This weekend I went to Hanah's baby shower. It was the first time I went to a baby shower, and it was enjoyable. Plenty to eat, plus coffee, and there were children there of all ages--I assume they were all rented for the morning, and were invited to let the parents get familiar with what they're getting into. Sasha held a newborn baby, and--rounding up--he didn't drop it once.
The night before I went shopping. My initial gift idea was simple and, yes, sublime. You see, Sasha's an economist. He gives a speech each December about how the economically efficient thing to do is give people not gifts, but straight cash. There's an idea, thought I! So if ever I can get away with a mere cash offering, it's in celebration of the progeny of an economist.
Several sources protested that this was in fact a terrible idea.
So the night before I went shopping. I walked into Baby Gap fifteen minutes before closing and picked a bunch of things at random, including a little shirt that read "I'd Rather Be Naked." All my selections struck me as marvelous--however, the cashier put me through the third degree--when is the baby due? what sex is it? etc. etc. and convinced me that, in fact, all of my choices were alarmingly bad and perhaps dangerous, guaranteed to betray that I'd not only never been to a shower but probably had never seen a human infant before. So the employees of the Baby Gap and I spent ten minutes scouring the store, finally finding a suitable outfit. Also, I saw an awesome stuffed lion.
I told them thank you very much for the help, I'm very grateful and I will nevertheless tell everybody I picked everything out myself.
At any rate, it turns out Hanah--who, since getting pregnant, glows--really wanted a stuffed lion. Which confirms what my resume has always said in the Other Facts section: "Has magic powers."
I spent the rest of the weekend whispering sweet nothings to my new iPhone. I wrote a few sonnets. For my iPhone. I named it Pyotr, after people named Pyotr.
Actually, I name things after favorite composers. This computer is Igor. Igor's loud as hell.
Today I got an email from David Chalmers, which is the fucking coolest thing that has ever happened. Things I learned: david chalmers does not use capitalization. I considered printing it out and taping it to my cubicle wall, but that would be weird, so instead I just rubbed my cheek against the computer screen for a while.
I went to the gym. I know it was a good work out, because I vomited a little. Just a little.
I took a swimming lesson last week--I wanted to figure out this whole front crawl business. It turned out to be a lot of fun. Also, the instructor said I'm a natural backstroker, which is neat, because my brother Richard was amazing at that stroke--All State or something--so apparently it's something about the old Scheulian heritage. All Scheule males also erupt in fits of apoplectic rage when we can't find the television remote. That's from the ancestral environment, where remote controls were much rarer and harder to come by then they are now.
In sum, while the flutter kick is hard, drowning is worse.
UPDATE: Another email from Chalmers. I've got to stop writing him before I come off like the crazed fanboy I am. This is as cool as the time I emailed Richard Epstein a question and he wrote an essay back.