So this morning, I did what I always do. I got up, hearing April crying, so went to get her out of her crib and then crawled back in my bed with her and cuddled back under the blankets.
Grabbed the remote and turned on the Noggin channel so that I had a little more time to slowly wake up before she got rambunctious on me.
Only this morning, across the bottom of the screen was a little black strip saying the Time Warner was going to pull the plug on Noggin at 12:01am Thursday morning.
WHAT?!?!?!
Dude, if my kid can't watch Pinky Dinky Doo or Wow Wow Wubbzy or Jack's Big Music Show, someone is going to be pissed. Well, April will be pissed, but her pissiness will make me pissed. It's a vicious cycle, really.
I did some quick scanning on the internet to find out a little more about this, and apparently Time Warner and Viacom are arguing over the cost of this and 17 other channels, which include MTV, Nickelodeon, Comedy Central, etcetera.
The other channels...well, I could give a rat's ass about. But Noggin? Oh my God, seriously?
They're so immature they have to go pulling a very educational, well loved channel?
See, here's whats great about Noggin.
1) It was created by the Sesame Street Workshop. I grew up on Sesame Street, and last I knew, I was a pretty frickin' brilliant kid. LOL So if it's made by them, you know it's good.
2) It is made for preschoolers. Most channels, like Nickelodeon, have stuff for younger kids first thing in the morning, but then it goes into shows for older kids, and, sorry all you Spongebob fans, but Spongebob doesn't teach kids diddly squat. I think I know more adults than kids that watch that show...but really, once midmorning comes around, there's nothing for the little ones to watch. And I can tell you that all the kids learn from these shows are bad things. For example, Chris learned the phrase "Every time I punch something, I imagine it's your face" from the Cartoon Network over at my mom's house. Yes, it's so heartwarming when you're 8 year old thinks thats funny. *note the sarcasm*
3) It's on ALL DAY. I mean, all day. I've been up in the middle of the night with April and Noggin was a lifesaver in getting her to calm down and go back to sleep. It's on overnight...she can get her Noggin fix at 3am if she wants.
4) No commercials. THANK GOD. I hate when Chris gets watching Boomerang or Disney or whatever, and all I hear is "MOM, I WANT THAT!" or "MOM, LOOK!!! THIS IS COOL!" Yeah, it's bad enough that McDonald's advertises its crappy food to my kids by luring them in with lead-infested Chinese toys. Come on!!!
Whew. Okay, that felt good. I've got a few sites bookmarked to help me track what's going on with this whole thing. I'm sure most of you that have Cox know how much we're already getting raped when it comes to cable prices. The last thing I need is to pay the same price for 18 less channels--one of which is ALWAYS ON in the playroom.
If Noggin isn't on tomorrow morning, I have a feeling a herd of preschoolers will be picketing on Time Warner's property.
And fuck yeah, I want a picture of that.
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Okay, I totally have to vent...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008And the waterworks continue...
Wednesday, December 3, 2008 accident, birthday, Emil Svihel, family, funeral, grandpa, tractor
And the waterworks continue…
As if Vernon's passing wasn't enough to make this November memorable—for all the wrong reasons—a shocking phone call was received by my mom Monday morning. She had been in Minnesota for a week, and I figured the call had something to do with arrangements for her to take April for an errand day when she got back. Boy, was I wrong.
"Your Grandpa Emil passed away," she said.
Huh?! What?! I was confused—the man has always been in perfect health.
Apparently, his morning went as normal. He was up early and outside cutting wood, and stopped inside to find my mom and my grandma just waking up and drinking their morning coffee. After giving them some crap for "burning daylight," he went back out to cut more wood and continue his work.
The local fire department was headed down the dirt road to my grandparent's house. Now, we're talking about a small town, and every year, the firemen drive around town to sell their calendars. When they pulled up by the barn, the last thing on their mind was selling a calendar.
They found my grandpa face down on the ground. His tractor was wedged into the side of the barn, the wheels still turning and digging into the ground. The firemen jumped out to give CPR, and my mom and grandma couldn't see from the window what was going on—the fire truck was in the way. They didn't see what happened until they went out and saw what was going on.
Apparently, he had a massive heart attack—it wasn't the tractor crash that killed him. He had hit the barn so hard, his hat had flown over 30 feet behind him. The assumption is he was instantly killed by the heart attack, and the tractor led itself into the barn.
This happened Saturday morning—on my birthday—and my mom said she didn't want to call and ruin my birthday weekend with the news. She told me not to make the trip up, with the kids and all, and said that grandma would just love a phone call from all of us kids.
Of course, I didn't listen. I was bawling, I called Eric at work and he was able to take two days off of work for bereavement. I packed our bags, we loaded up the car, and on our way out of town we picked up Christopher from school.
Eight hours later, we made it into the small town of Foley at the farmhouse, where I hadn't been for a good 6 years or so. It had been a long time, but I stepped in the house and instantly felt welcomed—the wonderful, familiar smell of Minnesota hadn't changed at all.
My grandma was doing good, all things considered. It was kind of heartwarming actually, like she had been prepared and she was at peace with the situation. She knew her husband had gone how he would have liked—quickly and doing something he loved.
My poor dad was on his way back up from Texas, where he had helped his mom get everything wrapped up with Vernon's death, and ended up driving further north to meet my mom in Minnesota for Grandpa's funeral. Both of them had lost their fathers within 10 days of each other. I knew this was going to be hard for them.
The viewing was hard. It was hard seeing all of my cousins, knowing they had gotten to spend much more time with him being in the same town—heck, the same state, for that matter. I feel like I missed out on the best of grandpa. And seeing him in the casket…ugh, that's never a good memory. He looked peaceful, sure, but the hardest part was seeing him sitting still, lifeless, and quiet. My grandpa was never quiet. He was loud and boisterous and always on the move. Seeing him still was very out of character for him.
For being 81, he looked young. He was never one to sit around and waste the day away. You'd be "burning daylight" if you did that, he'd say. Even though he was retired, he got up first thing in the morning, he would "shit, shave and shower" (one of his famous phrases and morning routines) and go out to work on the land. He always used to give me crap when I was younger about being such a picky eater and stick-thin, used to always say I needed to eat more than a bird and get some "meat on my bones." He always used to walk around the house singing "And the race is on…" and whistling in a goofy tune. He was very lively, and full of energy.
He was always outside. He would be enjoying the land, out in the acreage enjoying the duck pond or finding wood to chop to prepare for winter, some for him, some to give away. If he wasn't hard at work, he was in his shed with his antiques.
That was one part of him I always remembered. One of my favorite parts of going to Minnesota was going out into the antique shed and seeing all of his collectibles. It was always a sight to see.
The morning before the funeral, I threw on a coat and went out to the shed by myself. I rolled open the shed door and the musty smell of antiques hit me. So many feelings washed over me. I walked along the aisles and aisles of antiques displayed proudly. Everything was organized—he had boxes with just dominos, boxes with old playing cards, boxes of old Time magazines (one which included the memorial issue after JFK's death), old tin lunch boxes and thermoses, and all sorts of off-the-wall collectibles. This was my grandpa, in a nutshell. As hard as it was looking at all of his belongings, it brought a smile to my face to know that this is what he loved to do—tinker in his shed with his antiques, sorting and enjoying memories of his own past.
At the viewing, I was standing at the casket looking at my grandpa. The last time I had seen him was five years ago, at my brother's wedding. He was his lively, crazy self then, and seeing him sitting still, eyes closed and silent, was harder than anything else. My grandma came up and took a small bottle of holy water out of her coat pocket. She opened it up and put some on her fingers.
"He always used to put holy water on himself when he went out hunting," she said, lovingly patting some on his neck and hands.
Instead of standing at his casket crying, she seemed at peace, and had a little grin on her face as she looked at her husband. She rubbed his arm, she fixed his hair, and complimented him on how stunning he looked in his suit. "Every time he wore this suit, he mentioned it was the one he wanted to be buried in." And he looked good in it.
Before heading off to the church, we all got to see him one last time before the casket was closed.
Everyone went up, one by one, to get their own closure and say a little prayer for him. We all knew he was in heaven, there was no doubt about that. The last to view the casket was my mom, my dad, and my grandma. She patted his clasped hands, smiled, and gave him a kiss on the lips. With a smile, she said out loud, "I was never a good kisser, but you sure were!" She walked away from the casket with a smile, knowing she would see him again one day. I had a hard time grasping the calmness she exuded.
I'll never forget my grandpa. Growing up, he was the only grandpa I had, and he was definitely one of a kind. I was hoping to see him this summer when we went to Minnesota for family vacation, staying at my grandparents, seeing my cousins, and taking a quick trip to Mall of America to see Legoland with Chris. My grandpa had never had the chance to meet Chris and April. He was never very fond of traveling. Too much sitting still, I think…
As much as my heart hurts, I know he's happy. For all I know, he's up there hauling wood for God and telling him about all the neat antiques he had collected. He's probably up there talking about his beautiful wife who he missed dearly, and his huge family of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He's up there with his parents, his brothers, his sister, and his daughter Angela who died a day after she was born. He's happy. And I'll always remember the happy memories of my grandfather.
We love you, grandpa!
Well, the race is on and here comes pride up the backstretch
Heartaches are a-going to the inside
My tears are holding back
And tryin' not to fall
My heart's out of the running
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it look like heartache
And the winner loses all.
http://www.mcrecord.com/main.asp?SectionID=3&SubSectionID=3&ArticleID=50693&TM=37543.12
As if Vernon's passing wasn't enough to make this November memorable—for all the wrong reasons—a shocking phone call was received by my mom Monday morning. She had been in Minnesota for a week, and I figured the call had something to do with arrangements for her to take April for an errand day when she got back. Boy, was I wrong.
"Your Grandpa Emil passed away," she said.
Huh?! What?! I was confused—the man has always been in perfect health.
Apparently, his morning went as normal. He was up early and outside cutting wood, and stopped inside to find my mom and my grandma just waking up and drinking their morning coffee. After giving them some crap for "burning daylight," he went back out to cut more wood and continue his work.
The local fire department was headed down the dirt road to my grandparent's house. Now, we're talking about a small town, and every year, the firemen drive around town to sell their calendars. When they pulled up by the barn, the last thing on their mind was selling a calendar.
They found my grandpa face down on the ground. His tractor was wedged into the side of the barn, the wheels still turning and digging into the ground. The firemen jumped out to give CPR, and my mom and grandma couldn't see from the window what was going on—the fire truck was in the way. They didn't see what happened until they went out and saw what was going on.
Apparently, he had a massive heart attack—it wasn't the tractor crash that killed him. He had hit the barn so hard, his hat had flown over 30 feet behind him. The assumption is he was instantly killed by the heart attack, and the tractor led itself into the barn.
This happened Saturday morning—on my birthday—and my mom said she didn't want to call and ruin my birthday weekend with the news. She told me not to make the trip up, with the kids and all, and said that grandma would just love a phone call from all of us kids.
Of course, I didn't listen. I was bawling, I called Eric at work and he was able to take two days off of work for bereavement. I packed our bags, we loaded up the car, and on our way out of town we picked up Christopher from school.
Eight hours later, we made it into the small town of Foley at the farmhouse, where I hadn't been for a good 6 years or so. It had been a long time, but I stepped in the house and instantly felt welcomed—the wonderful, familiar smell of Minnesota hadn't changed at all.
My grandma was doing good, all things considered. It was kind of heartwarming actually, like she had been prepared and she was at peace with the situation. She knew her husband had gone how he would have liked—quickly and doing something he loved.
My poor dad was on his way back up from Texas, where he had helped his mom get everything wrapped up with Vernon's death, and ended up driving further north to meet my mom in Minnesota for Grandpa's funeral. Both of them had lost their fathers within 10 days of each other. I knew this was going to be hard for them.
The viewing was hard. It was hard seeing all of my cousins, knowing they had gotten to spend much more time with him being in the same town—heck, the same state, for that matter. I feel like I missed out on the best of grandpa. And seeing him in the casket…ugh, that's never a good memory. He looked peaceful, sure, but the hardest part was seeing him sitting still, lifeless, and quiet. My grandpa was never quiet. He was loud and boisterous and always on the move. Seeing him still was very out of character for him.
For being 81, he looked young. He was never one to sit around and waste the day away. You'd be "burning daylight" if you did that, he'd say. Even though he was retired, he got up first thing in the morning, he would "shit, shave and shower" (one of his famous phrases and morning routines) and go out to work on the land. He always used to give me crap when I was younger about being such a picky eater and stick-thin, used to always say I needed to eat more than a bird and get some "meat on my bones." He always used to walk around the house singing "And the race is on…" and whistling in a goofy tune. He was very lively, and full of energy.
He was always outside. He would be enjoying the land, out in the acreage enjoying the duck pond or finding wood to chop to prepare for winter, some for him, some to give away. If he wasn't hard at work, he was in his shed with his antiques.
That was one part of him I always remembered. One of my favorite parts of going to Minnesota was going out into the antique shed and seeing all of his collectibles. It was always a sight to see.
The morning before the funeral, I threw on a coat and went out to the shed by myself. I rolled open the shed door and the musty smell of antiques hit me. So many feelings washed over me. I walked along the aisles and aisles of antiques displayed proudly. Everything was organized—he had boxes with just dominos, boxes with old playing cards, boxes of old Time magazines (one which included the memorial issue after JFK's death), old tin lunch boxes and thermoses, and all sorts of off-the-wall collectibles. This was my grandpa, in a nutshell. As hard as it was looking at all of his belongings, it brought a smile to my face to know that this is what he loved to do—tinker in his shed with his antiques, sorting and enjoying memories of his own past.
At the viewing, I was standing at the casket looking at my grandpa. The last time I had seen him was five years ago, at my brother's wedding. He was his lively, crazy self then, and seeing him sitting still, eyes closed and silent, was harder than anything else. My grandma came up and took a small bottle of holy water out of her coat pocket. She opened it up and put some on her fingers.
"He always used to put holy water on himself when he went out hunting," she said, lovingly patting some on his neck and hands.
Instead of standing at his casket crying, she seemed at peace, and had a little grin on her face as she looked at her husband. She rubbed his arm, she fixed his hair, and complimented him on how stunning he looked in his suit. "Every time he wore this suit, he mentioned it was the one he wanted to be buried in." And he looked good in it.
Before heading off to the church, we all got to see him one last time before the casket was closed.
Everyone went up, one by one, to get their own closure and say a little prayer for him. We all knew he was in heaven, there was no doubt about that. The last to view the casket was my mom, my dad, and my grandma. She patted his clasped hands, smiled, and gave him a kiss on the lips. With a smile, she said out loud, "I was never a good kisser, but you sure were!" She walked away from the casket with a smile, knowing she would see him again one day. I had a hard time grasping the calmness she exuded.
I'll never forget my grandpa. Growing up, he was the only grandpa I had, and he was definitely one of a kind. I was hoping to see him this summer when we went to Minnesota for family vacation, staying at my grandparents, seeing my cousins, and taking a quick trip to Mall of America to see Legoland with Chris. My grandpa had never had the chance to meet Chris and April. He was never very fond of traveling. Too much sitting still, I think…
As much as my heart hurts, I know he's happy. For all I know, he's up there hauling wood for God and telling him about all the neat antiques he had collected. He's probably up there talking about his beautiful wife who he missed dearly, and his huge family of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He's up there with his parents, his brothers, his sister, and his daughter Angela who died a day after she was born. He's happy. And I'll always remember the happy memories of my grandfather.
We love you, grandpa!
Well, the race is on and here comes pride up the backstretch
Heartaches are a-going to the inside
My tears are holding back
And tryin' not to fall
My heart's out of the running
True love's scratched for another's sake
The race is on and it look like heartache
And the winner loses all.
http://www.mcrecord.com/main.asp?SectionID=3&SubSectionID=3&ArticleID=50693&TM=37543.12
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