A Little Thing for Mom: Christmas 2010

Mom, you would be proud. For as much as I want to loathe the holidays, and for as much hassle your kids gave you for being so enthusiastic about Christmas, well, I think I got the bug.

Having a three year old makes it nearly impossible not to get caught up in the mess. I'd been driving all over town to make sure his holiday requests were filled, and just when I thought I nailed the stuff he wanted, he tells the clerk at the liquor store that he can't wait for Santa to bring him a robot. Robot? I asked him what happened to his desire for a race car and a tractor and he denied it ever happened. Well I have two wrapped boxes that beg to differ. Damn daycare.

He won't be spoiled. I swear. But when you have a kid who for the last month has been running a narrative on exactly what happens on Christmas day--"Santa is coming to our house. You can't cry around Santa. Otto, no crying around Santa. Santa is my best friend"--you want to make it work. Besides that, Santa is the greatest behavioral tool ever, and since we've shamelessly used the benevolent Father Christmas to blackmail our child, we'd better make good on it.

Now, mom, you used to get so excited around the holidays. Your kids would roll their eyes when, as teenagers, we'd emerge on Christmas morning to your great details of Santa's visit. You'd have the half-eaten cookie, the carrot nibbled by Rudolph and reindeer tracks made by the lower leg of an elk dad got in the third season. It was a little hard not to make some fun of you.

Some local children are a little over it.

But there I was this morning at my neighbor's door. I was delivering to her some of Sarah's famous 7-layer bars, and she was telling me a story that she thought was so funny. It goes something like this: she'd been sharing with everyone at her work about her neighbor, this guy who brought over this three-year-old boy to see Santa.  Turns our her best friend's father, a guy who plays Santa (and well I might add), agreed to make a surprise visit. Of all the people and kids at their house, the neighbor guy was the most excited to see him. 

Yes, that's me.

I remember walking away that evening wondering if I'd been extra loud. Then they showed me some of the video of Quin on the big guy's lap, and all I could hear was me going on about "Santa!  Quin, it's Santa!" and "Wow, it's Santa, really Santa!"

In my defense, it was priceless. Quin could only talk about how Santa is his best friend and would be visiting him soon, and then he gets to meet him a week before Christmas. It was a total surprise, and I mean how excited I got when I saw him come down the stairs. I started shouting and prompting Quin to the point that he recoiled into his shell. He was probably trying to disassociate himself from me.

But mom you got me.  I didn't care who saw me--actually I was so beside myself that I wasn't even aware that people were staring and wondering if I'd been dropped off by a compact bus. It was the lack of self-consciousness that made you the envy of everyone. You'd glow and whirl about the room, embarrassing your children but making every adult wish they had your zeal for life.

I can't say I'll be that guy when my boys are in their teens, but today I drove to seven (7) different Red Boxes trying to find "Winter Blast," a movie about snow removal. I guess it has big trucks clearing roads and piling up drifts in parking lots and it's a hit with the young, male set. It's such a hit that not one of the video rental kiosks had it. They advertise it at about kid level where Quin saw this picture of a plow with a fat, animated title promising all kinds of big truck action. Well I went all over town hoping to get it.

That's not something you could do raising us kids in the middle of nowhere, but I felt for a moment that thing you must have had. That thing that had you making wreathes for extra money for Christmas gifts. That thing that had you quiet the negativity and raise the specter for good. That thing...that thing that had us rolling our eyes. Because no matter what you did we always had some complaint. You drove us for hours over snowy passes and icy canyons to see grandmas and grandpas and uncles, and we griped about riding in your old, beat up hand-me-down station wagon.

You did everything to make sure there were plenty of gifts under the tree, and I recoiled when I detected that my Armitron robotic arm was a Salvation Army find.

You did everything, and the least I can do is do as much as I can. With a little a gift for you:

On about our fifth Red Box I told an upset Quin that they were simply out of Winter Blast. It wasn't his fault or my fault it was just the way it was.

There was a silence that suggested my point had sunk in, but I rejoiced too soon. Quin made eye contact with my in the rear-view mirror and said, "No, it's your fault."

From us to you...

Marijuana-be

Maybe I haven't told you this story, but I was reminded of it today after seeing a friend who now "grows and sells pot for a living." That's how she said it, and it was so nonchalant that I felt I was living in some sensible world that wasn't afraid of Reefer Madness. Even weirder is that this is a woman who, as far as I can remember, wasn't all that turned on by the pot crowd. Apparently she's just a capitalist who saw an opportunity. So legit.

I'm not so keen on finding those opportunities. Or at least I don't have the courage to make that kind of leap: one day I'm producing a public service announcement for the Census Bureau and the next I'm trying my hand at cultivating pain medicine. Besides, I just suck at marijuana.

In college most of my friends got stoned with ease, and the effect seemed to fit them like their Birkenstocks. Whenever I did it there was no guarantee it would end well. The first drag there was nothing. And so I tried it again. Nothing. Again. And then there was something. Or whatever eating most of a pack of 48 hot dogs is called.

The second time I ended up shirtless at McDonalds. They let me walk through the drive thru for several one-dollar Big Macs. I should disclaim here that there was always alcohol involved. Except for that one time I smoked something that my neighbor's boyfriend called "some serious shit."  PRO TIP: When a dude who talks like Keanu Reeves and has the attention span of a Red Bull test rat calls something serious, you should not light it on fire and put it in your mouth.

About ten minutes later I was hiding on my back porch. I was smiling but distressed. My smile hurt. It seemed so exaggerated that I believed it was injuring my face. When I tried to wipe it away I could see my reflection in my hands. It was kind of nauseating. 

But the story I mean to tell you was pretty much my last run in with the weed.

It would all start with my eating a half a pan of brownies, not knowing that they were "special" baked goods. Medibles. It would end a few days later with one of the "chefs" finding me and, with great care and in her Sally Struthers soft voice, ask if I was OK. I wasn't sure who she was but Sarah, my girlfriend at the time, reminded me of the incident. We had been at a party where I thought the dog was attacking me so crawled over the fence and fled.

She explained to Sarah and me that she and her friends had spent days isolating the potent part of the plant to make the most powerful brownies ever. Shortly after they were baked, I showed up and found them in the kitchen. It was as brownie eating typically goes. I had a little corner and swore that was it. And then passing back through I had a bigger piece, and another, before finally losing myself on the pan. They were the best brownies I'd ever eaten.

That was the beginning of a very long day.

First, I did the aforementioned fleeing. In front of a backyard full of concerned college-aged peers, I threw a beer at a dog, ditched my girlfriend, went over the fence and sprinted down the alley.

Sarah would eventually find me crying on her front lawn. I was certain that I'd finally drank enough beer to drown my brain in alcohol. What seemed like another innocuous Milwaukee's Best was in fact the final dousing. I told her I'd never be the same again. She told me I was being a little bit dramatic. I told her I was going to be mildly retarded for the rest of my life, and that I needed to go to work.

My work started early in the morning, but I still had about eight hours until I needed to be there.

At the time I was the "Russell" half of the "Martin and Russell" show on Farmington's Big Dog 96.9. I lived north of Durango so had a two-hour round trip commute. Every morning I'd drive into New Mexico and get to work at about 5am. On this morning, one that I think was in the spring of 1997, I would leave shortly after midnight.  Sarah delayed me for a while, trying to get me to sleep, but I was bent on sharing with our listeners that my world had gone wrong.

I drove in fear. Everything was attacking me, especially my headlights. I'd drive past reflecotrs and their light would trail after me. It was terrifying. I used my wipers to try and clean them off the windshield.  I rolled down the window to let their bright vapors out of the car.  I even tried to drive with my headlights off, but I was too scared...even at ten miles per hour.

And then the true challenge: oncoming vehicles. Every time their lights would pop over the horizon I'd pull over and shout at the passing car. Their lights were so bright, and often flying right over me. Several times I actually ducked, at least twice sliding to the floor of the vehicle.  What gets me now is that I was only bothered by how painfully bright the headlights were, not that they were taking off and streaking into the desert sky.

It would take me about four hours to get to work. I was starving and parched. I went to the all-night convenience store and bought as much water and beef jerky as I could hold. They knew me well from my commute. Days later, when I would explain what had happened, they'd say they thought I was acting strange.  I guess I spent thirty minutes trying on and talking to sunglasses, often in little self-reassuring bursts, before eating a hot dog off the carousel.

When I got to work, Todd Martin, the host of the show, looked me up and down. 

"Have you been crying?" he asked. 

I told him everything.  How I drank one too many beers.  How all my partying had caught up with me and how for the rest of my life I was going to be affected. 

That wasn't the answer he expected.  He grabbed the morning's news and headed to the studio.  Later, when he came back out to get me, I was standing in the same place and examining my body.  I looked at my hands in soft rememberance of how my fingers had once belonged to a healthy and functioning individual.  I watched them move.  They still worked, but because of my excess these hands now belonged to a different person.  I closed my eyes and tried to go back into time.  It seemed possible.

"Hey mister," Todd shouted, "are we going to do this?"

And so on the radio I shared a tearful story of how I was going to be different.  From behind his microphone Todd squinted in disbelief, watching me divulge my unedited story of overindulgence and regret.  After he turned off the mics and hit a song, Todd said, "You know, all I needed was the weather."

I explained to him that I was developmentally disabled.  He suggested I go home.  On the air he asked the Farmington police to give the guy in the red Mercury Tracer a break. 

By then, however, I was exhausted.  I took refuge on my boss's couch.   I tried to sleep but everything was so loud, and worse, everyone was going on about their lives as if nothing had dramatically changed. 

I tried a few more attempts at going on the air.  Each one ending with my monologue of how dire things were, while Todd did everything to get into the next song. Finally, I left for home.  I drove slowly and with the jittery awareness of an abused animal. 

Sarah came home from work and found me at her house.  I was sleeping and would wake up feeling a little less sad.  Over the next day things would clear up, and later in the week I'd have everything explained to me by the concerned brownie cook.

It was a huge relief, and nice news to celebrate with a drink.

Quick and Easy recipe for dinner...and etiquette

O Getting Better: Performs New Trick

 

He's so damn cute.  And I say that not as a parent, but as a guy who took 500 pictures--stealing from the digital universe--to capture this little dude finally sleeping.  OK, as a parent photographer, but still, I think it's unanimous.  A nurse said so.

Sarah finally got this one...

but come over some time and we'll show you the other 498.

O is back home and back at work, you know, growing up and breaking mom's heart.

All with a 100 dollar point-and-shoot with fingerprints on the lens.

After 5 Hours in the ER...

...dad's antics started to wear thin.

Mr. Croupy Pants back for another stay. 

What did we do before the doctor simply sent us off to the hospital?  Let the kid die on the prairie?  I remember long nights with my mom, sitting on the edge of a hot shower, and with every cough something like scrap metal ripped through my soft tissue.  Sarah did all she could for O.  She walked around in the cold (which worked best) and stayed up with the nebulizer.  All night she was awake until at about four in the morning he rested.  I found her sleeping in the worship position.  She was halfway on the couch, her head nuzzled next to Otto, with her knees on the floor.  I got her up in time for her oral surgery.  I'm back home with Q.  She's at the hospital with O.  Hopefully both are medicated. 

A Tribute to the staff of the Marriott of Pueblo, Colorado, and Paco

My wife and I have become those people.  She is now "that woman" and I am "that guy."  Or, you know, that person who does that thing that gets you all ripe with indignation and asking, "What was 'that guy' thinking?"  We're those people.  We don't like it.  We're not that good at it.

You would have called to complain about us too.

(There used to be an amazing audio file here of two hotel employees being as nice as possible whilst losing their collective shiz but I think the file sharing site DivShare died.) 

Justin and Dustin do some bustin.  You can also call that number to make a reservation at a fine hotel.

We take Paco everywhere. As a matter of fact, when we do a road trip in our little Toyota Corolla, Paco sits up front on his patented Paco Pad, and Sarah squeezes between the two car seats in the back.  And Sarah thinks I had the windows tinted to keep the sun off of the boys.  I've asked Sarah, "Am I that guy, you know the one who's a chauvenist pig who makes his wife sit in the back so his dog has more room up front?" She says, "No, not all. I like it back here!"

But then again she doesn't want to be that girl.

Together, however, we stole the show at the Marriott, winning the best duo award for the idiots who left their dog alone when everyone knows you're not supposed to leave an animal unattended in a hotel room.

But once you're that guy or girl there's no explaining that you know anything. You're just the person who kept the floors surrounding room 627 awake and/or on edge because of the crazy Cujo pup shattering the carpeted serenity of Pueblo's nicest hotel.

Paco is usually happy for us to leave and let him sleep.  In a hotel his room to hide from the boys shrinks to about 300 square feet, so we thought he'd be thrilled to get us out of his fur.

"At least it wasn't late at night," added Sarah, comforting herself from our moment in the sun. The scrutinizing one.

Dustin, the night manager, and his head of security, found us in the pool. We were splashing and playing motorboat games and about as vulnerable as the accused could be. Usually swim trunks pass as acceptable public attire. When you have to run through the lobby and past the desk of clerks calming angry tenants, swim trunks are as good as whipped cream. You look like you've done something wrong. You're stripped down to the very essence of "that guy". That guy who was toying around in the jacuzzi while his dog shared his suffering with everyone trying to get the most out of their recession-era 150 dollars a night.

He was loud. I wasn't even out of the elevator and I could hear him.  It wasn't a yip-yip, or even the sometimes endearing howl, but like someone had sprinkled Angel Dust on his kibbles.   He was running his barks together in a kind of rapid-fire war cry.  When I got to the door, with matted back hair and wet short pants doing nothing for modesty or credibilty, I struggled to get my key card to work. One person opened their door, saw me, and then slammed it.  Now not only could they hear Paco barking, but me saying some awful stuff about the person who invented the key card thing.  I was as bad as they imagined that guy could be.

I got in the room and calmed Paco down. No word as to what set him off (although I had a quick paranoid image of a "Dumbo" scenario where some anti-dog person taunted him so that dogs would never again be allowed in hotels.)

But back to being "those people."  Sarah and I suck at it.  I have friends, one in particular, who can be that guy and completely skate away from it.  As a sucky "that guy" I make things worse.  People just want to distance themselves from me and I'm chasing them around trying to apologize.  I even got cash to tip the incredible Marriott staff for being so patient.  And get this...instead of booting all of us out of the hotel, they said Paco could spend time with us at the pool.   As long as he didn't jump in.  Thankfully in 2006 I was "that guy" when I thought it would be useful to throw the little puppy Paco in a lake to help him get over his fear of water.  

Thank you Marriott Pueblo. However, tribute needs to be paid to our dog. Our first born. He's done nothing but be loyal, and we've done everything to punish him for it: the baby, the cat, and then another baby. Paco, we can only hope to one day repay you. It would be helpful if you didn't forget trips the park as soon as we got home, but we'll keep trying.

 

Paco, you're on call and warning us of even the most mundane activities.

 

 And while we bipeds have forgotten how to dream, everyday you tackle the impossible...over and over.

No matter what indignities you suffer.  Thank you Mr. P.  You're the greatest.  Feel free to take my entire side of the bed tonight.