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alternating fits of tears and rage


Hi Wednesday, it’s me here again… writing… again… about… stuff… again.

Tonight, Sharaun had a volleyball game and I stayed home with Keaton. I decided to make banana bread for some reason, maybe to finally get rid of those blackish bananas frozen solid and strewn about the freezer shelves. When I set it to bake, Keaton and I walked down to the mailbox (remote communal mailboxes are all the rage in new California developments, further promoting the laziness of USPS workers).

I was barefoot, and she had on one sock. She shouted at the neighbors finishing up their lawn work as I pulled her past in the wagon, “I’m riding in a wagon and going to get the mail!” “Sounds fun!,” they’d wave back. I occurred to me then, barefoot and pulling my daughter behind me in a wagon while my banana bread baked at home… I’m a straight-up woman. I’m just glad it wasn’t my time of the month, or the realization might have had me in alternating fits of tears and rage right there on the sidewalk. Sheesh.

But, coming back to reality… I’m sitting here on the couch (where I always sit), with my laptop on my lap (where it always is), typing, web-surfing, and listening to music (like I always do). Right now some Most Serene Republic has shuffled up on the iPod, and the scatterstep popcorn beat has me giddy. I seriously love this band, and their albums have really stood the test of time (can you call less than five years “time?”) for me.

On the new music tip, my primo-2008 playlist thus far consists of two measly albums. First, recently SNL-broken Vampire Weekend‘s debut, next, and finally, Cloud Cult‘s Feel Good Ghosts (Tea-Partying Through Tornadoes), which I think comes out in April sometime. Looking forward, I’m anxiously awaiting leaks from The Unicorns, The Hold Steady, Sufjan Stevens, Of Montreal, and the Postal Service. Sounds like it could be a rad 2008, huh?

Changing subjects now, and bear with me on this one… it’s kinda odd.

Oftentimes, when I eat, I have some sort of sinus-based reaction. Back in my younger days, I can remember my mother referring to a family “curse” which was supposedly to blame for members of her bloodline going into sneezing fits shortly after meals. But, while the mixture of my father’s lineage seems to have spared me from that curse, I do seem to suffer from some milder form. See, when I eat, my nose sometimes decides to run. I know this is common with particularly spicy food, but for me it also tends to happen with regular, run-of-the-mill, meals too. It’s not like it comes in torrents or anything, more like an annoyance. Nevertheless, it causes me to reach for the nearest napkin to stem the tide.

The reason I’m writing about this here, honestly, is to criticize myself. Because, usually, the napkin I end up grabbing to swab my schnoz is the same napkin I’m using to dab my mouth between bites. I find this personally disgusting, but the reality is that I usually don’t even notice I’m doing it until I’ve already done it. At which point I immediate grab another napkin and dedicate it to either nose or mouth usage, trying to place one on either side of my plate for easy differentiation. When I catch myself doing this, I often wonder if my tablemates have also noticed… and what they must think. To those who sup with me regularly, I’m sorry – I’m working on it.

And with that, I believe it’s time to bid you all adieu, for I have nothing more to say (hard to imagine, right?). Time to put the laptop away until I do it all over again tomorrow. Love you all, goodnight.

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panic, scatter, a complete halt


Heeyyyy guys. How’s it going? Me, OK.

Monday, and an important one at that: The first day I’ve worn shorts to work since the cold and rain came so many months ago. I know that, here in California, we don’t have Winter that bad at all, but the temperatures still dip enough to make me want jeans… and that’s no small feat, since I generally hate wearing jeans. So, today, with the forecast actually calling for less sun than we had over the glorious weekend, I pulled on a pair of my favorite shortpants (olive green cargo style, probably went out of fashion a year ago, if they were ever in at all). I always feel a little unprofessional the first week or so when I make that Springtime transition from jeans to shorts. I can’t help it, really.

Problem is, my sawmill likes to think of me as some kind of lower-level management (I dunno, they just asked me one day if I wanted to be a manager… and I figured I did, so I did), and, in my mind, shorts just don’t fit the position. It’s an internal struggle, to be sure, so much so that it’s one I’ve had out publicly here before. I just feel like I should probably dress the part more, but my years sweating through humid Florida summers ingrained in me the virtues of shorts and flip-flops. So, I concede the flip-flops and get to feel at least a little more professional. It’s the best I can do, work… the best I can do. Don’t ask me for much more, ’cause I’m ridin’ that line pretty tight right now as it is.

Speaking of work… we’re coming’ up some some travel here soon, first off to Oregon for a quick working daytrip, then across the country to South Carolina for a couple more days work, and finally to Mexico for a weeklong family vacation (psst, the last one is the one I’m most excited about… in case you hadn’t guessed). Then, once back, it’ll be time to make a trip to China and Taiwan again, looking like a two-week run. And, I swear people, I am going to find a way back to Germany for Oktoberfest again this year… I’m bound and determined to make that a yearly pilgrimage. In fact, one of the 2007 alum sent out an e-mail blast today in attempt to rally the troops… and my mouth starting watering for that fresh Bavarian bier as I sat in my cube reading it. I just gotta get back.

Speaking of speaking of work… today around 4:45pm the place went “dark.” Not dark like literally dark, the lights still worked, but what didn’t was the phone and and network. The whole place, thousands of employees who sit in cubicles, each one of them either on a conference-call style meeting on the phone, or working on e-mail off the network. When the lines were cut, we were all blowing in the breeze. People began to stand up at their desks, rubbing bleary eyes as they flinch at the natural light, prairie-dogging over their cube walls to peer around the floor at what others were doing. “Your phone go down?,” you’d hear. “Yeah, yours too?,” would come the reply. “It’s the whole site, the whole thing is down,” someone chimed in. More heads appear, bones creaking as folks rose, muscles unused for hours working off memory and instinct.

Soon, people began to walk the aisles in search of other humans, almost like a renaissance of cognition. We gathered in small clusters, making humming sounds in our throats to comfort each other, banging on hard surfaces to make primitive rhythms, cracking knuckles as we waited for the familiar “pings” of new e-mails to chime in the distance, for the phones to ring. “What do we do?,” some asked? “I can’t be expected to do work with my hands, for God’s sake,” others lamented… peering at the skin on their baby-smooth fingers, hilariously useless for anything save typing. We called other sites on cellphones, Oregon first: “You guys have phone and internet up there? Oh… you do? OK… Well, we’re totally down here. Yeah. Dead. We have nothing.” Some called across the state, others called their families, still some their therapists.

And, thus began the exodus. I waited for nearly a minute in the right-turn lane to leave the parking lot, everyone filing past in their automobiles, looks of confusion and muted happiness on their faces as they drove – their faces gratefully buried into cellphones, once again suckling from the comfortable teat of technology. Having never worked a day in my life without e-mail or internet, it’s hard for me to imagine how it happened back in the day. People must’ve written with pens and pencils, talked in person in around tables in meeting rooms, licked stamps, read memos – something. Today, you cut the wire and it’s like you kicked the anthill of the modern worker. Panic, scatter, a complete halt.

Was a good day, I enjoyed the collapse of technology. Goodnight.

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keaton had a party


Hey guys, welcome to “workweek eleven,” as we call it at my sawmill. It’s gonna seem quite the ramble today, as I wrote it in snatches over the weekend. I tried to arrange things the best I could, and put stuff that could potentially be related together… hope that’s OK with you. The practical side of me thought I should split this up into two entries, guaranteeing Tuesday night in the process – but, I didn’t do it. Enjoy.

Saturday morning I headed over to Pat’s place bright and early to lend a hand with some manual labor (you know, as all good friends tend to do from time to time). After a good morning’s worth of work, I hopped into the Ford to head home. With the sunshine soaked into my bones from the work outside, I was feeling one of those good-weather highs and I rolled down the windows and opened the sunroof as I cranked the tunes. As I drove through the neighborhood, the early great weather we’ve been having prior to the “official” change of season was openly apparent in the populous: Men were out tending their keeps with lawnmowers and edgers and blowers, children were jumping rope and riding bikes in driveways, and the mechanically inclined were propped on elbows next to motorcycles or disappeared up to their ankles under vehicles. The buzz of two-stroke engines and the collective yelps of children swelled together with my music to make it a defining moment for me: My own personal arrival of Spring. I’m ready for summer and all its dry, hot, baking heat. I want to go camping, swimming, and on bring buckets of chicken to parks. I want to drink beer and eat meat. I want to sweat in the yard and fall asleep in the hammock. C’mon Summer… we’re waiting.

I know you guys hate it when I write about my iPod, but I just wanted to share real quick how my whole iPod use-model has changed. Ever since I got the new mega-size 160GB iPod Classic some time ago, I’ve slowly been working on assembling the “ultimate” collection of music on it – my personal musical canon (at this point in time), if you will. Now, previously, my iPod was always smaller than my collection – meaning what went on the iPod had to be a carefully chosen subset of of greater collection on hard disk. Now, however, it seems like I can just keep adding and adding tunes to this beast, and it’ll just continue to swallow them up like a black hole. This phenomenon is so pronounced, in fact, that I’m beginning to reach a critical transition in iPod use: the day when my iPod and my hard disk collection are one in the same (i.e. the iPod can contain everything I have). As a matter of fact, I’m close to this point already.

Lately I’ve been plugging in the iPod and just paging through my collection looking for music to add. With the humungous size of the thing, I often find myself thinking things like, “Every single Roxy Music album through Avalon?, sure, why the heck not?” I’ve picked over my collection so much, actually, that what’s going on the iPod is driving a general “cleanup” of music in the main collection. I mean, if it’s not good enough to put on the iPod, why do I even have it at all? I see this whole thing converging around a single, amazingly complete collection. And, since Apple seems to be increasing the size of the ‘Pods at a good clip – hopefully my iPod will grow as my collection does. OK, that’s enough music stuff.

Or… is it? I promise it’s different from the nerdy kinda music talk, it’s just setup.

A thought struck me the other night: I simply don’t have enough classic Motown records on my iPod. Now, Stax is fairly well represented, but the thought of going through Summer without those classic Gordy A-Sides shuffling up was enough to make me cry. I have one Motown Records “best of” from the classic “Hitsville USA” period in my collection, but even it seemed lacking – since the Detroit output at the time was like a pipeline of #1 records. So, I got online and went to may favorite 100% pay-for-music place and acquired a collection called 100 Motown Classics, which contains, well… one-hundred Motown classics. I dropped it on the iPod early Sunday morning and waited with anticipation for a good time to indulge.

So that’s how a Sunday evening found Keaton and I dancing around the living room to an endless run of Motown classics, like something you’d see in a one of those movies chicks dig so much. You know, that done and overdone ubiquitous scene where a bunch of women dance around to an old-time rock ‘n’ roll record? Yeah… you know the scene I’m talking about – it usually happens in a kitchen, and nine times out of ten words will be mouthed into a wooden spoon. ‘Cept we were in the living room, and there were no wooden-spoon ersatz microphones, and she doesn’t really know any of the words. Still, it was fun.

After we’d danced ourselves out, we played with the loot she got from her birthday party that same day. I know, her real birthday was weeks ago – but we had to cancel and reschedule her party because she got sick when she and Sharaun were in Florida. So, today we met a bunch of her (and our) friends up at the kid-gym place for an hour running around on mats, somersaulting, balance-beaming, and all sorts of other Dad’s-gonna-end-up-out-of-breath -ing verbs. We actually had a great time, owed in no small part to the brevity of the whole thing. Putting an hour-and-a-half limit on it really helped, in my opinion, to keep it short and sweet – without being overlong for grown-ups and kids. And, Keaton took home quite a haul.

I’m mostly looking forward to playing with some of the water toys she got once the weather warms up, and am particularly excited about the junior-gardener set she got – including yellow, red, and green polkadot-ladybug bucket, spade, claw, and little matching gloves. I mean, even though I’m like 100% bull-male, I do enjoy rooting around in the garden – and it’ll be fun to have her out there in the dirt with me. She also got a Mrs. Potato Head, which I think is awesome. Although, Mr. Potato Head didn’t bother showing up… likely out at the Root Cellar again, watching those slutty college spuds peel themselves to pay their way through college or something… Meanwhile Mrs. Potato Head has to make due on the government disability she gets for having an ear where her mouth should be and a tongue sticking out from the top of her head (she really is a sight). Sad toys, really.

Keeping with the Keaton theme today…

You guys may remember (or not, I won’t be offended) I posted a while back about a somewhat disturbing new development on the Keaton front – when she surprised us by coming down with a stuttering “thing” rather out of the blue. Well, turns out it must’ve been quite the transient phase, because no more than a week or two later it’s now almost completely gone. Strange, maybe it was just a kick she was on… maybe she liked the sound of it. Guess we’ll never know, although I will say I’m glad it worked itself out and I don’t have to be “worried” about it anymore – even if it was secretly hilarious. Her speech, in fact, continues to impress me.

She’s currently spending a lot of energy making sure she gets her pronouns right. Each time she goes to say “he” or “she” or “his” or “her” or “your” or “my” or “I,” you can actually see her brain work overtime in an effort to get it right. Honestly, she impresses the crap out of me with the way she seems to figure things out, even to the point of correcting herself on-the-fly. Oftentimes, she’ll say something like, “Here daddy, I’m bringing his phone to you,” and then immediately correct herself by adding, “I’m bringing your phone to you.” Sharaun, of course, thinks she’s the smartest baby in the world, but I like to think that, as the dad, I’m a little more reserved in gushing over her language abilities (but I do my fare share of fawning behind the scenes). She is my little prodigy though, I’ll admit that. /Gloating.

OK, OK, that’s enough. Sorry it was so varied. Goodnight.

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a different kind of work


Happy Friday friends, relatives, and lurkers. Thanks for stopping by before the weekend. I managed to get a little bit of stuff typed out for you today, hopefully you’ll enjoy it.

All you guys and your photo-rich blogs, making photos the centerpiece of your writing, or forgoing writing completely for photos… you’re making me look bad. There was a time when I was uploading a new batch of pictures to Keaton’s gallery every Sunday night. Sometime, that slipped to every other week, then once a month, and has now settled into something like every month-and-a-half to two months. I think part of it is that we just simply don’t take the volume of snapshots we did in those first months, and the other part is likely my own laziness. Either way, I don’t expect it’ll change much… but, I did manage to get an update posted today, and you can check it out by hovering your pointy thing here and pressing the button on your mouse with your finger. OK, done looking? Let’s move on then.

I came home early today to work on the fence, work was light.

Oh, hey, that reminds me… did you guys know that, when you’re putting up a fence and you want to re-use the main between-posts sections from your old fence, it’s not a good idea to just assume that each section is the same is the rest? I mean, just because nine out of ten of your between-post sections are 91″ long, you better measure them all instead of just blindly setting all your posts, each in its own 100lbs of concrete, at 91″ apart. I’m just saying… it’s probably a good idea.

I mean, for instance, what if, for some ridiculously dumbass reason, the people who built your fence originally made 48 of your 50 between-post sections 91″ long, and, purely for the shit of it, made the other two sections 96″? What then? Know what? You’d be, like, 6″ off on your last post. Yeah, you totally would. Know what you’d have to do then? You’d have to cut down one section of fence, and somehow extend another. I’m not sure, but I bet that whole “extension” process would result in some pretty ghetto-lookin’ fencing when it was all said and done.

I mean, it’d probably be structurally sound and all… but, like I said, you should really measure each section you want to re-hang and then use those measurements to determine your between-post distances. Then, and only then, should you mark out where you want your posts and set them in concrete. Now, you can do whatever you want, you’re the boss here… I’m just sayin’.

Dunno if you guys managed to read my blog yesterday or not, but if not, I’ll give you a minute or two to scroll down and do so. Back yet? No? OK… Now? Good. Like almost all my entries, that one automatically posted at midnight last night. This morning, when I woke up and was getting ready for work, my BlackBerry made the “new personal e-mail” chime and I plopped down in front of the laptop to check it there.

Turns out an old friend from waaaay yonder back in high school had read the entry, sympathized with me (to the point of commenting), and decided help me out. In her mail, she attached some play money images she’d made, in what I can only assume were the few extra hours afforded to her by virtue of timezone differences. What’s so cool about them is that she actually cut and pasted Keaton’s happy mug right over the boring old dead presidents who normally grace our dosh. I just thought that was a totally cool thing to do.

Thanks again Maggie, Keaton’s gonna love her personalized money.

And with that, I’m outta here. Hope you have a good Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I know I plan to. Goodnight and goodweek.

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this pear is, beep!, $100


Hi late-night Wednesday people, or early-morning Thursday people if you’re technical. Oh, and hello Thursday morning people, you count too. I’m sitting here alone listening to music and writing. It’s what I do. Look out, here comes the blog…

Tonight I had a funny series of thoughts that I thought might be interesting to document as a way of exposing just how anal I can be at times.

Setting the scene: Sharaun’s off at a hair appointment and I’m down on the floor playing with Keaton. Currently, we’re playing a new game I’ve just invented: Grocery Store. I’m taking the little plastic fruits and vegetables out of her toy shopping basket one-by-one and waving them over a pretend scanner in the coffee table, of course making a “beep” of recognition each time an item is successfully scanned. As I ring up her items, I hand them to her in turn and she puts them in a bag. Suddenly, I get a brilliant idea: This game would be so much more fun if she had some pretend money to spend on each item. My brain races, the process outlined below summing up the progression:

Oh, I should get her a little wallet to hold the fake money in.
…
No, wait, girls have purses. Not wallets.
…
Oh, she totally has toy purses, several of them, in fact. I’ll go find one.

I tell Keaton to “hang on” as I set out in search of one of her play purses. Unfortunately, my efforts turn up nothing (despite the fact that I seem to be constantly tripping over things like toy purses on my lights-out nighttime walks to the bathroom). I instead find some small paper bag with string handles. What this bag could actually be for, I have no idea – it seems to be void of any function save serving as an utterly useless miniature replica of a larger and, antithetically, quite useful bag. I decide it might be good for holding money, and grab it in a hurry to get back to the living room before my daughter has lost all interest in our game of Grocery Store. On the way back, my mind drifts again:

Now I need some play money.
…
I could do quick green marker drawings on some printer paper and cut it up.
…
No, that’ll take too long… she’ll get bored before I’m done and my efforts will be wasted.
…
Monopoly. We have Monopoly. Monopoly has fake money in it.
…
I remember my brother and I used to play with that fake money all the time.

I make a hard right as my left leg clears the baby-gate blocking access to the hallway, heading for the coat closet near the door (which, interestingly, contains nary a coat… and is instead stuffed full with a vacuum cleaner, steam cleaner, and a shelf piled with our board game collection – a coat closet usage model borrowed wholly from the model my parents followed when I was growing up). All the while I’m thinking:

Do I really want to borrow money from the Monopoly game? I know that it’s probably just going to be abused and eventually lost. Then the Monopoly game will be missing money when we want to play it next.
…
C’mon, when is the last time we actually played Monopoly? In fact, have we ever played it?
…
But, the game will be missing money!

Against all my OCD urges, I grab the Monopoly box and open it up and… Horror of horrors! This is a brand new Monopoly set! My mind processes swiftly:

For crap’s sake, this money is still all wrapped up in cellophane! Each denomination containing the proper “virgin” amount of bills, each bill crisp and new and untouched!
…
I mean, if the thing was already well played-with and the corners of the twenties were bent and curled already… maybe I wouldn’t care so much, but I’m about to knowingly deprive future Monopoly games of hard cash. What will that future banker do?
…
What if that future banker is me? How will I live with the guilt? What if someone needs twenties? Will I have to do that novice crap-banker move where I buy them off other players for hundreds?!
…
But, Keaton… awww who the heck cares?

In the end, the above proceedings took all of a minute and I ended up having one of the most interactive playtimes I’ve had with Keaton in a long time. I sold fruit, she bough fruit; I sold vegetables, she bought vegetables. I beep-scanned them all, gave her change and even offered her friendly “good evenings” and “have a nice days,” as any cashier worth their salt would. Even though she did grossly overpay for an orange once, $500 is pretty dear for a fruit you know. I was honest though, and threw in a one-third scale plastic banana and a pressure-molded broccoli floret on the house.

Evaluating the impact to the integrity of a board game over the immediate joy of playing with my daughter… Those are the thought processes I’m up against, y’all… Lord in Heaven help me out once in a while.

Goodnight.

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wheating, or wheated, or whatever


Monday night. Two glasses of wine into the evening alone, and fresh off a late burst of cleaning to recline sweaty on the couch and tackle a blog for the day. Think I have it? I do. Let’s go.

Just last week, my frustrations with the state of my little postage-stamp of Northern California real estate had reached a pinnacle, and I was ready to pay hired labor to get things in order. On my list: fix the fence, do some landscaping to a small patch of front-yard land which has lain barren and weed-ridden for four years now, and re-plant the slope above our retaining wall in the backyard. I had become so fed up with it all that I actually began making phone calls and leaving voicemails requesting free estimates.

The Lord, however, deigned that this was not to be the road He’d have me take. No, instead, the work I reluctantly began on Saturday fixing the fence was meant to invigorate me anew, to stoke the coals within me and make me remember that, when somewhat motivated, my own hands work just as well as a paid laborers (albeit more slowly and less confidently). . The relative ease of the task has inspired me, and I’m once again motivated to do some work on my own behalf – starting with that landscaping in the front sideyeard. Time to order up some dirt and rocks (I still refuse to believe I actually pay for dirt and rocks) and get started. Maybe my house won’t be referred to be neighbors as “that blight on the corner” anymore… well, maybe.

Oh, I’ve been meaning to mention – my wheat finally started wheating, or wheated, or whatever. Yup. While I’d still be hesitant calling the experiment a smash success, at least I’ve got seedheads on a few stalks now. Seems they really did need the slightly warming weather and extra sun (which makes me wonder if I really did get “winter wheat” seed or not). But, with the thirty or so individual grains I should be able to harvest before I have to clear the soil for Spring planting, I figure I can make one heck of an oyster cracker or something. Maybe one really thin Wheat Thin? Eh, like I said when I started the whole thing, I can still just mill the seed I bought to plant in the first place – and I likely will do that as the base for this Spring’s attempt at a sourdough starter. It did make me happy though, that the thing wasn’t a complete failure (pretty close, but there’s still time for more seed to show I suppose).

Before I go, I wanted to pass along this awesome photo-essay (NSFW) I found linked from Fazed. Be warned, it’s very not safe for work – but I found it extremely… hard to stop looking at. As one commenter put it, “compelling and disturbing.” I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but I seriously found it brilliant, beautiful, and sad, in a I-am-human kinda way. Maybe bookmark and save for when you’re on your own internet dime… if you dare.

Chugga-chugga-ch-ch!! Goodnight!

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party’s over


Greetings from a sore-muscled Sunday evening… late evening, at that.

I attribute the sore muscles to the rather minuscule amount of manual labor I did over the weekend while working to repair the fence we lost in the storms over a month ago. Saturday, after my Spring-inaugural lawn mowing (first of the season), I tore down the four sections of fence hanging on busted posts. Erik and Pat stopped by for some assistance yanking those huge cement teeth out of the dirt, with some help from the Ford and a nylon tow-rope. Sunday I cleaned up the post-holes and set the new 4x4s (pressure treated this time, not like the cheap-out stuff the builders used) in cement, Sharaun helped hold the posts level while I cemented. And, while we still don’t have a fence at the moment, we’re on our way… sore muscles and all. Seems like I need to get a little bit more done with these muscles, their protests at such a tiny amount of work are fairly embarrassing.

Other than that, we had to cancel Keaton’s birthday party at the kiddie-gym place on Saturday because she’s sick. When I got home from work Friday (a little early, around 4:30pm) she was still down for her nap. The noise of the garage door and me coming in must’ve woke her, and she was babbling by the time I walked by her door. When I went in to get her she was just burning up, the thermometer showed 104°. We stripped her down and put her in a cool bath to try and make her a little more comfortable, and started the regimen of Tylenol she’s still on today. She kept the fever through the weekend, although never as high as that afternoon, and has a nasty cough, a horribly runny nose, and nice gooey eyes. Sharaun, having become quite good at armchair diagnoses, predicts the doctor will call it a double ear infection when she takes her in tomorrow. Poor little thing. Kids get sick a lot, it seems.

Getting right back on the horse-ishly though, Sharaun’s planning a do-over on the party for next Sunday, hopefully she can pull that off. And, we ended up having an OK evening anyway when some friends stopped by with their brood and I got to give the grill its first post-Winter workout (salmon and asparagus). So, despite the canceled party we ended up having an OK day, and since Keaton never really acts sick, even when she is, she appeared to have an OK time too.

Alas, I know, I’ve returned to the standard play-by-play, unable, for now, to get back to the weird-style phase of writing I went through last week. Maybe it was something about Sharaun and Keaton being gone… mind wandering and all… I’ll see what I can do, but only after tonight… because… for now…

I’m done. Goodnight friends and lovers, I love and friend you all.