A day of small accomplishments. By which I mean none, I suppose. Did all the things I was supposed to do in the appointed times and places, but nothing added up. Ah, well. It adds up whether or not you think it does; you leave something behind. Let’s glean the day and see what can be found.

8:25 – 8:28: Shaved. I have discovered that not using the five-bladed razors auto-vibrate feature results in a closer shave. Turns out that when you turn on the vibration feature, the razor gets distracted and confused. Shave cream: Bath & Body Work’s “Barber” gel. It’s better than the Nivea I’ve been using for years, which is good, since I’m out of Nivea. Permanently. I will shave no more forever, Nivea-wise. It was reformulated a while ago to include a new fragrance. I did not want the new fragrance. I bought up as much pre-improvement stock as I could, and it’s taken a year to go through it. I still don’t understand that decision. Did anyone ever use the stuff and think my, that’s a rich lather, and its quality emollients impart just the right amount of judicious lubrication that allows the blade to do its work without undue pressure, yet it slathers not unduly the stubble beneath a protective layer, forbidding the blade to reap its morning ration – but for GOD’S SAKE IT HAS NO SCENT. Never buy this crap again.

I am now resigned to scented shave cream, but at least it’s part of a consistent aroma profile, buttressed by auxiliary toiletries. And thus is our precarious grasp on order maintained.

Between the minutes of 8:25 and 8:35 I transferred one week of the old site archives to the printed version. I’m still working on the big Life’s Work project, assembling everything I’ve ever written into one big crate that will either A) go up in flames someday or B) be bequeathed to the University of Minnesota Library, which will greet the request with polite confusion, accept the crate with kind smiles, shrug when the people who delivered it drive off, then store it somewhere in a vast warehouse next to the Ark of the Covenant.

From 8:40 to 9:00: completed scanning the Tottering Stack left over from the great purge of the closet. The last item: a strange modern Amana fridge manual.

The vanishing lines! They were popularized by surrealists, turned into a modern cliché, and spent their last years working for recipe books.

9:00 – 11:30: On the job.

11:30 – 11:41: Working lunch. I cannot stand the peanut butter sandwich anymore. Between the double-fiber bread, which tastes like something you’d slide out of a box marked IKEA, and the super-chunk peanut butter, it’s like a mouthful of sawmill by-products and Elmer’s Glue. I had some cold cuts. Warmed them up in the microwave, which made them just cuts, I suppose. Like all other meals, I consumed it while working; I don't think I can remember a single lunch in the last 20 years that wasn't eaten while I was doing something else. The idea of taking an hour off for lunch, going somewhere, eating a lot, is like the idea of having three martinis at noon. One of my first weeks in DC I was taken out for lunch by a Veteran Reporter; he had three scotches. He referred to them as the Appetizer, the Main Course, and Dessert. (Just googled him. Very little. Pity; classic old-style DC inside hand. Made me weepy for a moment about the DC days; doesn't happen often. The bureau has scattered to the winds, with the exception of our boss, who's now the WaPo Ombudsperson. And I'll brook no word against her, frankly.) Anyway, I didn't have a drink for lunch today. Didn't even have dessert.

Had an apple.

12:20: Off to the office. On the job. I’ll stop the recap here, because the quotidian details cease to fascinate at this point.

The evening was spent on Child Instruction and Maintenance – her days are quite full, which is good. Homework after school, math, writing, reading, then a reward of some computer time. Soccer after dinner. Herewith, heaven as we know it:

She’s gotten better at it, and doesn’t just sit in the back disinterested; she’s in there kicking shins with the best of them. I do wonder about these mixed leagues, though. The kids are at the age where the boys’ aggressiveness is starting to assert itself, despite all efforts to the contrary; do we really want to teach them that it’s fine to bash into girls? I have the feeling that if I raised an objection, however leisurely and off-handedly and amusedly and don’t-think-I’m-like-Larry-Summers-or-anythingedly, it wouldn’t be met well by all. The idea that boys will be stronger and more aggressive and should treat less strong, less physically aggressive people with restraint is oddly taboo. On one hand, I want my daughter to be able to give as good as she gets, and she’s solid enough to hold her ground. But say she’s a skinny-mini, one of those three-ounce kids, and gets knocked flat because Bruiser McLaddybuck barrels into her trying to get the ball. This we should applaud? It would be fine if Bruiser knocked over Master Simpy Milquewater, because he’s a boy, and part of being a boy consists of getting dominated on the athletic field often enough as a child that you realize your future rests in academic or artistic pursuits, leading to a lifetime of sneering at the jocks and gnashing your teeth when the smartsy artsy girls go flouncing off with the broad-shoulder crowd. THERE IS NO GOD. But in the end, it all works out. Nature has its way. If I’m wrong, explain why pro football isn’t co-ed.

I should note to newcomers that I was the fat kid who viewed gym as an endless session of torture and humiliation, so I side with Simpy.

Gnat’s team won. Back home for piano practice, then a ration of TV for her. Bath, book, bed. She’s down now, hoping  Mommy wakes her when she comes home – her plane was delayed hours by the Memphis screw-up – and I’m about to head outside and write the morning note for Buzz. More in a bit.

LATER Well, less in a bit. Just finished the buzz morning note, and now I'm done for the day. To show you how out of sync I've been, I titled this morning's note WEDNESDAY, because that's what I thought it was. I'm starting to think I live in a fluid omni-time paradigm in which the days are so indistinguishable I can no longer fake my ability to recognize what normal folk experience. But probably not.

New Ad Archive, which I've moved to the Institute of Official Cheer. Where it beongs. Enjoy, and see you at buzz.mn!