Is "brey" a color? ...

... or how about "bran"? Or "greytanandbrown"?

That's the only semi-quantitative thing I can say about the Minnesota landscape this time of the year - the pervasive color pallette of dead vegetation. Everything else that pops in to my mind is more qualitative: drab, dreary, dreadful and my favorite in the alliteration parade, depressing.

I definitely know I have a little SAD in the late fall and early winter, and I think I did an okay job this winter by working out regularly and trying to soak up what little sun was out there to combat it. I even took some Vitamin D to help boost lowered levels caused by living in this northern wasteland.

And, I thought I was doing fine ... until Daylight Saving Time ran me over like a truck full of anvils going 90 mph down an incline. It completely f'ed up Peter's schedule too, much to Laura's (hi, honey!) and my chagrin - he's still not back to his pre-DST bedtime.

Don't get me wrong, the increased daylight is a small joy in my heart these days, but the newest bee in my bonnet is the horribly bleak weather and the dead landscape. At least the snow covered all of the imperfections (like the leaves and trash in my backyard) and made everything look clean and bright. Now, with the snow cover caput, everything has the run-down, weathered and deflated look of a neglected compost pile.

arrgh. Can't even muster a capital "A" these days.

To paraphrase one of my favorite movie lines: "This is our most desperate hour. Help me, spring; you're my only hope."

Jumping the shark ...

... Well, I think facebook has donned it's leather jacket, grabbed the nearest towrope and is sailing over the shark tank with it's new layout.

We're a fickle, ADD society these days. If it isn't either shiny and new or well- used and comfortable, then it might as well not exist because no one seems to care anymore.

Anybody want to follow me on twitter?

Tweet, tweet ....

He who smelt it (part deux) ...

... So, I'm trying to transition back to the erg (indoor rowing machine) from the treadmill in hopes that I'll be able to get back on the water in a month or two and not be too pitifully out of "rowing shape".

The rowing machines at my gym are definitely a step up from the usual fare seen in gyms (I was using one at a YMCA a while ago and the chain was so rusty that it broke while I was using it - and believe me I wasn't pulling that hard) but they still aren't as nice and well maintained as the one that sits sadly folded up in the corner of my office.

So this morning, I decided I could get up 15 minutes later and workout in my office on my rowing machine instead of going to the gym. This is a bonus because Daylight Saving Time is kicking my ass bigtime.

I was surprised how relatively easy the workout was going despite not erg-ing in, oh, 4 to 5 months. Like falling off a bike, or in my case, a treadmill.

However, I have a fiber processing problem. And my office is small. And warm. And I had the door closed. For 30 sweaty, falutelence-filled minutes.

I ... need to get a fan. And maybe some beano.

Well, the service has been pretty good up until now ...

Peter had his 2nd birthday a few weeks ago and, of course, like most 2 year olds, he was more excited with the party balloons than the actual party itself.

Can't blame him.

What I did notice is that some of his playmates his same age - mostly girls, as he is a chip off the ole block and is a ladies man - talk better than most of my patients. Well, they're definitely more polite.

"I'd like some more milk please, Ms. Mills," said the cherub with the golden curls, holding her cup out to Laura as she passes.

"Milk - me, me. pease!" chirped the younger woman of the group.

Peter just looked at me, grunted, made a flapping hand sign with his right hand and then threw his plastic cup in my general direction. It bounced off one of the cats who slinked off but will probably retaliate by shitting in the bathtub later.

It then occurred to me that Peter doesn't need to speak because we are typical older, doting parents of an only child. He grunts and points and we give him what he wants, within reason.

Laura bought some signing videos which he loved to watch ad nauseum when he was 6 to 9 months old - until he broke the DVD player. As a result, he has a good repetoire of signs (which by the way are the same American Sign Language signs) and can get his point across for most of his life's neccessities at this point.

He's also physically pretty advanced - he's tall and strong and amazingly adept at most fine motor activities as well. Most pediatricians note that boys also learn to talk later and there is a trade off balance between the physical and mental milestones. And, with his learning how to sign, I'll be surprised if he won't talk until he's five.

(it probably doesn't help that his current favorite DVD's feature a penguin who speaks a made up language and a monkey that basically points and grunts ... hmmm)

This will probably be a moot issue in several months (in fact, I'll probably wish he'd shut up sometimes!) but for now, as a fairly intelligent professional with a fairly intelligent wife (who regularly kicks my ass at scrabble and boggle), it's frustrating when your offspring isn't at the crest of the development wave.

I should say he does have a handful of words, but most of them sound like something Jodie Foster says in the movie "Nell". (May an tay in the wiiiinnn!!).

I know life's a long ride and he'll probably (hopefully!) do well and contribute to society, but the one thing I wish he'd learn how to say is "daddy".

Then, I wouldn't care if he never learns another word.