All the fellas in the house throw your hands up

The MVP recently figured out where his hands were (for purposes besides blogging, I mean).  Since that time, the activity mat Uncle Spike gave him has become one of his favorite places to chill.

He has also discovered hats which, as you can see, he really likes.  Probably because they cover his receding hairline.

Extra, Extra! Senate health care bill clears house! Read all about it, mister!

Lots of other stuff to cover, including a visit from his Great Aunt and Great Uncle from cheeseheadland, the first meeting of his TrueBlood-Cousin and a very special family heirloom.  Also, MVP has been holed up for days, presumably hammering away on part two of his mystery serial.   But all that will have to wait because, well, spare time is in short supply.

Top O' the Morning to Ya!

Happy Belated St. Paddy's Day, Everyone!

Photo illustration by Auntie An*

* The relative, not the pretzel shop. 

the curious incident of the duck in the night time, part 1 - by the mvp

it's 1 am. or so i assume, even without the benefit of a clock. it's quiet, except for the hum of the white noise machine. everyone's asleep. i've had my midnight feeding, and must have dozed off. but the milk is still sloshing around in my stomach, so it can't be much later than 1. elementary, my dear watsons.

'mother, father' say i. 'i am alone in a cold sterile crib, and you are shirking your parently duties.' at least that's what i mean to say. instead, it comes out 'waaah, waaah, huh huh huh waaaaaaaaaaaaah.' damned underdeveloped vocal tract.

my mother lets out a single-syllable exclamation. it sounds like 'puck.' what could it mean.

i examine the possible interpretations. puck could be a literary reference. i quickly dismiss that explanation. it's march 16... hardly a midsummer night. anyway, my folks aren't the types to be quoting shakespeare if you know what i mean. 60 watt bulbs, the both of them. now if puck was a contestant on american idol... i'd totally buy it.

it could be a hockey reference. unlikely. in my entire life, i've seen my parents watch maybe 5 minutes of hockey. i thought i'd catch the gold medal match between canada and the usa, but they instead switched to curling on cnbc. i think the pace of curling makes it a little easier for them to keep up, bless their gumpish little hearts. anyway, my pop has already assured me that, because i was born in december, every second i spend thinking about hockey is a second wasted.

no, it wasn't puck.

as i quickly consider and discard several other possibilities --luck, chuck, muck, canuck, and darius rucker-- my eyes start to adjust to the darkness. and that's when i see it. looming above me like the sword of damocles. two beady little eyes, staring. skin the color of a jaundiced papaya. an orange bill, pursed as if to whisper dark commands into my ear while i sleep. two webbed feet pointing straight down at an unnatural angle.

--duck--

i've seen the duck before, of course. cheerily circumnavigating my head to the lullaby version of the 18th variation of rachmaninov's rhapsody on a theme of paganini. but now, in the dim glow of the night light, his sinister presence sends a chill down all 7.5 inches of my spine.

my mother approaches the crib. the duck lurks above. my heart races and my thoughts are consumed with trying to find an innocuous answer to this profound and disturbing question.

why is my mom talking to the duck.

--to be continued--

in the meantime, please share any theories you may have