Update 12/30/08 eye speak

I just dropped Quin off at daycare.  As I walked out the door he said, "bye!"  Oh my lord my heart hurt.  I turned as fast as I could to get to the car.

He's also saying "lights" and "what ya got?"  Now I know a lot of parents hear a burp and think their child is operatic, but associated finger pointing and other gesticulations suggest we are accurate in these new phrases and words. 

I had an interesting bit of eye contact yesterday.  It was unwanted, and accidental, much like when you're staring at a TV in a restaurant and a waiter crosses your gaze and thinks you need something. 

I was in the bathroom at work.  There really is no other place to hang out and hide, so I was slowly washing my hands for like the fifth time and reading a newspaper on the counter.  I'd heard someone in the stall behind me but didn't pay much attention to them.  I looked up at myself in the mirror and from the crack between the stall and it's door I locked with one eye looking out at me.  You know how when you're on the potty you like to look out from the stool and see who else is in the bathroom?  Well that's what the guy was doing.  His eye darted away and I glanced down at the paper again. 

My break was over before I could finish the article.  It was just be too weird to spend any more time together.

Update 12/29/08: holiday sickness

I bought a shrimp platter for Christmas dinner.  I get real excited about shrimp platters. But I'll start eating it and about ten into it I stop and wonder what exactly it is I'm eating. I think it's the texture that gets to me, or maybe thoughts of the little dudes crawling around the seafloor like saltwater cockroaches. I just need to give it time and my craving outlasts the curiosity.

There isn't much else left over. I bought some filets from the back of a guy's truck. I don't know how that got started, that some company somewhere thought it'd be a good idea to sell meat on the street, but apparently my business savvy bites because I see these guys all over the place. So a door-to-door beef salesman got me to buy the sirloin for what I thought was a good deal. It wasn't until after I paid him that I factored in the fear of a painful botulism death.

I did some online research (which sounds better than "I typed 'how to cook a filet mignon' into Google") and I found some easy preparation tips. Turns out a good sirloin is pretty easy. It just takes more energy than a shuttle launch. I cranked the oven at 500 degrees and on the gas range had an iron skillet to blacksmithing heat. The steaks turned out pretty good and all the smoke helped add to the Christmas ambience.

Quin got some cool toys. There are more voices in the house now, including a talking Backyardigan doll that keeps foiling Paco's attempt to kill it. All will be quiet and then I'll hear, "I'm Tyrone and I make pies like a Samurai!" And Paco will go clicking away. Another toy is a baseball affixed to an arm that spins on a tee. You hit the ball and a voice cheers you on, or that's the idea, but it's so sensitive even when you walk by in the silent of the night it shrieks "Nice Swing!" and the crowd applauses. But even bigger for Q was getting to play with his two older cousins, my sister's boys of 19 months and 8. He loves the big kids and we watched with a mix of excitement and horror as he mimicked everything they did. Aside from our toddler climbing and leaping from new and dangerous heights, there was some sobering reality in the syntax of gift giving. A couple of presents were earmarked "For the baby" and I wondered why they didn't just say "Quin" until Sarah reminded me it was for the other baby I keep forgetting about. I guess both Roe and Wade have it down as a human now and I'm years from its June arrival. But that's next year, I say to myself.

It's hard to deal with the thought of another child when the last two weeks have been the darkest on record. First I got sick, Quin followed with night after night of hacking and then Sarah got a virus related to Hoof and Mouth disease.

Last Sunday I sat next to the fireplace and looked out at a messy house that needed to be burned down. For the five previous days it had been nothing but baby snot and sneeze spray. At the particular time it was about 11pm. I was tired but was awake because Quin wasn't sleeping. There was a time when we were very careful with the children's Tylenol. One of us held the baby while another went cross eyed trying to administer no more than .4 milliliters of the liquid medicine. Now I'm looking for a Costco barrel with a foot pump.

Sarah and I alternated days off and finally Sarah was so sick she missed all of last week. I've started a new job and it's way too new and precarious for me to be blogging about it. And it's too early to explain I'll be missing work because my son might have Hoof and Mouth disease.

To be honest I think we were both vying to go to work. There is nothing more difficult than a sick child. The hardest part is not being able to communicate with Quin. If he could tell me where it hurt that would be nice, but even better if I could tell him to go find a TV and watch The Price is Right. With Sarah sick I was doing my hardest to do much of the night attending. My initial and I think instinctual reaction to Quin crying at three in the morning is announcing I'm going to get him with hopes Sarah will tell me not to bother because she's already up and at it. My intentions might seem nobler if I didn't lie and wait for her response.

You'll be happy to know that our month of illness seems to be ending with everyone getting better. I just heard Sarah swearing as she slipped into the cold sheets. It's good to hear her speaking again even if it does sound like I'll be sleeping with Leon Russell.

I used to cringe when people would count their "health" as a gift. It seemed to me like such a lowering of standards. Now I'll gladly take it.

Here's looking out for a great new year

Update 12/17/08: Just a Sub

I substitute taught today. I had three classes; third grade, fourth grade and I finished the day with kindergarten. I don't know if you've ever walked into a room of twenty third-graders, but it's scary. If they were at all organized they could kill you.

I started the day by picking up my class at the library. That's where all the kids meet and follow their teacher in a single-file line to their classroom. I've never been more self-conscious in my life. The children make you feel larger and more noticeable. Other teachers smiled as they passed by. I tried to make it look like I wasn't thinking, "What the F*&k am I doing?" with my return smile. I thought for a moment how neat it was that I could cuss loudly in my head at an elementary school.

The third grade was pretty good. We went over math and I got away with not knowing one of the problems by having some lucky kids present it to the class. One issue I've come across in my teaching is that I know how to get the kids really excited, but then other than a karate chop to the neck, I don't know how to bring them down. To motivate the kids to speak to the class, I'd announce them in kind of a Michael Buffer boxer style. Their peers went nuts clapping and cheering. Someone in the hall closed my door.

I only had one slight disciplinary problem all day. There was a question that asked the kids to name three things that "were certain to happen." One kid said he'd be certain to drink water. Another kid said he'd be certain to pee. And the kid with the Mohawk in the back said, "And I'm likely to scratch my butt!!" That was a hit. From that moment on the itchy butt worked its way into every aspect of the class.

Now the fourth grade was much better than the kindergarten. Let me warn you: In Englewood, Colorado there's a kindergarten teacher who will go bat shit on your kid. She was in the class with me. She needed some help handling the kids. This could be because she looks like someone you'd meet in a biker bar. I walked in and thought she might be a disgruntled parent looking to give some teacher a drunken beatdown. She was rough and her perfume filled her space the way an air freshener chokes a bathroom. But when she was pissed someone was going down, literally. When I walked in the kids dropped their crayons and like little zombies gathered around me with important announcements like, "I have a glue in the paper and the...blue...and the princess...I love Christmas." One kid said Kelsey thought I was cute, which started a conveyor of tots taunting me about my new relationship. One kid said he didn't know why she thought I was cute. I was a little hurt. And all this chaos had Ms. Miller Lite throw a piston. She drug Jade to the ground and made little Malik cry. I wanted to pick him up and give him a hug but I was scared too. I was sitting in a five-year-old's chair grading kindergarten papers with a giant orange marker. That does something to your self-esteem.

(Have you ever graded kindergarten work? It's all wrong. They were supposed to rewrite the sentence, "She wanted to eat each and every Easter Egg." I didn't even know where to begin to correct them so I gave everyone a star.)

It was the fourth grade where I was presented with the biggest challenge. A little waif of a girl came up to me and asked me about the book she was reading. She was confused by what was going on in it. I took a gander at the page in question and realized that one of the main character's parents died. I approached the death of Poco's parents as delicately as possible. I asked the little girl if she liked his parents. She wasn't sure. I was hoping they'd been evil. I got all soft and guidance counselly and told her that well, uh, Poco's parents have left the book for good. They died? She asked. Yes, I said. She paused and in me was this Brooklyn cabbie wanting to say, "I didn't kill 'em." But I just let her walk away, the reality of death now part of her day.

I thought I handled it pretty well until I told Sarah and she said, "That page you read was probably a dream sequence."

Update 12/15/08 Vail Trip with Ice

Sarah and I illustrated the difference between man and woman when we simultaneously requested something we each felt necessary. I was accelerating towards a snow drift so that our Toyota Corolla might burst through it and enter eastbound I-70 when I asked where our camera was. Sarah, having done all the seat belt and carseat safety checks, and packed the car with snacks and reused old Diet Coke and Gatorade bottles for drinking water, thought of one last thing: "Do we have enough gas?" We were embarking on a journey over Vail Pass, one repeatedly not recommended by the local news anchors who were either hell bent on serving the public good or left with little else to say, when the gender divide split the car right down the middle. The male essentially said, "Forget our wellbeing; I need to show my friends how awesome I am." The female's question was a busy and loaded inquiry. It appears she's offering a friendly reminder about the car's need for fuel, but what she's really doing is hoping to find some reason to make it all stop. "Darn, we're almost out of gas; we'd better call it a day." Her next move: bring up anecdotal evidence of the male's prior vehicular record.

We asked our questions at exactly the same time. This made us laugh, providing much needed levity to dash through the snow and onto the desolate icescape of the interstate.

For a while it was pretty ugly. Through the drifting snow we could barely see the signs warning us of hazardous conditions. For the most part Quin slept. Sarah kept busy reminding me that taunting the SUVs I passed was only tempting fate.  I drove and quietly hoped all would be OK, especially since breaking down would have me hitchhiking in shorts, Crocs and socks. I had a shirt on as well.

Our drive through the first big mountain snow of winter 2008 was a culmination of a weekend trip to Glenwood Springs and Beaver Creek. I had corporate Christmas parties in both towns. The first was at the Hotel Colorado in Glenwood. It's a neat, old place with a ridiculous amount of holiday décor. I played music until my client's final patrons petered out and the drunks from the party next door stumbled in. I was privy to a wild same-sex conga line that had an old guy named Buck tell me he didn't like rap music but he did like what it did to the ladies. The song in question? Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby." There is, however, a certain emptiness in playing it. How have I gotten to this point? Where are my hopes and dreams? Asks a person who plays Vanilla Ice loud enough for others to hear. Some people are writing important manifestos, some are making love, others are fighting civil wars. What am I doing? I'm paying Mr. Ice a fraction of a penny to keep us mired in low expectations. But I do like what he does for the ladies. I should be tagged on Facebook with some of them, all employees of the Town of Snowmass.

Next night was a party at the Hyatt at Beaver Creek. If you've ever imagined Colorado skiing, and come to mind are images of wealthy people in sweater turtlenecks sipping lattes in a lodge of logs and hanging rugs, then this is the place you were thinking of. It's Aspen without having to put up with Aspen. Although they're trying their hardest. I pulled up to the front of the hotel and the bellboys were unloading approximately ten bags per every person who in the five feet from the limo to the lobby braved just enough weather to tell their friends they'd been to the mountains. I squeezed my dirty Corolla next to an Escalade, and after some banter about where I could and couldn't park, was gifted a baggage cart with a flat tire. With this awkward device I was to move my two hundred pounds of equipment through the hotel, down a back alley and into a neighboring building named after Gerald Ford.

The party went OK, but I do have to apologize to the real estate magnates of Slifer, Smith and Frampton. It might have been the inferiority that comes with wrestling a broken cart passed happy vacationers (I felt like I should have been selling apples in a crowded market), or the intense business of the holiday season, but I started to get sick. As I thought of things to engage you and make your party the best ever, I got a chill. Soon, as you all sauntered into the room wearing your Vail Valley best, I felt like I was poorly assembled and held together with spit. When someone moved I could feel their breeze. Oh it went well enough, you danced and you were motivated to pay 13 bucks a drink, but I was without that giddy deejay energy that can make bending over backwards under broomstick sound fun.  But when one of you would look at me with that "So...where's the party?" look, I could only smile and nod and hope for a fire alarm.

And then five hours later I had to push the equipment back down the alley and through the other building. Betwixt the two was a ramp built for handicapped. "Here," we say to the paralyzed and the broken, "climb this hill and you can use the bathroom."

In several inches of snow, and in dress shoes providing the traction and torque of a VW bus, I leaned into the load. This in front of the Hyatt's bar, where from their warm, wooden womb sexy ski kittens watched from behind their protective pane the angry man in the hoodie churn like a scared Scooby Doo. I hope they placed bets. I hope the doubters lost money. I could see them paused in conversation. Looking up from their drinks they must have thought their well-choreographed weekend couldn't have gotten any better, but then the hotel went and hired a Buster Keaton impersonator to entertain them. I tried to look like I was in control. And if you've ever gone for that look on ice you know falling couldn't be much worse. I'd already developed a cramp from the night before, when after being promised a Facebook tag I marched away from the Snowmass ladies with legs stiffened and butt clenched.

At the Hyatt, with snow blowing against me, I clenched again. I ignored the pain in the left buttock. Completely self-aware, more self aware than any transcendental meditationist or lifelong Buddhist, I pretended I didn't notice the line of beautiful people intensely watching the reality programming. I did this cross-country ski trick where you point your feet outward and dig your inner edges into the snow. My feet making a pizza wedge, I chopped upward. Again, as far as looks go, maybe slipping and sliding is a better option.

I got "home" to sweet Sarah enjoying kid-free time with an Ashton Kucher/Bernice Mac comedy on cable. She looked so warm. She was relishing the two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo we'd rented for only 129 bucks. I don't know how. Quin loved it not so much for its vaulted ceiling, stone countertops and free WiFi, but for how easily the toilet paper spun off its roller.  Sarah and I marveled at our travel savvy.

And then we stormed into Sunday morning's blizzard. We made the trip in about two hours and without incident. That is until we got to Denver and I got stuck in the Breakfast King parking lot. The battle of the sexes waged a brief battle in this conversation:

Sarah: "Don't park there you'll get stuck."

Me: "I won't get stuck."

While Quin worked the waitresses in the warm and greasy cocoon of the King, I was outside doing the futile dance that is the humping of a car back and forth in its own icy ruts. I was stuck on the other side of some bumps that Sarah said I should avoid. I said the bumps would be a good thing. I thought that before I was left to rock and spin, rock and spin, like an insane man passing the time on a wintry day. Finally a couple of guys came over and offered some help. They smoked their cigarettes and pushed my car at the same time.  Good to be back in the real world.

Update 12/9/08 Work Shingles Park

Good news.  Tomorrow is Call in Gay to Work Day. It's a way to protest the banning of gay marriage in California by showing the impact gays and lesbians have on the economy. The G & L community is asking others to help.

On a completely different note, I need to bring up a tough situation in which I found myself embroiled. It was like one of those "You Make The Call" features that used to air during NFL games. It gave regular, non-referee people the chance to "make the right call" on a replay of an old game. After a word from their sponsor they'd come back and show you what the real referee decided. After the actual call was made, I was always happy I wasn't a referee. So on Sunday, I was the wrong person to be in the conversation I was in at the park. It was with a woman who was telling me she'd left her job because they wouldn't make reasonable accommodations for her disability.

I couldn't figure out how she was disabled.

She did most of the conversing.   I let her words fade in a distant arc while I, through the process of elimination, sought her malfunction. She was standing. She was an animated hand talker. She could speak. I'd later find she could hear me. It seemed she was looking right at me. I flinched to the right, she followed. I also made note that she drove to the park.

As I pondered what could be different about her I wondered if her work even knew they needed to accommodate her. With great trepidation I can hear them asking, "So...should we...build a ramp?"  I told myself maybe she couldn't chew her food or something. There are a lot of ways to be disabled with new ones everyday. I tuned back into her speaking and wondered if I should ask her exactly what was wrong with her. I thought if she were telling me she's disabled she clearly wants to talk about it.  I hesitated.  I needed to make the call.  It was a tough one until I realized she was looking at me like I'd passed out and was just waking up.  She'd caught me spacing out, and I knew she knew what I'd been thinking.  I figured she was used to it, so I asked in a way I thought would be polite, maybe even complimentary. "You don't strike me as disabled," I said with my voice going higher at the end.

She thanked me. Whew! She explained to me that she'd been hit by a car. That was pretty much all she said, and then she walked away with her dog and all her abilities.

That still didn't do it for me. I've been squeezed through a fallopian tube. Can experience alone add up to a disability or do you have to have something to show for it?

I left it at that.  And assumed there was something deep and mental, nightmares maybe.

I just saw her again today and she says she has shingles. So that's something.  It seems she needs a place at work to talk about her body.

In other news, I went downtown to see The Day the Earth Stood Still (and did Nothing While Keanu Reeves became a Successful Actor). It's pretty good and if anything we should be inspired by a guy like Keanu who took his stilted chops to auditions for characters that require a guy be robotic and listless. He's made more money as androids, stoners, surfers and now, aliens, and he's done it all with the emotional range of an oven.

After seeing the movie I met Sarah for lunch. She works downtown. Seeing her run across the street to meet me at Rock Bottom Brewery had me stunned by how fantastic she looks. She was all dressed up for some bigwig who's in town, and I was wearing my Sorels and hand-me-down slacks with my Englewood Football hoodie and Carhart jacket. I looked like a vagrant she took in for lunch. I noticed other diners giving her a warm nod and smile. If I were with anyone less tolerant this would be the lunch where she'd tell me the bad news. I'd blithely skip to the restaurant and be slammed with a breakup. She would compare our aspirations and point out how different they are. She likes money. I like her benefits. She showers and dresses up. I put on pants. She'd tell me she was going to start looking into having an affair. She wouldn't yet be sure with exactly who, but wanted to get started on the networking. All I could do is ask if I could still do my upcoming dental appointment.

Instead, we each ate a Caesar salad, mine with meat, and talked about just how crazy it's going to be with two kids. With just one it's balancing act between my multiple jobs, her busy work and daycare. As a matter of fact, tomorrow I'm not even sure if our day care provider is available. Sarah mentioned I might have to call in Gay to Work.

I guess I could.  But when you call in sick you can make a coughing noise over the phone.  I don't know how exactly to make this sound.

Update 12/7/08 bagel deli elders

At just about halftime of the Bronco game we packed up and went to our favorite deli. It's the Bagel Deli at Monaco and Hampden. If you're not from here and planning on visiting and want the best Reuben and/or PLOT sandwich, then look for the intersection of I-25 and Hampden (hwy 285). It's just east of the interstate. It's also right next to a new restaurant that some drunken entrepreneur is calling the Sushi Train. I can't think of a worse name. "We just hauled this in on a hot box car from Philly," says the Sushi Train. Their sign has a bunch of happy animal characters riding a train. I've never pined for sushi at a Chuck E. Cheese.

(I just Googled "Sushi Train". Surprisingly all the hits are clean. Even checked the "images". The top hit shows it as successful franchise where you pick your sushi from a train that drives around the restaurant.)

Only part of the Bagel Deli's appeal is that they serve beer and have a TV. It isn't a sports bar with three hundred flat screens, but more like your grandma's kitchen with one tiny console flickering in the corner. When we got there the waitress sat us right where she thought we'd best see the game. The TV was in the line of sight for all of us, except for the Star of David that hung from a ceiling fan right in front of it. Is that something you can complain about? I didn't. And the waitresses are all older and motherly. Even if they mess up and bring you a plateful of deadly allergins you don't feel you should say anything. You sit quietly and enjoy the swelling knowing some kids don't even have a chance to get anaphylaxis.

The Star of David is one of your better shapes to hang in front of your view. It's not a chunky, generic star that could be confused for a fat starfish, but a lean collection of lines offering several triangles through which a football game can be viewed. When Brandon Marshall caught a twelve-yard touchdown pass from Jay Cutler, I quietly said, "Touchdown!" Sarah laughed. Across the table was my gifted* son making the universal sign for six points.

This was both adorable and frightening. I haven't worked on the touchdown arms with Quin since the Broncos were still undefeated. The ladies were teaching him "Sooooo Big!" and I wanted to make sure he wasn't getting mixed signals. The thing is he didn't much pick up on either of the hands-in-the-air communiqué. (Which has me thinking it's also a common sign for surrender and could be a short one-act play of the life of some NFL players: Stage direction – put arms in the air and hold them there. Off-stage narration – "You get so big, you score touchdowns, you get arrested." Fin.)

This means he's learning things without even looking like he's learning them. The quick nose pick, the f-bombs of frustration and the stifled laughter at his gassy trucker butt are all adding up in his brain. In one explosive regurgitation our well-behaved** son will unveil all he's quietly retained. I'm seeing a second birthday meltdown of ripped toots and hysterical giggles past his second-knuckle nosedive. Here's hoping he's as rapt with my taking out the trash and doing dishes.

*Not my opinion, but that of a former elementary school teacher who was at the park and most taken with Quin.

**Again, no bias here, this was the declaration of an elderly couple at the Bagel Deli who even chided their own descendents by saying, "he's not like our grandkids. They'd be running up and down the aisles and making a ruckus." Which reminds me, be careful when you're playing cute word games with your son and you get fancy with the first consonants of the phrase "Fussy Ruckus."