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We continue to wait for the kid to arrive, which means we continue to prepare by crossing things off the to-do list. Item #439: Find some way to keep the trellis from falling over completely.

Found this while cleaning off bookshelves in our bedroom today. MS-DOS 6, copyright 1994. It pre-dates the Web (at least, the graphical version that we all know now.) Never removed from the shrink wrap. Even has the certificate of authenticity on the back. Classic.

Excuse the painfully obvious title, but for the past six years I’ve been waking up on the second Wednesday of every other November with a pit in my stomach and coal in my stocking — and now, finally, it’s like Santa finally figured out what I really, really wanted.

And it’s like the gifts keep on coming: Not only have the Democrats taken the House, but Rumsfield is out as Defense Secretary, and the Senate race is (as of right now) down to one seat. Just one! What did we do to deserve such riches?

Oh, that’s right: paid more and more for healthcare each year (for fewer services), offered our own money and time when the citizens of New Orleans were left without coordinated disaster response for days, attended protests to show our support against a strange plan to invade another country without provocation, gasped as the government found a way to legally condone torture, promised everyone we met in every country we traveled to that the practice of secreting people away to clandestine prisons was not a policy that many people in the U.S. agreed with, donated more and more to non-governmental organizations with the hope that they would be able to do something to bridge the ever-widening gap between the poorest and the richest people in the country, shouted at the television when members of the White House confused Iraq with Afghanistan and Al Qaeda, voted against every measure that tried to prevent our friends and family from marrying whoever they want to (unfortunately to little avail), wrote editorials pointing out how the the Administration was suppressing important scientific findings in order to protect their own interests, watched helplessly as committees debated red herrings like flag burning and steroid use in baseball rather than issues like education and the environment and the increasing inability of two-income families to make any progress….

FORTUNE Magazine: Warren Buffett gives away his fortune - Jun. 25, 2006

Thirty-seven billion dollars. That’s the biggest charitable contribution — ever.

The problem with airport security is that no matter how much money and technology you throw at the problem, it can all be undermined within minutes by a few incompetent employees. Take, for instance, the scene at Chicago’s Midway Airport yesterday evening:

Upon arriving at the ticket counter, we noticed two clerks searching around for a lost boarding pass. Although clearly bothered by the pass’s disappearance, the clerks decided to give up after having no luck querying a few bystanders.

Later, after we had passed through the security screening, we ran into one of the clerks again. This time, he was manning the gate and keeping an eye on the passengers in the waiting lounge. He called over one passenger in particular, who just happened to be walking by, and asked the man if he would double-check his boarding pass. Looking confused, the passenger retrieved his pass and scanned over it. “Wow,” he said, “this isn’t my name. It’s not even close.”

The clerk took the pass and set about printing a new one for the passenger. As he was typing away, he asked, “So how did you get past the security checkpoint with the wrong boarding pass? Didn’t they look at your ID card?”

The passenger shrugged and explained that the security personnel did ask to see his ID card, but that they let him through anyway.

“Huh,” said the clerk. “They’re supposed to check for that sort of thing.” Then he went on typing.

I like to think that my hairdresser and I have a relationship. No, it’s not that sort of relationship; but it’s a relationship nonetheless. After all, we’ve seen each other nearly once a month for the past four-and-a-half years, and that’s more than I’ve seen some of my friends.

In any case, this relationship, if you will, tends to carry itself out in the same manner each time we meet: First, I sit down in the big chair; then, she gets out her sharp instruments and puts them in my hair; as she works, we make small talk and I try not to pray too loudly for it all to go well; and finally, I thank her, fork over some cash, and am out the door again. It’s a ritual that is comforting in its sameness, I suppose.

But I must admit that, lately, I’ve started to wonder if perhaps it’s all a bit too same. Mind you, I’m not complaining about the haircut itself — that part is fine, or at least I like to think so. But I wonder if there’s something peculiar about the way our tete-a-tetes always center around the same discussion.

Allow me to explain: First, she says, “It’s been a long time since you’ve come to visit.” Then I respond, “Nah, it’s only been about four weeks or so.” Then she says, “Your hair must grow very fast.” And here I shrug and, as if on cue, respond with, “There are worse problems to have.” After this, there is a bit of silence while she nips and trims and slices, and this moment between us is only ever broken when she finally says, “Boy, you’ve got really thick hair.” And, of course, I must shrug again and say, “Yeah, it’s unruly at times.” Then more silence.

Anyway, you get the picture.

So is it wrong of me to want more from this relationship? Am I just being naive in thinking that this time with my hairdresser could be so much more? Should I stop wondering if there are others out there who actually manage to have great, engrossing conversations with the people that cut their hair? You know those conversations, right — the ones in which you tell your barber all your problems and then he or she gives you advice that is so true that one day you plan to pass it on to your children?

Anyway, that’s my dilemma. Maybe someone should open up a place where you can get your hair cut and chat with a bartender at the same time. Yes, a bartender would be good. Or a psychiatrist.

Surely I’m not the first person to make the observation that blogs are like the reality TV of the Web.

For all of you naysayers out there, know this: Despite straying into the world of Avrille-esque melodies on her recent album, Liz Phair can still rock. And she did, last night, at the Fillmore.

How does anyone ever buy toothpaste these days? I mean, my god there have got be a thousand options. And maybe it’s just that my last tube of toothpaste lasted for quite a long time, but there I was standing in the toothpaste aisle at Target the other day thinking to myself, “When did toothpaste get an entire aisle all to itself?”

Mind you, I’m a fairly tolerant person. I can certainly understand that there are people out there in this great big world of ours who, for one reason or another, need to whiten their teeth while they brush, or to fight tartar, or to rejuvinate their gums, or to grow hair, or whatever. But what about those of us who just want our good ‘ol plain-Jane tube of Crest?

I think what really troubles me is all the decision making that goes into selecting a tube of toothpaste these days. Do I want paste, gel, striped, or flavor crystals? Do I want whitening, extra whitening, or super whitening? A co-branded mouthwash additive? Baking soda? Peroxide? Both?

Really, I just don’t know what to think. Where I come from, you use baking soda for your volcano science project and peroxide to bleach your hair. Why would I want to put either of those in my mouth and scrub around for a while?

Worse yet, if all these various options really do have magical properties, and if you can combine them with ease — as their hundreds of different combinations would suggest — then why do they sell them all separately? Why isn’t there just a Colgate 2.0 sitting there on the shelf with a shiny new label? I would buy that. I would be okay with that. But all this other stuff? It’s too much, too much.

Here’s one from the did-they-really-need-to-explain-that file:

“I’m not going to lie to you - it’s that 15 minutes of fame,” the 21-year-old says, giving a nod to artist Andy Warhol’s prediction decades ago that, in the future, everyone would be famous for that amount of time.

Yeah, that’s a quote from an actual Associated Press story. It’s about people wanting to be on reality TV, nonetheless.