So many interesting adventures to discuss. I'll just share two from the two worlds I spend the most time in: fatherhood and studenthood.

1) Tonight Sheri had her first night out. She went to a Pampered Chef party. And I decided that, after three days of being cooped up in the house with our little bundle of joy, she should do it alone.

So anyway, Siena woke up at around 7:45, starved to death, and with good reason because it had been a good 3 hours since she had eaten. So I started to get her bottle ready.

And Siena got mad.

I hurried to get the bottle warmed up as fast as I could, and I tried to keep her hanging in with her pacifier, alternating it with the end of my pinky finger whenever I had a free hand (she likes the pinky better, you see), and I was finally able to get it ready. And I gave her the bottle.

And Siena got mad.

About as mad as she's ever been in her short 12 days of life. As confused as ever, I wrestled with her to see if I could get the bottle into a different position in her mouth; I tried to see if the bottle was too cold or hot; I tried just about everything I could darn well think of.

Except for checking to see if the nipple had a hole in the end.

Which, I found out shortly afterward, it didn't. So, I carefully (and wisely) stowed my daughter in her bouncy chair whilst I took the tip of a knife and corrected the situation. All was well.

Now, my question is this: what kind of simpleton designs a bottle without a hole in it?

Why, people, why?

Am I just cranky from loss of sleep, coupled with a negative customer-service experience at the local Pizza Hut (not a story interesting enough to concern yourself with)?

Come on, people!

2) I half wish that I could go back to my undergraduate studies to test the following theory. Perhaps you readers can confirm this:

It seems that in every semester of schooling, regardless of your field of study, location, or size of your tuition payments, you are bound to have classes with three individuals.

Individual a: The Queen. As the title suggests, this is usually a girl (I emphasize usually.) whose normal speech volume is the envy of the livestock auctioning world. In class, you find that, for some reason, she has extensive experience in any subject matter your professors may touch upon - it's as if she moonlights as a stockbroker yet has come to spend tens of thousands of dollars at your prestigious place of learning to take a class in beginning accounting. Not only that, you are privvy to every iota, every angstrom, every mote of knowledge she possesses, related to the class matter or not, either as she raises her hand every couple of minutes to relate to her professors some story or opinion or book she's read about whatever, or as she speaks to the classmates in her closest proximity all class long, to explain to them the parts of the lecture they missed because they were trying to wrap their brain around what she herself was saying. Watch out for the Queen.

Individual b: The Logician. This is usually (again, emphasis on the disclaimer) a male. His title is ironical, as the Logician is totally and completely unable to wrap his head around the most basic principals of living and breathing as a human. His eyes usually have a certain clouded quality, and he usually speaks haltingly, with one hand in the air at about head-level. Do not be fooled, however. I have run into two Logicians in my postgraduate career. One fit the general physical description above, while the other would have fooled you for at least an hour: bright-eyed, well-spoken, but hiding a low-watt bulb behind the bright exterior. Ask the Logician the grammatical intricacies of his second language, and you will be regaled for hours; try and explain to the Logician why the Mailman is the one to pick up your letters, and you are instantly in a quagmire of a million questions. Furthermore, the Logician may feel passionately about strange subjects, and said passion may flare up at completely unexpected or inappropriate times. He may also be under the perpetual impression that you have misunderstood his every question, immediately after you have given the entire class a satisfactory answer. He jumps to conclusions that are either completely obvious ("So if you see the sun outside...it's daytime?"), or miles away ("So if you hear hooves running toward you, it must be a baboon, cleverly deceiving you by wearing false giraffe feet?"). The following story is true: In this one class, we were given a scheduling problem - if a desktop publisher has 20 pages to publish, and can do one page an hour, how many normal work days can you expect him to take to finish? Asks the Logician, "Well, can't we reasonably expect him to finish in one day? How do we know that this guy isn't a total work-a-holic?" Okay, I exagerate, but only a little. The Logician will make you want to tear your fingernails off. Many times, he will begin his sentences like this: "SSSSSSoooooooooooooooo......."

Individual c: The Professional. This person falls in the middle of the previous two categories. They are not loud speakers, necessarily, like the Queen, nor are they completely insane, like the Logician. They have the dangerous combination of a dangerous dose of insanity mixed with the conviction that they couldn't possibly ever be wrong, despite being told so by people who have been teaching the subject of study longer than the Professional has been breathing air. The Professional is easy to spot as they will confront your professors about every educational minutia, regardless as to whether the Professional is in the wrong or not, and regardless as to the obviousness of their wrongness. The wrongness happens often, and the obviousness is looming, to the point where it frequently becomes uncomfortable for you and your classmates to watch the Professional kick against the spines of empirical fact. In many instances, such arguments may occur over pieces of information that are entirely new to the Professional. Why do they argue? I don't know.

Beware these three individuals. They're out there, and your mental stability is at risk.

End rant.