Update 1/30/09: boy, rising

Quin has a few new words, the most popular being this long string of gurgles and "wows!"  He usually does this while excitedly pointing at what we're not exactly sure.  So we're afraid to confirm anything as we might be telling him "Yes!  Tree!" when he's really showing us a car. 

From daycare there have been some reports of "please" and "thank you", but Sarah nor I have heard them.  We try witholding food and beverage to see if we can get some etiquette, but it usually ends with us politely asking him to stop yelling.  However, Q's biggest advent is laughing at his farts and burps.  We try not to join him because we're parents and stoic and above the silly, but man it's hard when he's examining both of us wondering why we're not digging his comic gold.

Sarah is at about twenty weeks pregnant.  This one hasn't been as kind as Q.  That's why I think it's a girl, a mother's curse already practicing stubbornness and rebellion.  Well, at least I hope it's a girl because then I can say we've collected all two and can stop.  I think Sarah's leaning towards a boy. 

Sarah has been craving kiwi.  Which has me thinking this whole thing was just a name mix-up.  But she wants the fruit like I've seen her want nothing else.  She puts her Costco bin next to the kitchen sink, and slices and spoons out the meat of the little, fuzzy buggers.  All the while she's talking, sometimes to me and sometimes to the fruit; "How are you so good?  Have you had an kiwi lately?" 

Me:  "I'd love--"

Sarah: "He doesn't know what he's missing does he?"  As she stabs away at what I've noticed could be one of the cuter foods out there.  If one scurried she'd go Rambo and knife it to the wall.

Next!

My sympathy cravings have stayed in the pastry section.

Update 1/28/09: maybe a bad sign

I was driving home and listening to the BBC.  A reporter was doing some numbers on the American economy.  When he wrapped up his story the anchor thanked him and then said, "and now for some good news we go to Malawi." 

You know things are bad when the feel-good story is out of Africa.

Update 1/27/09: I swear

Tomorrow I give six random strangers a sworn oath of office (lower case, mind you).  I'll be their supervisor.  It's just weird how one month you're looking for a sponsor for your irreverent man-on-the-street segment for a rock station, and the next you're deemed competent enough to invoke "God" on other people's integrity.  Yah, there's "god" in this oath.  I don't know what happened to that whole separation of Church and State thing.  There's an alternative version for those who don't want God in their oath.  I didn't take that one.  I was too shocked I was taking an oath in the first place.  It's a temporary job for god's sake.

When they asked me to stand and take "the oath" I thought they were being facetious.  I chuckled to show how funny I thought my new employer was and then found myself standing in the silent inspection of someone waiting for me to repeat the line they just read.  I had to ask, "Could you read that again?"

By the time I got to the God part I was kind of sorry he had to be involved.

Q Tip O' the Day

You gotta get an alphabet mat...

...it really ties the room together.

Update 1/26/09: q cut

Quin got his first haircut the other day.  I did it.  It was pretty easy.  There was a sprig growing kind of wild over his left ear.  Snip.  Done. 

Update 1/25/09: work, sleep, stretch

I think there should be a Recession coin. On one side it would have me sitting at a computer and staring at the tile floor. Well, maybe that's the depression coin, but at least on the other side there would be soaring wildlife...a bald eagle being shot at for food.

My work isn't all that bad. It's my first non-radio corporate job since I worked at the Denver Post in 2000. That was when Sue O' Brien, the venerable editor of the Editorial page, pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to make newspaper my career. I had no doubts that I did not. I was a radio guy. From there things went steadily downhill. I was offered a job at 99.5 FM The Hawk working weekend overnights from Midnight to 6am. I was also working weekend days. Somehow I did not foresee this being a problem until a kind person came in the studio and woke me up.

I was playing Van Morrison's song "Moondance" when I convinced myself to close my eyes for just a little bit. Then I was naked and standing on the shores of Walden's reservoir. The moon rippled an invitation for a swim and I took off with grace of a dolphin.

It was about 3am on a Sunday morning when the girl from KOSI yelled at me. KOSI was our sister station and its studio was right next door. Some of the astute listeners knew we shared space so took it upon themselves to call KOSI and ask what happened to the music on The Hawk.

KOSI deejays don't use outside voices. They're trained to sound like sultry funeral directors. On this night the KOSI whisperer yelled, and loudly, my name. Emerging from the water I panicked.  I started pounding buttons and hoping something would play.  The Rolling Stones ripped into the choppy, up tempo "Shattered", and I stared in terror at the flashing light of the "hotline".  Had it rang like a normal phone my boss could have woken me up hours ago.

Still, I'm thankful for the opportunities that I have. A normal job has me doing things normal people do, like tending to hygiene and wearing pants. I really didn't have any pants. I had a suit and a tuxedo, but other than that it was shorts and a pair of long johns that, much to our neighbor's chagrin, I consider pants.

Also, we got MLK day off. I spent it at the first day of another job. It was a good opportunity to at least see if it was better, and after a morning tour of a splashy, new start-up, I realized that it wasn't for me. Well, the splashiness and huge kitchen with free donuts wasn't bad, it was the customer services reps divided into teams named after animals. The enthusiastic office manager bubbled that I'd be named after my team. I'd be "Jared Bear" or "Jared Shark" he explained, and I remembered being about eight years old and fighting with Jimmy Ballard over who would get "Jaguar" as their alliterate animal name.  I thought, "How far have I regressed?"

I'm not complaining. Economy is crap. I'm just taking notes.

So I'm back at my job which in two weeks has gone from recruiting, to mapping, to technical training. You might have wondered, "What is a computer without Internet?" Well, folks, it's work. There's no surfing, there's no emailing, there's no Facebooking that you've just tied your shoe.  A computer without Internet used to be the Oregon Trail trivia game.  It shared with children Alfred Packer's desperate cannibalism, so there was a time when a computer without Internet was a marvel to behold.  Now a computer without Internet is just loathsome. I've complained that I could get more done if I had Internet, but I think they can tell I'm lying.

I work in a room with 2000 computers without Internet. It's not a huge room, about 1500 square feet, to which only three people know the entry code. Typically it's one guy at one end and me at the other. The third person who knows the code is our boss. You've never seen such a quick change in demeanor and activity than when we're both accounted for and the door starts beeping. We're really good with conversational transition:

Joe: What do you think about the Broncos firing Shanahan?

Me: It was long overdue.

Joe: I'm more of a baseball guy. (beep, beep, beep...)

Me: That's right, hanging Pendaflex are the best filing option.

Often I'm in there by myself, and Friday was doing some stretches when the the four-digit code beeped. I could do nothing but sit paralyzed on the tile. If I jumped up it would look bad. I'm not sure if it would be as bad as just sitting on the floor, but that's what I went with. My boss didn't seem to say much, so I'm left to wonder what she was thinking.

Update 1/24/09: like a cat scratch

I spoke with my brother yesterday.  He told me the worst phrase of the week.  First, he's heading back to Florida.  It's sweet revenge for his wife who finally gets to take the wheel after two decades of nutty Navy boy trying to set records from one town to another.  They've been stopping for long lunches and checking into hotels at the first sign of dusk.  It's sounds like a lovely drive.

Pete said his scar looks like nothing but a cat scratch.  I asked him how that could be and he said he went in and the surgical tech "scrubbed his scab" right off.  Worst phrase of the week.