Friday, February 20, 2009 at 06:16AM
Thank you all for stopping by. This is the last weekend for this site! I'm going to set up shop on a free blog service. I have no idea when, but that's the plan.
Friday, February 13, 2009 at 06:06AM I don't know if I told you or not but I'm now a supervisor at work. I know, it's weird for me too. My seven charges work with me in a code-protected room where we giggle and gripe and look a lot like a bad sequel to Breakfast Club. Twenty-Five Years Later!
My crew is good, bad-economy good. In most circumstances I'd be seeking employment from them. On the first day I asked everyone to tell me a little about themselves. Ten minutes later, when the first one was finishing up just his educational background, I changed the activity to sharing their favorite color.
We're so far ahead in our work that yesterday I had to dig for something to do. So we decorated for Valentine's Day. I've never liked the holiday much, and not just because I have to get really creative as Sarah isn't so simple to be titillated by a cheap, heart-shaped pendant, but because back in elementary school I despised how we were supposed to get so excited about it. For whatever reason I hated being treated like a kid and dragged around by the promise of candy. Which is weird because nowadays I'll hide in a corner and eat a Costco bag of Skittles. But back in 1982 I sneaked out of the classroom and sat outside the principals office. I figured if they found me at least they'd see I knew where I should be. When the principal, Mrs. Ashby, who smoked like an old tractor and would one day get dizzy, lie down on a bleacher by the football field and die of a heart attack, came out of her office to see me waiting for her, I told her I was feeling sick and was too embarrassed to tell my teacher. I had planned on telling her I thought Valentine's Day was stupid and that I didn't care if I was in trouble. The protest died under her leathery scrutiny.
Yesterday, in decorating our work space, I pulled off something very rare, yet unintentional. A TRIPLE ENTENDRE.
Dave was walking around with nothing to do and in my best supervisor voice said, "That cupid needs to be hung." Imagining him putting a noose around it's neck I followed with, "And I don't mean that in the penal sense."
Triple Entendre.
And now I gotta go work on something even cooler for Sarah. Sometimes I wish she were really awful so something from Walgreens would do. It's not really her fault she deserves so much, but then again she is the one who is so damn cool.
Sunday, February 8, 2009 at 09:43PM My friend Jim, who's a taxi cab driver, shared with me another sign the economy is tanking: "I walked by the training room for new drivers and for the first time I saw white people and women."
That's what happens at the park these days. We walk in circles around the soccer field and rap about the world going to crap. Jim is the worst, because his world is crap, and the dog park is the one hour in his day when he gets to vent about living with his wife, his wife's mother, his wife's alcoholic brother and his wife's son from another marriage, who's just been sent back to jail for parole violations. He says he could work ten-hour shifts but prefers doing twelve or fourteen.
Yesterday was a marathon day to be remembered. I was hired by the National League of American Pen Women to discuss taking their written works to the stage. I was nervous about how I'd do in front of accomplished and serious writers. On the way there I was hoping for a minor accident. But I got there safely and ended up talking for an hour and a half. The feedback was good, but the most remarkable comment came from an elderly woman with curly, white hair. "Your wholesome," she said, tapping my shoulder with her reading glasses.
I rushed home, grabbed Sarah and we went on a double date, then to the opening night of a comedy, and even made an obligatory stop at the Denver Aquarium so Sarah could check in for her company party. It was like a social shopping spree for free range parents.
We did pretty well being without Quin. He didn't dominate our conversations and we stayed true to our pre-parental promise of maintaining a level head about our children. Then we got a text from our friends and kid sitters Ashley and Bob: "Q is amazing! BEST KID EVER!!! Have fun!"
We shared the news with everyone we saw. "They even have their own kid," I'd say to highlight their credibility.
We excitedly rattled about our son all the way back home. Sarah waxed about her parents saying they were proud of her, but she always deemed it as embarrassing stuff parents say. Until last night as Q nodded off after a long day of play.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009 at 05:47AM Where is the time? I'm so tired of it flying by. I'd like to shoot it out of the sky, have Paco drag it back to me, and then be thrilled to have time for dinner. Yesterday, as I whispered death epithets at the slow, swerving cell phone driver ahead of me, I imagined running my hand through the years and catching something at which to sit and stare. And then I realized that's called "scrapbooking".
I'm always thinking of benchmarks and how many years have passed since then. I've been able to drive longer than the sixteen years I couldn't. It's been three-and-a-half years since my mom died. My bereaved relative license is practically expired. And we've had Q for a year and a half. Our new parent luster has faded and now we're two people wondering if we'll ever see a movie again.
Sarah understands how to enjoy her time better than I do. Last night while I grumbled more death epithets at my computer, she laughed along with Scrubs reruns. When I finally sat next to her I wasn't in any conversational mood. I was thinking about making more time. Finally, Sarah, whose curiosity runs deep, especially in the science and medical fields, turned to me and asked, "Did you hear about the kidney?" I hadn't. She saw me wince. She knows I'm not nearly as curious about blood and guts. I'm more interested in how I can remind the world that George W let the banking industry write the banking legislation and the insurance and drug companies write the failed Medicare overhaul. So Sarah comforted me. "It's not that bad," she said. She knows I'm still a little messed up about the doctors who "grew" a new lower jaw in a guy's back tissue. And continuing to haunt me is the baby born with a foot in its brain.
So Sarah moved forth with the explanation: A woman had her kidney removed. Oh, OK, not bad. THROUGH HER VAGINA. Oh, sweet mother of Christmas. I gritted my teeth and then asked Sarah, "why?" And she said it's because they don't have to do incisions anymore.
I wondered how someone might react to that prospect. "Good news, ma'am, we don't have to do any cutting. We can pull your vital organs out of your vagina!"
Where are the knives?
And then we laid in bed and at the possibilities giggled like goofy kids:
Dying Husband: I'm dying honey. There is no hope.
Hopeful Wife: I think you'll make it.
Dying Husband: What, are you going to pull something out of your ass?!?
Hopeful Wife: Well...
Monday, February 2, 2009 at 05:48AM I'm surprised nobody's come up with some kind of totally organic event to coincide with the Superbowl. After watching the seizure-inducing, hyper-marketing of the big game, you could flip to PBS or something and watch naked villagers dance around a tree. Actually, that might be on. I've never flipped away. Last night's game was actually so good I don't remember any of the commercials, or maybe none of the commercials were memorable. I do recall one with monkeys. It's amazing how monkeys never get old. It might be to avoid paying actors.
Bruce Springsteen was pretty good. He might have been the best halftime performer I've ever seen. But there is something neutralizing about playing a Superbowl halftime show. It's like being played in a grocery store. Yesterday, while picking up some snacks, Melissa Etheredge trickled out of King Sooper's overhead speakers. It was so sad. Here's this lady all lesbian passionate and begging someone to bring her some water, and I'm thumping a melon for freshness. Any other time and place that would get people pretty vexed. But in a store, like the Superbowl, it's all kind of lost in the gloss.
