sniffles.
“I can’t get through.”
“Hello, Fred McConkey’s office” (That was me.)
“This is his brother, is he in?”
“No.” (Me)
“Is this unusual?”
“I don’t know.” (Me.)
“He lives in Greenwich Village, is he safe there?”
“Yes, I live there, he’s out of immediate danger.” (Me.)
“Okay, thanks, take care.”
“Did he leave a number? DID HE LEAVE A NUMBER?” (The secretary, looking for her son, who goes to school next door to the WTC.)
“Two more planes just hit the South Tower!”
No one is working but the secretaries, who are frantically fielding phone calls from family.
I hear a radio in the background. I want to turn on mine but was yelled at for doing so.
I’m getting news now that the building has collapsed.
“If we haven’t declared war, someone is at war with us.”
“We’re getting reports of a suspicious airplane.”
“The capitol was bombed—car bomb at state department.”
“I think they just bombed a building in Jersey.”
The second building just fell. I saw this one live on a black and white TV.
“Part of the Pentagon has collapsed.”
“Large plane crashed in West Pennsylvania.”
“Hijacked plane circling Virginia.”
Suddenly this is starting to feel very, very real. Just yesterday I was telling someone how cool it was to see the Twin Towers and Empire State from my street.
Second plane heading for Pentagon.
People are walking over the Brooklyn Bridge to get out of The City.
This is not real. This is real. This is not real.
Nervous tittering. Hysterical laughter.
I’m afraid the [bu]fire will spread. We’re only a mile or two away from there.
Again I fear for my brother.
I hear war cries everywhere.
This is a terrible day to forget my cigarettes.
Shawn is okay, according to Craig. I just can’t reach her.
MoMA was evacuated.
Soot has reached Canal St., which is at Ludlow.
Amazing that I could think of it at a time like this, but I am afraid I won’t be able to get work.
People are growing numb.
“What about Charles? Charles works in the Trade Center?”
Thank god I wasn’t temping there today.
I think of the plane passengers—I think many do.
“Taliban news conference soon.”
People are [assaying] assigning blame.
This will change everything.
I’ve heard Palestinians are celebrating in the streets.
Almost everyone around me knows someone who is dead.
“The mayor witnessed people jumping from windows when he arrived at the World Trade Center.”
We’ve been released from Bear Stearns. I’m going to get Shawn at MoMA, the streets are wild and we want to stick together.
Pay phone lines long, no cell phones working.
All [Arab] jewelry stores on 47th closed.
People huddled on sidewalks reading the FOX (electronic) news banner.
Bars are full of people, shoulder to shoulder.
People in the streets look stunned.
We have heard from Chirag, Cindy, Shannon, Jason. Still waiting to hear from Rae and Ian. (We would later find out all immediate family and friends survived.)
Fighter jets circle overhead, which rattles everyone’s nerves, but especially Shawn’s, since she heard the first fatal jet fly right over our apartment as if right on top of her, heard the explosion, called her dad when NPR cut out, and then heard the second explosion, louder. Craig told her what all of America has seen by now, the second plane flying directly into the WTC. She took a picture of the burning building, moments before it would stand for the last time. And so when planes fly overhead it makes her a bit nervous. (This condition has persisted, for both of us.)
Jennifer and Jordan’s. (Shawn’s cousins. We were afraid to go back to our apartment, as the fires were still raging.) I envy Olivia. At age one she has spent the last half hour playing with blocks, blissfully unaware of today’s events.
The streets are empty, it’s like a ghost town. No traffic anywhere, especially (heading) downtown—eerie. I just walked across Broadway. (Without having to pause for traffic, since there was none. This is the rarest of all New York experiences.) Radio City has its lights off (also very rare), Rockefeller closed, everything closed with the exception of a few restaurants and bars.
After visiting Cindy and waiting for the fire to die down a bit we walked through the nearly empty streets to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th and 51st St., the only busy place in the city. Shawn went inside to light a prayer candle and I watched a news conference with some religious authority figure (on the front steps) outside.
We took the S Train home—the subways were free to ride. I feel like I’m in an altered dimension. It is easy to watch this disaster on TV, but very hard to see the plumes of smoke live as we walk down the street, burning buildings and buried people. It is very sad for us. (And we both cried openly on the street, just totally fucking overwhelmed. Curse words were the most frequently used modifiers today, by all.)
The police are (on every corner and) in riot gear. Looting is always an unfortunate factor in situations such as this.
We spent the rest of the evening catching up with family via the jammed phone lines. Neither of us can imagine what tomorrow may bring. Neither of us can fathom sleeping tonight.
I met George, a neighbor. He offered me a Valium, which I refused, but he looked awful happy with his dose.
“They flew a fucking plane through the World Trade Center.”
This is real. This is not real. This is real.
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001
Of course, I write this entry with a heavy heart. Usually when I relay my writing from paper to print, a certain amount of editing is done. Today, I will copy my entry exactly as I wrote it in my journal because it clearly shows the chaos and panic infused in each second. There were two TV’s, several radios, and a few working internet lines and phone lines where my information was coming from--so much of it is incorrect now. The quotes are overheard conversations. All errors are in brackets. After-the-fact commentary is in parenthesis.
Well, if this isn’t a journaling opportunity, I don’t know what is. For once this is outside of my experience.
On my way to work this morning [saw] as I hit 47th and Madison, someone yells, “My God! The World Trade Center is on fire!” I looked up and stopped dead in the middle of the street gaping, every hair on my body on end.
When I got to Bear Stearns the news was flooding in—people were panicking, calling wives, friends, all huddled around one office TV.
On the radio the panic was evident, all airports, bridges and tunnels were closed, rumor of hijacking spread, I wondered if the 737 had people on it.
The sight is still with me, my heart remains somewhere digesting in my stomach, to see such an immense building the fire and smoke was tremendous from some 50 [?] blocks away. I wondered why I heard no sirens, then when I got to work I found that it happened just minutes before I saw it. (I witnessed the event at 8:55am, right between the two plane crashes). The ambulances had yet to respond.
I hope everyone at the trade center was late for work today, but I know this to be impossible.
The radio broadcasters are panicked and spreading panic blaming Guiliani, blaming FAA, calling on the president, calling for war.
The sirens are constant now.
I'm at Bear Stearns—no one is working, the market is closed, our Internet, which runs through the trade center, is down, the phones ring but no one answers, we’re all in shock.
The sirens are constant.
“My wife is…”
“My sister is…”
“My ______ is…”
“…working there today.”
“I can’t get through!”
“The Pentagon is closed.”
“The White House is evacuating.”
“I saw it on TV. The second plane, it went right through the floor!”
“I can’t work. John, I’m going home, my husband…I can’t work. I CANNOT WORK! It’s too creepy.”
“The whole city is shut down. Good luck, then.”
“Okay, bye.”
People are in shock, people are crying on the radio. The Pentagon was hit by a plane now. People are calling for a nuclear strike.
This is out of hand.
“The biggest travesty of our lifetime.”
“This appears to be escalating very rapidly.”
United nations has evacuated.
My thoughts turn to my brother.
“It’s getting ridiculous, it’s getting bad.”
“My cousin…”
People’s faces are slack, pale.
My greatest fear, justified, is that right now someone’s finger is hovering over a big red button.
“My son’s school is across the street.”
The secretary is frantically ransacking her desk, crying. I hear shuffling and sniffles.
“I can’t get through.”
“Hello, Fred McConkey’s office” (That was me.)
“This is his brother, is he in?”
“No.” (Me)
“Is this unusual?”
“I don’t know.” (Me.)
“He lives in Greenwich Village, is he safe there?”
“Yes, I live there, he’s out of immediate danger.” (Me.)
“Okay, thanks, take care.”
“Did he leave a number? DID HE LEAVE A NUMBER?” (The secretary, looking for her son, who goes to school next door to the WTC.)
“Two more planes just hit the South Tower!”
No one is working but the secretaries, who are frantically fielding phone calls from family.
I hear a radio in the background. I want to turn on mine but was yelled at for doing so.
I’m getting news now that the building has collapsed.
“If we haven’t declared war, someone is at war with us.”
“We’re getting reports of a suspicious airplane.”
“The capitol was bombed—car bomb at state department.”
“I think they just bombed a building in Jersey.”
The second building just fell. I saw this one live on a black and white TV.
“Part of the Pentagon has collapsed.”
“Large plane crashed in West Pennsylvania.”
“Hijacked plane circling Virginia.”
Suddenly this is starting to feel very, very real. Just yesterday I was telling someone how cool it was to see the Twin Towers and Empire State from my street.
Second plane heading for Pentagon.
People are walking over the Brooklyn Bridge to get out of The City.
This is not real. This is real. This is not real.
Nervous tittering. Hysterical laughter.
I’m afraid the [bu]fire will spread. We’re only a mile or two away from there.
Again I fear for my brother.
I hear war cries everywhere.
This is a terrible day to forget my cigarettes.
Shawn is okay, according to Craig. I just can’t reach her.
MoMA was evacuated.
Soot has reached Canal St., which is at Ludlow.
Amazing that I could think of it at a time like this, but I am afraid I won’t be able to get work.
People are growing numb.
“What about Charles? Charles works in the Trade Center?”
Thank god I wasn’t temping there today.
I think of the plane passengers—I think many do.
“Taliban news conference soon.”
People are [assaying] assigning blame.
This will change everything.
I’ve heard Palestinians are celebrating in the streets.
Almost everyone around me knows someone who is dead.
“The mayor witnessed people jumping from windows when he arrived at the World Trade Center.”
We’ve been released from Bear Stearns. I’m going to get Shawn at MoMA, the streets are wild and we want to stick together.
Pay phone lines long, no cell phones working.
All [Arab] jewelry stores on 47th closed.
People huddled on sidewalks reading the FOX (electronic) news banner.
Bars are full of people, shoulder to shoulder.
People in the streets look stunned.
We have heard from Chirag, Cindy, Shannon, Jason. Still waiting to hear from Rae and Ian. (We would later find out all immediate family and friends survived.)
Fighter jets circle overhead, which rattles everyone’s nerves, but especially Shawn’s, since she heard the first fatal jet fly right over our apartment as if right on top of her, heard the explosion, called her dad when NPR cut out, and then heard the second explosion, louder. Craig told her what all of America has seen by now, the second plane flying directly into the WTC. She took a picture of the burning building, moments before it would stand for the last time. And so when planes fly overhead it makes her a bit nervous. (This condition has persisted, for both of us.)
Jennifer and Jordan’s. (Shawn’s cousins. We were afraid to go back to our apartment, as the fires were still raging.) I envy Olivia. At age one she has spent the last half hour playing with blocks, blissfully unaware of today’s events.
The streets are empty, it’s like a ghost town. No traffic anywhere, especially (heading) downtown—eerie. I just walked across Broadway. (Without having to pause for traffic, since there was none. This is the rarest of all New York experiences.) Radio City has its lights off (also very rare), Rockefeller closed, everything closed with the exception of a few restaurants and bars.
After visiting Cindy and waiting for the fire to die down a bit we walked through the nearly empty streets to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th and 51st St., the only busy place in the city. Shawn went inside to light a prayer candle and I watched a news conference with some religious authority figure (on the front steps) outside.
We took the S Train home—the subways were free to ride. I feel like I’m in an altered dimension. It is easy to watch this disaster on TV, but very hard to see the plumes of smoke live as we walk down the street, burning buildings and buried people. It is very sad for us. (And we both cried openly on the street, just totally fucking overwhelmed. Curse words were the most frequently used modifiers today, by all.)
The police are (on every corner and) in riot gear. Looting is always an unfortunate factor in situations such as this.
We spent the rest of the evening catching up with family via the jammed phone lines. Neither of us can imagine what tomorrow may bring. Neither of us can fathom sleeping tonight.
I met George, a neighbor. He offered me a Valium, which I refused, but he looked awful happy with his dose.
“They flew a fucking plane through the World Trade Center.”
This is real. This is not real. This is real.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Trash Duty
Whenever I take Reilly to the local playgrounds, she typically plays on the equipment for a maximum of twenty minutes before deciding that the local flora and fauna are much more interesting. As she roams the grassy areas surrounding the playground, she often stops to pick up bits of trash that were carelessly dropped by other children (and their accompanying adults).
Typically, I'll take each piece of litter as Reilly hands it to me, put it into my pocket, and then throw out the lot when we return home. Yesterday, just as an experiment, I took a photo of all the items before throwing them away:
Clockwise from the right: empty CapriSun juice box, cigarette butt (the item most often picked up by my daughter), a torn snack wrapper, a candy wrapper, and one blue balloon, orange ribbon still attached. Choking hazards abound!
Typically, I'll take each piece of litter as Reilly hands it to me, put it into my pocket, and then throw out the lot when we return home. Yesterday, just as an experiment, I took a photo of all the items before throwing them away:
Clockwise from the right: empty CapriSun juice box, cigarette butt (the item most often picked up by my daughter), a torn snack wrapper, a candy wrapper, and one blue balloon, orange ribbon still attached. Choking hazards abound!Saturday, September 9, 2006
Week 61 Pictures
This week's pictues are now up at the Smugmug site. Click here to see Reilly eating a lemon, wearing pearls, and staring at the sea.
Friday, September 8, 2006
The Lemon Takes Flight
Throughout the summer in Florida, the Tampa Bay area gets thunderstorms with torrential rain--like clockwork--every afternoon. With the exception of a few years of el nino (or was it la nina?) the afternoon thunderstorms have been a fixture in my life since I was a boy. In fact, while I lived in New York City, I often found myself feeling nostalgic for these storms.
Oddly, for the last three days, it has rained ALL DAY. The weather patterns remind me of New England in the spring. Grey all day. Sprinkles of rain interspersed with downpours. Once again, I find myself waxing nostalgic for those rapid, powerful, and BRIEF afternoon thunderstorms of old.
The big problem with the wet weather is that I can't take Reilly outside. We typically go out three to four times per day, so cutting that down to a quick rush outside between rain clouds has put quite a damper on both of our moods. Reilly had so much pent up energy yesterday that I thougth she would explode. She was getting into everything, just tearing the house to pieces.
At one point she crawled up on the coffee table and stood there, smiling at me, defiant. I gave her the whole "no, no, no" routine and redirected her attention to her stroller. She turned right back around and climbed the table once again. This battle of wills went on for a few more rounds, at which point I swept Reilly up, stuck her in her highchair, and pulled her into the kitchen so that she could watch me prep dinner. (This was intended to be a form of punishment.)
Surprisingly, she seemed to enjoy the distraction. I gave her some Veggie Booty to keep her quiet and went to work. At one point, I was slicing a lemon, and she started pointing and whining at me, so I de-seeded a slice and gave it to her (but not before recognizing my duty to the blog and grabbing my camera).
Here is Reilly's first bite of lemon, in five frames:
Oddly, for the last three days, it has rained ALL DAY. The weather patterns remind me of New England in the spring. Grey all day. Sprinkles of rain interspersed with downpours. Once again, I find myself waxing nostalgic for those rapid, powerful, and BRIEF afternoon thunderstorms of old.
The big problem with the wet weather is that I can't take Reilly outside. We typically go out three to four times per day, so cutting that down to a quick rush outside between rain clouds has put quite a damper on both of our moods. Reilly had so much pent up energy yesterday that I thougth she would explode. She was getting into everything, just tearing the house to pieces.
At one point she crawled up on the coffee table and stood there, smiling at me, defiant. I gave her the whole "no, no, no" routine and redirected her attention to her stroller. She turned right back around and climbed the table once again. This battle of wills went on for a few more rounds, at which point I swept Reilly up, stuck her in her highchair, and pulled her into the kitchen so that she could watch me prep dinner. (This was intended to be a form of punishment.)
Surprisingly, she seemed to enjoy the distraction. I gave her some Veggie Booty to keep her quiet and went to work. At one point, I was slicing a lemon, and she started pointing and whining at me, so I de-seeded a slice and gave it to her (but not before recognizing my duty to the blog and grabbing my camera).
Here is Reilly's first bite of lemon, in five frames:
Reilly considers the lemon.
Reilly bites the lemon.
Reilly's initial reaction to the sourness.
Reilly's second reaction to the sourness.
The lemon takes flight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)