Is this conversation freaking you out?

Take heart, in it is embedded brilliance.   Band names, for example.  My co-workers have compiled this list of accidental Rock n' Roll nomenclature used in conversation.  I've deleted some so no one gets fired. 

4. Bluster of Conservative Blowback
 5. Trainwreck in Nebraska
 6. The Wingnuts
 7. Vile of Tetnis
 8. Big Bucket 'O Fat
 9. Drowning in Tuesday
10. Waiting for Baby
11. Smells Like Eugene
13. Otto and the Breast Pump
15. Hues of Anglo
18. It's Noon in Nebraska
19. Bleachers in Your Brain
20. Touch of Senility
21. Tapestry of Strangeness

If you've got the time and a tambourine then you're free to use any of them. 

...Still talking about our children 10/29/09

We've just been grinding away; work all day and then play until the kids are down and that's when we sit and think about doing something until we fall asleep thirty minutes later.  Often I'll wake up with my arm reaching towards Sarah.  It's like one last, dramatic attempt at passion.  But sleep is soooo good.  And to think I could have done so much more of it in college.

We're good.  Otto is hilarious, smiling and drooling and getting fat.  Q is talking and being cute.  And I can't stand that piece of shit "Sid the Science Kid" on PBS.  I think I'd beat him if he were real.

And I had no idea how emotional Thomas the Tank Engine and his friends are.  They're a bunch of bipolar steam engines gossiping and snipping at each other.  It's really kind of a shock, or it was before I'd seen our one DVD 45 times.

Other than bending us to his will for fun, Quin's been pushing around one of our bar stools and using it to get places he couldn’t before.  He’s like a little old man with a wooden walker.  The stool is taller than him so often all you can see is the seat moving around the house.  But the scary part is the little person attached to it.  He’s eating everything these days and with his stool can get at the food we once hoarded for ourselves.  There’s nothing quite so chilling as putting a PB & J together only to hear the scraping of the stool coming up behind you.  You’ve only got so much time to get it down before you have to share it with the doe-eyed boy who asks, “Have some, please?”  There’s nothing you can do but hand it over.

The other night Sarah was pulled away from the dinner table by a hungry Otto.  Later she pieced together a plate of some leftovers.  As she scraped the saucy ravioli out of the Tuppeware, from the living room I saw the black top of the wooden stool glide towards her.   She was visibly shaken.

Broken Trees aren't so bad after all

The Boys 10/19/09

Before I even get to the children, let me make this exciting announcement about Sarah.   She’s NOT dying.  I thought she was because her hair has been falling out.  So either I was losing her or she was sneaking around with a radiation tech.  I’m not one to complain about leaving hair everywhere, as I molt pretty much every day, leaving fur all over and my poor family to develop a cat-like hair hack.  But Sarah’s hair exodus has been extreme.  Daily I pull a wookie out of the drain.  The bathroom floor tile is starting to look like wicker.  Here hair is everywhere.  So I accused her of dying.

Turns out that this is a post-pregnancy thing.  According to Sarah’s research at the library and consultation with a panel of health experts (actually she just Googled it but I want to remember how we used to do those things,) during pregnancy a woman gets a heavy dose of hormones that increases hair growth.  After the delivery the body gets back to normal and, without all the wacky chick chemistry, the new fronds must go.

It could also have something to do with the stress of four boys and a cat.

Or it could be that everyday is about fifteen thousand heartbreaks.  And you can’t explain what it is your kids do to you.  You’re helpless to celebrate their cuteness and their innocence.  You just want to hug them and encourage them and get on some high place and tell the world about them, but you end up stuck, frozen and useless and really kind of gay, if gay means smiling uncontrollably and wanting to dance.

For example, the changing season has been tough for Quin.  All the leaves coming off the trees have him thinking something very dire is happening.   Sarah picked me up at work, and as we drove down a tree-lined street, he was heartbroken and repeating "tree broken, broken tree" over and over in the tone too somber for a toddler. It’s like living with the crying Indian guy from the litter commercials.  His sadness is genuine.

Oh god, imagine that.  In his head something awful has taken place.  The trees are crying out for help and we're doing nothing but driving on by, often trampling their fallen tears.

I’ve explained to him the whole cycle of life thing, while hoping not to steal from him that incredible tenderness.  I mean it’s gotta be hard on the trees.  I’ve gone bald only once in my life. But then again, I don't want him to end up with same rambunctious empathy that has me worried my car has feelings.

It has not crossed my mind to say, “Well maybe the trees would have lived if you used the big boy potty.”

I was gone for a week and I came back to a huge baby.  Otto’s legs are plump.  We’re not used to fat babies.  Quin has always been a skinny kid, but he may want to start putting on some bulk now.  Otto is huge.  He’s wearing the same clothes Quin wore when Quin was a year old.  For the record, Otto will be four months in November.

When Otto smiles it’s just flippen deadly.  It's this big, unbridled chasm that moves everything between the floor and the ceiling.  There's not one part of him that isn't involved in the smile.  There's a kick and a wave and a lot of drool.  You want to tell him, “Dude, if you can keep smiling like this the rest of your life, you’re set.”   You might also be considered an overweight drunk. 

And Paco?  He now has his own blog.

the most heartwrenchingnest thing ever

One way to make Palm Springs seem like the last place you want to be.

Please, kill me.

Palm Trees and Indians

I miss the boys.  Nothing makes you miss your little guys like spending too much time with big people.  It’s not that these grown ups are bad, but no one enjoys the little things like Quin and Otto.  Maybe at this conference someone will prove me wrong by dropping to the floor to follow a bug.  I’d join them.   I’d start it but daddy needs to keep from scaring the big people, some of whom are responsible for paying him. 

I was in the pool today and all I could think of is how much Quin would enjoy the water.  I imagined finding some Mrs. Doubtfire-type person on Craigslist to travel with the kids and me.  Ooh, I just thought of Richard Pryor, the original “Toy”.  But he’s dead.  This way Sarah could have some alone time and get some work done and I’d have at least one of the kids.  It would be awesome.  I still need to present a plan to make this viable.  And when I say “plan” I mean Sarah would want something more than these flimsy Powerpoints flickered into oblivion.  I’d need documentation, blood samples, Skype cameras, a minute-by-minute itinerary, one of my fingers and proof I can consistently get all the right stuff in the diaper bag.  

I’ve got Miami coming up in December.  That might be the test trip.  Right now I’m in Palms Springs, CA.  It’s in the desert outside of LA, and it’s home to the world’s prettiest older people.  It’s like Cocoon with implants.  I saw a dude yesterday morning who looked like a freakish science project.  If you’ve traveled by air over the past year you’ve no doubt seen that airline magazine ad with the guy with the seventy-year-old head and the twenty-year-old body.  It’s some kind of scientific breakthrough that should have college girls frightened for their lives.   This guy was that guy.  He was Jimmy Stewart above the neck and all Lou Ferigno below.   It was creepy, and the grandkids might cry a lot, but it’s what a guy has to do when his female peers have their face lifted to their forehead and their breasts around their chin.  That may not sound sexy, but curiosity alone will have guys of all ages interested in feeling around. 

With the wind blasted mountains to the west, and the sandstone desert stretching out east, the city has ordained that everything must look like it was stolen from Mesa Verde.  The buildings aren’t ugly, but they’re far from inspiring.  They’re flattened and square, and even the fanciest building still looks like an information center at a national park. 

My job here is to interview tribal members about their issues today and their hopes for the future.  Today, for example, I spoke with Shelton, a third-generation farmer from the Gila River tribe.  He’s pretty optimistic about his people.  He and I ate barley together, which took me about three hours to finally swallow. It’s a little like grainy gravel until it’s had a while to soak somewhere.  Also, however, I interviewed Adam Beach, the actor from Windtalkers and Flags of our Fathers.  He’s a little ticked about the older generations dropping the ball.  But if you read his story you can understand why.

What have I come away with?  Not much new, other than we’re pretty much all the same.  We all want a little attention, even if it’s just to spurn it.  We like love, dig food, are still not sure what other people think, but certain that Americans need to exercise more.   So that makes it easy.

Tomorrow the Indian guy from the Village People is going to perform.  I didn’t even know he was a real Indian.  But I guess by now the construction worker is probably doing real construction.  Maybe I could get the cop to baby sit.

and some more assistance...

Otto!