Category: general

I made dinner Sunday night and I had to chop garlic.

Anytime I do this, chop some fragrant spice for dinner, typically garlic or onions, the smell seems to leech into my fingers and can linger there for days. It’s not something overpowering, you wouldn’t turn your nose were I to walk by or anything, it’s just a subtle note of the aroma when you’re close.

For instance, if I put my hand to my chin to smooth my beard, as I often do at work subconsciously, despite the fact that my beard is cropped short enough that it hardly needs “smoothing,” I’ll catch the scent on my skin. I can even increase the potency and notability of the thing by warming my hand; seems to bring it out. I do this, too; I’ll make a little tunnel, fingertips to palm, and blow softly therein. The warm moist breath spikes the residual scent, bring it more to the fore. Or I’ll wring my hands together, letting friction warm my skin.

Sure it sounds odd, but I like the “primal” feeling I get when I note that my hands smell like spices. It’s the same kind of ancestral “connected pride” I feel when I labor with my hands and find them rough for a day (before they regain their cubicle-dweller suppleness); throughout time humans were rougher and smellier and more physically tied to the things they did.

Sure fifteenth century nomadic Frenchman’s hands smelled of garlic and rosemary and whatever else grew in the folds of earth he hunted and abided in. Men and women alike probably also carried a deal more unsavory odors along with them; blood and feces and age-old sweat and dirt all other manner of “down in it” things. They were surely also roughened with work and exposure, hardened, creased and maybe even often pained. Tirelessly rooted to the elements that both governed and sustained them.

Yes, when my hands smell like garlic, I think of nomadic hunter-gatherers of the middle-ages. Strange.

Last night I had a dream which I woke me, I think, because it stirred such a horrid feeling within me.

I was driving, on our street, heading towards home.  Keaton and Cohen were with me, Sharaun wasn’t.  As we passed our neighbors’ houses on the way to our driveway I looked out the passenger window and was startled to see a large wild animal loping along the sidewalk in the opposite direction.  In the dream the animal was non-specific, as dream-things often are, yet I knew that it was both a) scary and b) man-eating.  When I woke I thought maybe it was a hyena or coyote or something, but I don’t think it’s important.  Still shocked and now a bit concerned, I made sure to fully close the garage door before thinking about exiting the car.  And even though it was clearly headed in the other direction, I checked the mirrors to try and be sure the thing hadn’t followed us in.  Once satisfied that we were safely separated I proceeded to take Keaton and Cohen out of the vehicle and head inside.

We weren’t five steps inside the house when I heard it: A gut-wrenching scream from outside.  In my dream I knew the scream was from a child, a little girl maybe of eight or nine.  I also knew that she was screaming because that animal had found her.  Over and over again she said “Oh my God,” and pleaded at the fleshy edge of her screams, “Please!  Someone help me!  Please!  Oh… God!”  I froze, not even through the laundry room that separates our house proper from the garage.  I had set Cohen down on top of the dryer upon hearing the screams, and Keaton and I stood staring at the wall in the direction of the noise.

I was absolutely terrified.  I moved to pull Keaton close to me, but then realized I needed to help this poor girl who was, as I knew from that dream-knowing you get in dreams, being killed by the beast.  But I didn’t move right away.  I stood there while she called out and I knew the time to intervene was running out.  Finally I was able to un-root myself.  I told Keaton to stay inside and lock the door behind me and I left Cohen on the dryer in his carrier.  I went into the garage and grabbed some heavy metal implement, then I grabbed another and one more still.  I opened the garage door to silence.

I was already too late and I knew it.  My hesitation cost the girl her life.  But I still made a cursory walk of the block, recruiting other neighbors as I went and arming them with the extra shovels and breaker bars and whatever else I brought.  I led a circuit search with them behind me eager to help, but I knew that it was of no use.  All I could think of was where the thing had drug her body away to, and I remember hoping that we didn’t actually find it on our hunt – it would be too hard to see what I let happen.  Because I knew she’d be rent and broken and gone from the world and I knew it was because I failed to act quickly enough.

I awoke with my heart beating fast and I felt utterly ashamed and sad.  I’ve languished in the deepest pits of despair over real-life sins of commission, and I swear the dream-inspired shame and sadness over this sin of omission matched it.  Sharaun was sitting up in bed next to me feeding Cohen and the room was dark.  I told her about the dream and it made me feel better to acknowledge the un-reality of it all in doing so.  The feelings slowly lifted out of my chest as the realization that it was all in my head sunk in, and soon I rolled back over to re-join sleep.

Dreams are neat.

2:30pm and truth be told it’s too hot to still have the house open.

Doesn’t matter; I’m stubborn about it.  Throw open the windows and throw open the doors.  Raise the blinds and turn on the ceiling fans.  Doff your longpants and don some shortpants, consider something that “wicks.”  “Too hot” be damned, what do we know from “too hot?”

For one thing, I love the fresh air.  You close a house for a few days and the air starts to feel “stale” to me, breathed to many times; recycled through dusty air vents too many times; stagnant.  It’s a psychological thing.  I also like the idea of being miserly and not running the air conditioning.

Hundreds of years ago the land where we live now was home to a Native American tribe that built stick-huts to shade themselves from the heat of the day.  Sometimes they’d dig down into the ground a ways before erecting the structure to increase the cooling capacity.  I feel like, if they made it through these 100°+ days with a dugout stick teepee, I should count myself lucky.  Somehow, thinking about the days those folks fared naturally makes me even more loath to trip the thermostat.

Sharaun, however, thinks that if the Indians had AC they would’nt have been so dumb as to not use it when it was hot.

She may have a point.

Goodnight.

O how the coming of our new son Cohen has brought about much:  The name of my father and his father will now survive another generation (presumably); our house has completed its metamorphosis from post-college pad to full family domicile; we get another break on taxes; things of this nature.  One Cohen-induced change that makes a good writing topic: the great vehicle exchange.  Mmm-hmmm, I’ve been handed-down Sharaun’s Saturn while she’s upgraded to the new Acadia.

I knew this was coming; I mean it’s the reason we bought a vehicle as big as the Acadia to begin with (all good American consumers know the rule of doubling, which dictates that a family of four needs a car which can comfortably seat eight and that if you want three pancakes you should order six, among other things).  I’ve written bits here and bits there about my sadness at being bumped from the Acadia, with all its modern conveniences, and the tiny things about the Saturn that turned me off.  But I’m here to say that I’ve embraced my new primary vehicle, and am, in fact, quite happy with our new arrangements (remember that post where I picked on just what it means to have something “grow on you?,” it was in the context of music & beer… but still).  OK so I did a little work to the car to get it more firmly into my good graces…

• I had the cracked windshield replaced.
• I ordered and installed a new stereo.  One with built-in Bluetooth for both wireless stereo music and phone, and USB and AUX-in on the front, and all sorts of other bells and whistles.
• I fixed the busted running light and left blinker.
• I replaced the missing interior panel down by the gas pedal; it’d been in the trunk for years.
• I cleaned the thing of all Sharaun’s detritus and took the car in for a white-glove interior detailing.
• I dropped her off for an overall 90k service and tuneup, just to be sure.

Oh boy guys… not only did all this get the vehicle in tip-top shape and make it a lot more appealing to me (OK so all I really cared about was getting my music on the speakers over Bluetooth), it also saw Sharaun (not entirely surprisingly) asking “why?”  Why did I soup up the car and get all the broken stuff fixed only when it became my car?  Yeah… good question.  Sure she’s been asking me to replace that burned-out blinker for about three years now (I’m not exaggerating) and sure that interior panel took all of ten seconds to re-attach… I won’t deny those things…

Uh-oh blog, I don’t really see a way out of this one…

At least I’m still the bigger man for diving into my newly downsized wheels with relish?  No?  Still the heel who only fixed his wife’s car when it became his car?  OK then.

Goodnight.

Tuesday and no Cohen yet.  Only two more days before the “official” due-date, but who’s counting?

I spent the better part of each day of the three-day weekend working on fabricating a closet (where there was no closet) in what will be Cohen’s nursery.  It was a long project, and at the outset it fought me every step of the way, descending into the familiar comedy of errors that belies most all my attempts at carpentry or home-improvement.  But with only minor cussing and swearing I worked through the kinks and managed to get the thing “done.”  “Done” in this sense means the hard part is done, but that the project as a whole is still incomplete – I’m just going through the do-something-then-wait phases of mudding the new wall, sanding, priming, texturing, and painting and each step has some “OK now let it dry” period before you can move to the next step.

Looking at the results, I do feel a sense of pride in my work and I’m happy I save the $400-$600 someone would’ve charged to do it (based on Craigslist estimates), but honestly in the end I’d have rather paid that $400-$600 than burned ~30 hours of my holiday weekend with my arms over my head.  Looking at it in that light $400-$600 seems a pittance for the time it would’ve saved me.  Time I could have used to clean the house for Cohen’s pending arrival as opposed to the messing it up more I actually did.  Heck, even if I value an hour of my time with family at a measly $25, $400-$600 for 30+ hours of work is a steal.  In fact, $25/hour might be a good “measuring stick” figure to use in the future when considering these “DIY or pay” kind of tasks.  If I can answer “yes” to the question “Would I pay $25/hr to not be doing task-x?,” then I hire someone.

Yup; this project has simply helped me rationalize my laziness as a lot less lazy a a lot more prudent use of time and energy.

Until later.

Oh boy y’all.  Feels like an age has passed since my Sunday night entry.

Soon after we’d gotten Keaton down after her bout with a sour stomach, my tummy started signalling distress.  After a couple hours it was in absolute knots, and midway through the night I joined Keaton in bowing before the toilet.  The sickness came quick and strong and that Sunday night seemed to stretch on forever and ever between consoling Keaton through her vomiting and coping with my own.  I felt like I got zero sleep and that the sun would never rise.  Luckily, Sharaun seemed OK throughout the night.  Unluckily, that only lasted until mid-morning Monday.  With Keaton already acting a fair bit better, I was completely out of it due to lack of sleep and dehydration.  And before noon Sharaun started complaining about “knots” in her stomach.  Later in the day she’d round out the bug’s trifecta.  With Cohen only seven days away, I was especially concerned about keeping her comfortable and hydrated.  But, by Tuesday evening as I write, we’re all steadily on the mend.

When we bought this house the room that is now slowly being converted to Cohen’s nursery was a “den option.”  This means it’s a room, but instead of a wall has a set of French doors leading into the living room and the niche where a closet would be is just a niche.   We swooped in after another buyer’s deal had fallen through all those years ago, and they’d already made that interior choice – the room had been framed that way and there was no changing it.  We didn’t mind; in fact we liked the openness that the French doors allowed.  We’re even keeping those doors as we transition the space into Cohen’s room – figuring he won’t mind much.  We do, however, need that “niche” turned into a proper closet.  And after two months of calling Craigslist flakes to try and get someone to come do it for me, setting up missed appointment after missed appointment with prison-tatted “contractors,” I’ve decided I’m just going to do the dang thing myself.  Can’t be that hard: build a box out of 2x4s, hang that box, put drywall on the box, tape, texture, paint and hang a door.  Done.  Right?

So anyway I’m going to build a closet this weekend.  Unless, that is, I have a son instead.

Goodnight.