Category: general

Where I put something when I’m too lazy to categorize it.

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a floor is meant to be walked on

Use me.Good evening internet.

Sunday morning Sharaun and I got in a disagreement about our new wood floors.  For those not up-to-speed, we’re in the process of doing hardwood floors (well, we haven’t started yet, but should soon… depending on when the material gets here).  In her opinion, we should wait until after our large, often raucous Halloween party to put down the new flooring.  In my opinion, it doesn’t matter and I’d rather do it sooner versus later.

Now, I realize that, looking at it plainly, my point of view may seem daft and that there seems to be a fair amount of logic to her argument.  I mean, why put down beautiful brand new flooring right before you invite a hundred people into your house to stomp drunkenly around on it?  Why risk this kind of ruin so early after getting it?  Makes sense right?  Wrong!  To illustrate how my mind works and why I disagree, I’ll tell a story.

The very day we bought our new car we were headed out of town to stay the weekend with friends in Tahoe.  As we were in a huge rush, we needed to do a quick lunch.  As the driver, I suggested we swing through a fast food drive-up window and do a road lunch on the way up into the mountains.  Sharaun looked at me askew, “You really want to eat in the new car on the first day we own it, and let Keaton eat in it too?”  “Well, I figure we have a decision to make,” I replied, “Are we ever going to eat in this car, or let Keaton eat in this car?  And, if we are, then why wait?  I bought a new car to use, not preserve.”  OK, so I paraphrased my actual statement, partially because I don’t remember it word-for-word and partially to make it sound better, but you get the gist.

To my wife’s flooring argument, I see it as at best simply delaying a certain eventuality.   To me, it all boils down to a simple question: Are we ever going to have people over at our house in a situation where there could be a risk that our floor will be damaged, or do these new floors mean a moratorium on entertaining?  If, at some conceivable point in  the future, a week from now or a year from now, we’ll be willing to put our floor at risk – why ever strive avoid it?

Is it just to have something “nice” and “pristine” even if for a little while?  To enjoy the fleeting unmarred newness while it lasts?  If so, that makes about as much sense to me as putting a brand new pair of shoes on the shelf for a month before wearing them.  Ahh… but I can hear the females flocking to support my wife’s position now, offering up tricky counter-arguments like, “It’s not like that at all!  It’s more like buying new shoes and not ruining them by running a marathon in them on day-one.”   (Please imagine that read in a nagging, high pitch, holier-than-thou voice.)  Women are crafty, and they stick together, so I could totally see myself facing that retort from my wife’s estrogen-sharing sympathizers.

But c’mon ladies… it’s not really like that at all!  It’s simple utilitarianism:  A floor is meant to be walked on, is it not?  And, if we’re not willing to let people walk on it, even en masse, then why are we getting it?  Furthermore, if by getting this floor I’m now going to be expected to act as if it were constructed of eggshells, I’d rather not get new flooring at all.  See friends, cold, hard, logic.

When I buy a lightbulb, I immediately begin contributing to its eventual death by plugging it in; when I new clothes, I wear and wash them right away.  Thing are made to be used, so says me.

Unfortunately, my wife sees no logic in my logic.

Goodnight friends.

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Luna Alice In Wonderland Princess

Instant love.It’s Tuesday, right?  OK no, you’ll read this on Wednesday… but it’s still Tuesday for us right now.  Sharaun’s at volleyball and Keaton and I are here giving the freshly-leaked Islands record a spin.  We’re withholding our judgment right now; we agreed we need to get through the whole thing at least once before we form any opinions.

Recently, a young girl at church heard about Keaton’s weekend pony ride with Grammy & Grandpa and decided that she’d make a gift to Keaton of a rather large toy pony she had from when she was an even younger girl.  Now, when I say “rather large” I’m meaning the word “rather” plus the word “large.”  Yes, this is a pretty big plastic pony; the thing has heft, a respectable weight to it.  It’s so big, in fact, you could mistake it for an actual ride-able pony (a toy ride-able pony, but a ride-able pony due to its stature alone).

The thing had appeared at the house when I got home from work today, and Keaton couldn’t wait to show it to me.  “Look dad,” she barely contained, “Look at my big pony!”  “Wow,” I said, not having to feign, “She’s beautiful.  What’s her name?”  “Luna Alice In Wonderland Princess,” she replied, matter of factly.  Yes, that’s her name; that’s what Keaton named her.  To clarify, she’ll add “‘Luna’ is her first name, ‘Alice In Wonderland’ is her middle name, and ‘Princess’ is her last name.  Did you hear me dad?  Are you looking?  Look with you eyes please.  Dad.  Dad.  Dad did you hear me?  Are you looking?”  Oh man I wish I could freeze her for a little longer than a year to get a little more than a year with her every year; she’s that fun sometimes.

A confession: We’ve lived here in our modest first-home now for about seven years.  Not once during this time have I ever cleaned our windows; inside, or out.  Never.  To look at the windows, you would surely know this.  The tracks and grooves which they sit in are dusty, dirty, and strung with cobwebs in the corners.  Now, I don’t mean to say our house is the picture of disarray… quite the opposite, I think , if one were to drop-in and perform a quick visual check for cleanliness, we’d pass muster OK; clutter aside.  But upon close inspection, the white-glove kind of inspection, oh the neatness-police would find plenty to fine us for.  I was thinking about washing the windows, inside and out, this weekend.  But… then I thought… “It’s gonna rain soon in this year.”  So I changed my mind.

Ohhh… Sharaun has the Biggest Loser on.  It’s the first episode of some new season, the one where I like to try and guess which of the fatties might be hot once they lose 250lbs.  Gotta run.

Goodnight lurkers, unashamed readers, and unabashed commenters.  Love you.

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a place where I is

Don't abide it.Monday night.

I’m falling asleep in my head.

You know the feeling?  Somewhere in the back of my brain, I’m already asleep.  There’s a dense, heavy rock in my skull, and it’s taking up valuable neural space I could be using to produce real-time cogent thought.  Except, I can’t; because of that sleepy rock taking up all the room.  Even if I shake my head around the rock won’t go away.  I know this means I should just give up on the evening and hit the sack; but I’m stubborn and American and, I don’t know if you heard, but we do what we want.  What?

I think I’ll go out to the woods somewhere and find a place where no one is. Through the grip of my hands and the ache of my back I’ll turn that place from a place where no one is into a place where I is. I’ll maybe dig a hole in the ground, reinforce it, and live like a hobbit. With little windows in the side of my mound-home that let in the sunlight and keep out the rain. It would smell like earth and woodsmoke inside. Or I could build a house on a platform up a tree, perched above the wilderness. There’d be a beautiful evening vista, maybe mountains and a river. It would be full of breezes and fresh air and would stand strong against the winter storms. I could take my family there; maybe to a cabin built hard against a lake, with a water wheel. We could live inside and sleep bundled up in patchwork quilts Sharaun makes out of scraps of last year’s workclothes. We could eat fresh fish and maybe wild turkey. Burn candles. Sit on the porch in rocking chairs.

Is this so much to ask?

As a young teenager, I had really bad acne.  For about two years, all through 7th and 8th grades of junior highschool, I suffered.  No, not suffered like so many around the world starving or bearing the brunt of social injustice… but the teenage kind of “suffering” caused by… pimples.  It was bad enough that even my best buddy Kyle would sometimes give me crap about my face, since he was blessed, at that age, with smooth unmarred skin.  On the whole, I didn’t let the acne bother me too much… I think I was young enough that it wasn’t the end of my social universe.  But I did hate it.  I hated it.

Sometime during the apex of my affliction, one of those lifelong kind of memories was burned into my brain:  I was laying on the couch in the living room one evening; my folks were watching TV while I rested, and obviously thought I’d fallen asleep. But, as I lay there, awake with eyes closed, I listened-in on their conversation about their sleeping child.  “His acne is really bad,” lamented my Mom.”  “Yes, it is,” said Dad.  Mom continued, “I remember how bad it was when I was his age; it must really be hard for him… I just wish it would clear up.”

The conversation continued, but the sheer pity expressed in my Mom’s voice flat-out sunk my heart.  My parents were talking about me like some terminally ill patient.  Condemned to be glimpsed through my wretched veil, apparently, they mourned for me.  Talk about a terrible conversation for a kid to hear; a real self-esteem torpedo.  I don’ t think I’ll ever forget overhearing that conversation.  Hurting themselves, feeling the hurt I had myself, I heard my folks’ personal suffering for their child’s condition.  And that, people, is what parenting is all about.

I didn’t write well, that rock of sleep is dominating… I know this could be better.  I can’t find the phrases.  Goodnight.

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a five-by-five weekend

It's gonna be fine right?Sunday afternoon and I just put Keaton down for her nap.

Sharaun’s also asleep and so I’ve got the place to myself. I put George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass on the iPod and am currently enjoying the sound of the massive triple-album opus. If you know nothing about this album, I implore you to seek it out. Put simply: It may be the best solo album any ex-Beatle has ever made.

It was a good weekend; the kind I’ll find myself replaying in the highlight-reel in my head to break the monotony of the work week. Come Wednesday, our Saturday morning family bike ride to the park for a picnic lunch will have passed into legend. By Thursday, the beautiful weather we had for church on Sunday morning will have joined it. By 2019, provided I make it, they’ll both have joined the blurred apocrypha that will be these years. Yeah, a family-tight weekend; makes me appreciate what I have; and that’s good because, on occasion, I’ve been known to forget…

Saturday my brother called me from his home in southern Washington. “Hey lil’ bro,” I answered, “Whatca doin’?” “Not much,” came the reply, “I just went over to REI and went a little crazy; bought myself a backpack.” “Yeah?,” I asked, curious. “Yup. I think I want to try and take up hiking.” “Wow,” I said, “That sounds awesome. One of the better passtimes I ever got into myself.” He then mentioned that he was planning on taking a week off work in September, around the time of his birthday, and was considering a multi-day outing in the Columbia River Gorge. “What are you doing in late September,” he asked. “I’m flying to Oregon to go backpacking in the Columbia River Gorge,” I answered, “How about you?”

And so was planted the seed of the three-day, thirty mile loop that we’ve pretty much settled on. With about half of the miles on the locally famous Eagle Creek Trail and half on the globally famous Pacific Crest Trail, the loop goes through some of the most gorgeous waterfall country Northern Oregon has to offer. I’m excited; my bro is excited; we’re both looking forward to it. So that helped make Saturday enjoyable. A dinner with friends where the kids were allowed to run free-range wild worked to further the goodness.

And Sunday evening tied a bow on the whole weekend. After a nice meal up at the church building, Keaton and I had to drive home separate from Sharaun (who had to be there early for a meeting). On the ride home, the free limited-time XM that came with the new car was really on a roll and the weather was perfect. In a fit of spontaneaity, I turned the car up into the foothills close to where we live. Up to the crest of one of the more prominent ones we went. Once we reached a good vantage point, I pulled the car into the shoulder, flicked on the emergency flashers, and popped the tailgate so we could climb into the back and watch the sun set.

Fantastic. Goodnight internet.

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my applesauce

Who got da Motts?Hey there internet, what’s brewin’ with you?  Me, who knows? … who could ever know…

If you guys picked up page A1 of a newspaper this morning… you’re probably over fifty.  If you instead read an aggregate of socially-upvoted AP headlines via an RSS reader on your iPhone, you likely came across a story that broke last yesterday: the Cash for Clunkers program might be busted; flat broke.  That’s right… a week into the program and the rumor is that the Fed is going to pull the plug because they’re afraid the backlog of already-done deals might burn through the remaining funds and then some.

Personally, I agree with some of the bloggers (and others who are in the know) who think this may just be a tactic to secure continued funding for the program.  Perhaps a legitimate tactic, in that the program may really be going like gangbusters, but a well-placed PR type of tactic to show 1) how well the program is actually stimulating the industry and 2) make a plea for additional money and facilitate additional stimulus – hey, who doesn’t like more stimulus?

Seems we did our part; thanks for the stimulus, Americans.

Hey let’s switch gears…

Remember a while back when Michael Jackson died?  Oh, what’s that?  You can’t not remember because the story still dominates the news, even though there are tons of other real newsworthy stories we could be discussing?  Well, either way…. Michael Jackson did die a while back now.  And, when that happened, the radio stations went MJ crazy.  Remember now?  Yup, they played Jackson’s stuff (which, by the way, was pretty dang brilliant pre-’87) wall-to-wall.  Michael was on every station, filling every minute of every hour.  No, I’m not writing to bag on this adoration – I think it was fairly appropriate given the man’s status.  I’m writing to tell a story that all the MJ hooplah made possible.

See, during the MJ marathon, Keaton became quite familiarized with the King of Pop’s better numbers.  I mean, who wasn’t struck by a bit of nostalgia and didn’t play some of their own favorites in memorial?  Me, I rocked some of the better numbers that I think he ever did for a day or so, just to kinda fit in with the nation or something.  Sharaun, too, got her dosage via her radio habit.  So, through our couple Jackson-drenched days, Keaton learned his stuff fast.  In fact, during those days it was not uncommon to hear her singing snatches like, “… ♫ the pain is thunder! ♫ …” or “♫ pretty young thing ♫ …”  It’s amazing how fast kids can pick up on things when they’re indoctrinated for hours a day, y’know?

Anyway, Keaton’s quickly established her favorite song as Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Something,” a track written in 1978 and intended for inclusion on 1979’s Off the Wall album but instead released on 1982’s seminal Thriller.  She was drawn to the gibberish style ending, where Jackson repeats a nonsense phrase that I’ve always sung as something close to “Mama-say, mama-saw, m-ma-coo-saw.”  (Wikipedia says I’m not far off from what he’s actually saying, either.)  Anyway, what Keaton hears and sings is different in one key way.

In what I deem one of the cutest three-year-old misheard lyrics ever, she sings “Mama-say, mama-saw, my applesauce.”  I absolutely love this; what a brilliant interpretation from within the context of a three-year old mind.  I mean, surely he’s saying “applesauce” right, no other word in the three-year-old vocabulary sounds anything like that…

Well, not only did Keaton have her own interpretation, she apparently tied that interpreted phrase to the artist singing the song.  In other words, she thinks Michael Jackson’s name is Mamasaymamasawmyapplesauce.  Yup, all one word like that… that’s his name.  To the point where when she hears any track that’s a Jackson track, she says, “Hey Mom!  It’s Mamasaymamasawmyapplesauce!”

At some point, Sharaun must have told Keaton that Michael Jackson passed away.  Those were her words, I’m certain.  Probably something like, “Did you know the singer of this song passed away?”  Well, maybe something like that… but one thing’s for sure: Keaton remembered that the guy who sings mamasaymamasawmyapplesauce “passed away.”  It’s not likely she even knows what “passed away” is, but it sure is hilarious to hear her say, whenever a Jackson track comes on the radio, “Hey Mom… did Mamasaymamasawmyapplesauce really pass away, or are you just joking?!”

Yes babe, Mamasaymamasawmyapplesauce really did pass away…

Goodnight internet.

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surgery

This I'm OK losing...Halfway through another week.  At work, we refer to this as “workweek thirty-one.”  Not sure about you guys, but all I can think about when I see that number is the fact that, somehow, we’ve made it more than halfway through the year of Our Lord two-thousand and nine.  Think about that; more than halfway.  It boggles.

Today I had a small cyst removed from my left leg.  I’ve had this thing since high school (when it was much smaller, about the size of a BB),  but in the last five years it’s grown a little too large for my comfort.  So, after talking to one reluctant surgeon (why remove it if it’s not causing me pain or suffering?) I found one who was willing (you wanna get cut?, OK) and went in today for the super-fast super-easy procedure.  The only thing is, with me, anything involving my own blood or “fleshwork” is always a trial.  Why?  Because, as manly as I consider myself to be… when I’m personally involved in the gore, it’s almost a sure bet I’m going to want to faint.

No joke.  It’s happened almost as often as I’ve been exposed to personal carnage, however controlled the environment.  It happened when I had an ingrown toenail cut out as a teenager; they had to go old-school that time and break out the smelling salts to bring me back out of the ether.  It happened when I split my head open diving into a too-shallow springs.  It even happens, to a much lesser degree, anytime I have to give blood (I can feel the symptoms coming on, but they never fully manifest).  Here’s how it goes down: First, I begin feel a bit “off,” disconnected.  Next, I begin sweating; just a sheen of perspiration to start but soon enough turning into full torrents of gym-worthy sweat.  Finally, I can actually feel the blood draining from my head and face – to the point where I eventually realize: “Uh-oh, this ain’t gonna end good unless I lie down fast.”

Anyway, I’m familiar enough with my reaction in these situations that I now warn the doctors in advance that I’m a lightweight.  Universally, they seem to appreciate the heads-up.  Today, the doc smiled and said, “Yeah, a typical man.  Males have a much harder time with it than do women, for whatever reason.”  Humph.

In the end though, I bravely maintained consciousness (mostly by choosing to not even watch the procedure, lest I see any messiness and completely lose it).  And, after about fifteen minutes of sweating and metered breathing while I felt my skin being tugged and heard tissue being snipped with scissors – it was all over.  I had to recline fully on the little doctor’s table and concentrate on not passing out.  I tried singing a song in my head to take my mind (and ears) of the hacking and snipping that was going on in my filleted leg.

OK, so I’m a wimp.  I just can’t handle it.  Goodnight.