Q's a hit at first wedding...

He gets the chicks but is still afraid of the camera.

Pa is on the Run

I just got off the phone with my dad.  We discussed his run for county commissioner.  If he's elected, he'll be in charge of making decisions for all 1100 people in Jackson County.  He'll also be available to yell at on a regularly scheduled basis.  Most people don't have a specific place and time for a good thrashing, but as a county commissioner he'll have regular meetings where people can line up to vent about how that damn jumping mouse doesn't yet know endangered because that damn jumping mouse doesn't yet know their shotgun. 

But the odds are against him.  

 A DEMOCRAT!!!  Democrats are as close as Jackson County gets to a black person. 

My dad's one of only a few in the area.  Although, he did win 70% of the Democratic assembly. There is some suspicion of the wherabouts of the other three.

Now my pa tells me he's running because he's tired of the extraction industries running rampant.  Now to be clear, he's not saying that mining and logging are a bad thing.  He IS a logger, but he thinks that the current county commissioners let anyone with a backhoe and a few bucks go too far.  (It's just weird hearing him talk like that.  I grew up with him explaining things to me in extended animal analogies.  Even the birds and bees involved cows and a chicken. I've had some trouble adjusting to marriage.)   

So back to my dad being a logger and an environmentalist.  I've heard some people criticize the concept, but then they usually stomp to their idling SUV.  As they roar away I see "Protecting the Environment" on their license plate.  I'm guessing later that evening they retire to their wood-paneled study.   It just makes sense to preserve what you reap.  But, beware, it doesn't make you much money.  I grew up wondering why all the other loggers drove the latest pickups and their wives cruised in the elegance of the Taurus SHO (Super High Output).  Those guys were the shrimp captains of the forest, dragging their net across every living thing until they got a decent tree or two.  My dad was a total pain in the ass to work with because we had to operate the bulldozer like it was some kind of giant ballerina, and not the massive life crushing machine that it's meant to be.  A disappointment for a twelve year old who was too short to see any baby trees in the way.  I had to stand in the cab to make sure to dance around anything green.  

Sometimes, when my dad wasn't looking, carnage ensued. 

Knowing what I know about Walden, and what I know about my dad, I guess it's time he stepped up to the big time.  For as long as I can remember he's been the mayor, fire chief, paramedic, square dance caller and, according to this last phone conversation, certified horse massage therapist in the Walden suburb of Gould.  His small business makes up for about half of Gould's GDP.  For years he even provided the other half, that generated by the Cookhouse Bar and Grill.  With a resume like that, a higher calling awaits.   

Now to turn this family photo into a slick political pamphlet.

Maybe something about ZZ Top or the Oak Ridge boys? 

The cutest thing I have ever seen happened today right before my very eyes.

But first Sarah and my hot date. Sarah's mom took over the kid care and we got to go out. In the past we had time. So much time. We'd take an hour or more just deciding where to go. If there were a restaurant called "I Don't Care" it would make gazillions because that's the phrase we'd volley back and forth until we were so damn hungry another place called "Burger King" (a sign you really don't care) would get the pleasure of hosting our delirious and bickering patronage.

Back in the day, you know, Before Quin, we had so much time we almost looked forward to a busy restaurant with a long wait time. Because waiting to eat was like lengthy food foreplay that could make even the weakest menu seem like ambrosia delivered straight from the gods. (But can we not admit, on a good day, when staff is in a good mood, the Whopper is a gift from heaven?)

Things have changed. Last night's date did not have the prerequisite air of giddy indecision, it was more focused and business like. It started with something that once would have garnered me high-fives from eager friends awaiting any erotic detail through which they might vicariously bolster their odds of surviving social retardation: We made a quick trip to Walgreens and bought several tubes of "Bottom Butter".

Our child's sensitive skin demands it. And then, like dorky tourists, we laughed at cute toddler tees with phrases like, "What happens at Grandmas, Stays at Grandmas." Our infant child is expected to engage in more salacious activity than his parents. Fine, maybe he'll slip me some details.

From there we went to a drive-in, that of Wells Fargo, so I could make sure my balance could afford us the big cookie and ice cream at Old Chicagos. In the red, but not too badly, more of a safer pink on the spectrum of debt, we took off for our official date.

You could hear the disappointment in the waitress's voice. "So, you only want the cookie?" And the ice cream, we added. She offered to leave the menus in case "we changed our mind," or if some generous diner motivated us with a wad of cash and some cocaine. We were tired, and could barely muster a giggle when our server jokingly offered the left over dessert from the table next to us. "Yes," we agreed to her offer. She thought that was funny.

It didn't take long and Sarah and I were back to our old selves, laughing our asses off at our own lame jokes. The discussion had turned to what it was about female basketball announcers that makes them so damn annoying. I could only explain that their voice smelled like "sweaty femininity". Sarah wondered what that was. To further mix the senses I explained it as being tall with a pony tail. It was all so very funny.

Casual intra couple communication achieved, we dropped some plastic on the tab and went home.

I'm sorry to drag you through this boring line of details.  But a year ago if I were reading this I would frown at what seemed like a sacrifice of lifestyle. I was dumb then.

This morning I dropped Quin off at Planet Celina. He was immediately gobbled up by his loving daycare provider.  Helping Q stand upright, she said "watch this." With his little neck doing all it could to withstand the strain of uncontrollable baby laughter, each of the other children stood in line to give him a hug and a kiss. A rubbery marionette, Quin wiggled and shrieked. Then each kid danced around and chanted his name.

As I snuck out of the room my son glanced back at me. It was like we both auditioned but he was the winner carried away by adoring fans. The doors to coolness gently closed behind me.  His tookus smells like vanilla cookies so that's a huge advantage.

I passed no less than two Burger Kings to get home and tell my wife about our son.

Q Tip O' The Day

Food is great. 

Even when it happens to get in your mouth.

Rated R, for Really Not a Good Idea to Watch with Mother-in-Law

I’m not to the point where I’m going to join a council on morality, but something’s got to happen about all the nudity these days.  

My concern starts with my visiting mother-in-law.  She’s taking a break from her duties as the treasurer of her church and star singer of a Baltimore area choir to visit our little family for Easter.  You can’t get more wholesome than that.  She even woke up at three in the morning Easter Sunday to watch the sun rise at Red Rocks.  This despite knowing that she would be able to see something similar at a more normal hour from our place.  

And I must admit, despite balancing my overweight, beer-drinking, secular self on eggshells for the duration of her visit, I really enjoy her company.  You’ll rarely eat as well as when you turn a woman into a grandmother.  Something snaps in a lady’s head and meatloaf becomes the new knitting.  

But it all got a little weird when I popped in what I was told was a “pleasant romantic comedy”.  It’s a movie called Feast of Love. Turns out it’s essentially a montage of sex scenes interlaced with people doing dumb things—dumb, immoral things.   You never get a cleansing shot of a happy kid to justify the rabid lovemaking; the naked parts segue into scenes of people finding ways to get naked again.

Right as the camera focused on two women drinking lattes and behaving as widely accepted straight people, my wife left to take care of Quin.  As apparently was the mantra of Feast of Love’s director, in seconds the actors went from clothed, to suggestively posturing in a Jeep, to stamping their ticket to Hell.  And my mother-in-law and I sat together, two generations in silence amongst the moaning pleasure of unabated same-sex lust.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I was so nervous I wanted to suggest we drive to the foothills and wait for the sun to rise again.  But we got through it, and I’m telling you, if you want your porn to have a heartfelt message, then Feast of Love is it.  

Once it was over I sat and watched the news as to demonstrate stability, and that the state of world and local weather were paramount in my mind.  When I found my wife, she was laughing and wondering if I enjoyed watching a lesbian sex scene with her mother.

“Yes,” I replied.  “It was wonderful.”  Now time to find the nearest church.   

Rick the TMI Guy MIA

So I sent a battery of emails to the general contractor, aka The Swedish Ghost, trying to find out if and when the hole in the side of our house would be fixed. I really wanted to know because we have birds nesting there now, and I'd like not to move up to badgers or cats. I'm a big fan of animals and all, and please don't think I don't enjoy the tweeting of little chicks at five in the morning, but in this particular scenario every chirp reminds me of the whole, dark renovation process. A cuckoo clock could have me curled up and whimpering.

 

After a couple of weeks or so, including our Salt Lake Ikea weekend when we were supposed to come back to a completely finished home, I got a message from the Nordick that he thought Rick the TMI guy was going to take care of the repairs. Thank god he didn't. "Repair" to the TMI Guy means two hours of talking and ten minutes of mechanical mayhem. I often find myself standing at the corner of the kitchen, where the trim doesn't run square to the floor, staring through the resulting crack and at the basement below. That's right, from the kitchen I can look down and see Sarah folding socks. It's like a rudimentary monitoring system. Or a cheap intercom. With a hole in the bathroom left behind from a misplaced drainpipe, it's as if the whole house is wired for convenient communication.

I don't need any more of these "repairs". If I told Rick to close it I might end up with a laundry chute. Maybe I'll ask for a laundry chute.

So after repeated attempts, and absolutely no help, I'm bringing in another crew. Charlie and Dave are coming by tonight to start the week-long process of getting things right. You may remember Charlie and Dave from previous posts. They were fired by the Scandi-ne're-do-well, so they must be doing something right.

Actually, that's how the firing went down. They let me know about some of the shortcuts TMI was taking. Like that our new six-foot tub that can hold a whale's belly full of water and cherished babies wasn't going to be installed with a supportive frame, but with some creative nailing instead. Out of curiosity I almost want to see how someone nails a bathtub to the floor. Turns out, though, that taking the time to do things better than dangerously incompetent was putting Dave and Charlie on the road to out-of-work-ville. They left, and after the TMI Guy and his boys botched the drywall, the general, aka Stockholm of Horrors, had to call in the Mexicans who, as you may have read previously on this blog, whirled throughout our house like remodeling fairy godmothers. They sprinkled texture and paint and holes disappeared. New walls sprang up with the clap of their hands. One sneezed and we got a new roof. Insane.

Once they were gone we were left with the ingenious poetry of the TMI Guy, and his assistant, a very nice fellow named Robert, who brought architectural magazines from jail. I told him I preferred a little more light. (BTW, Robert, we still have your mags.)

Charlie and Dave were by last week and were aghast at the work. Now granted I've learned it's a contractor custom to criticize the last contractor's work. Bob Vila and Jesus could build a house and the next guy would shoot nails into their pillars of truth. But this time even I can see the mistakes.

It's kind of hard to miss the family nesting above our oven.

Home Worker Will Trade for Creepy Massage Guy

As seen in the Denver Daily News. 

Working from home is not what it’s cracked up to be.  

I don’t even know what that phrase, “cracked up to be” really means, but I’ve gathered a general enthusiasm from office-bound workers who light up with envy whenever I say I’m my own boss in my own house.  

For starters, at your workplace I’m guessing you don’t have a coworker who keeps losing his ball under the couch.  That’s my dog’s favorite pastime; wait until I get completely comfortable and ready to write, and then whine about his missing tennis ball.  It’s under the couch, I tell him, and not in flippant dog-speak, but we’ve worked together so long I think he really knows what I’m saying.  Granted, his comprehension might be better than some of your management, but it really takes a toll on your self-esteem when it’s 10 on a Tuesday and for the third time you’re crawling under a couch to get your helpless dog’s toy.  

Once I’ve wriggled my way under there, I sometimes stop to imagine what other thirty-three year olds are doing.  I see people in suits with cool earpieces attached to their head. Over a sushi lunch they’re making contacts and networking and forging the financial backbone of our country.  

And then I sigh; a ball of hair and dust scurries away.  I extricate myself from below the sitting area, which often leads to a very vulnerable position amidst an excited dog.  It’s the kind of thing people only speak of figuratively at the workplace.

I brush the dust and indignity from my hoodie and shorts, and get back to work.  I know soon Paco will roll his ball under the couch.  It’s the motivation I need to work as fast as possible.  That, and in mere moments Quin will wake up.  He’s our son, the six-month-old who’s a vessel of joy, innocence and contagious disease.  

He was sick, and now his daycare friends are sick.  Now I wait my turn to pass the bacteria.  It’s a fun game at our house, one that I often think of expediting by licking the floor at the bus station.  

I know you cubicle dwellers have your downs, too.  You have no idea what you’re picking up from the copy machine and typically there’s that guy who gives unwanted neck massages.  

If he wants he can come over and play with the dog.