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fire drill

Making pizza.Tonight (Sunday as I write).

Sitting down to dinner, altho it’s a misnomer of sorts this time as Sharaun has decided to do breakfast for dinner.

Sometimes I think I’m the only person on Earth who doesn’t particularly care for breakfast for dinner.  I think it’s because breakfast food tends to skew sweet (especially when my wife’s at the stove), and I’m just not a sweet person.  But even for eggs and sausage and potatoes and the other lovely breakfast like, I just prefer to have it at the temporally-appointed time.  I know, it’s arbitrary…

I’m done with my eggs and sausage and waffle (light syrup, turkey masquerading as hog, and no cheddar in the scramble… the wife is on some New Year’s calorie-kick and I’m along for the ride or on my own for eats – so squarely the former).  We sit and chat, the three of us.  We’ve just returned from an “open house” kinda thing at the nearby home of some folks from our church; some Sunday evening “connections” thing.  Was fun.  We talk about it and then…

“Mommy, I peed.”

“What?”

“I peed.”

I hear the trickle turn into splats on the tile below her highchair (she still eats in it because it’s just easier on us for her to have her own little appointed spot; I expect the “big girl” in her to one day soon revolt). To look at her face you’d have no idea.  She continues to eat, presumably done peeing or simply multi-tasking.  The drip-drip-drip slows and I can see the lights above our dining room table reflected in puddle on the floor below.

Fire drill.

Accidents don’t happen that often anymore, but they don’t not happen at all, so I’m still forgiving of the learning process.  The response team jumps into action: Sharaun grabs the girl and lifts her so her pants drain – it’s gonna be on the floor and chair anyway.  When she’s dripped-out, she’s removed from the scene and I swoop in for my part.  Removing the pad she sits on, I fold it in half and try to keep as much from dripping as I can before moving it outside. I follow with the highchair itself.

Outside is key; I put the chair in the grass in the dark.  Turn on the hose (it’s cold out here and I’m still in my socks) and give the thing a good spraying.  The pad goes back to Sharaun who’s already got Keaton stripped and in the tub.  Clothes and pad go into the washing machine.  Back in the kitchen I sacrifice a clean dishtowel to sop up the mess.  Once cleaned, pull the Lysol wipes from under the sink (thank you my Lord and Saviour above for Lysol wipes – your creation continues to amaze me).  Three or four passes later I’m satisfied that the general area is clean.

The wet dish towel goes into the wash and I hit the button. I dry off the highchair and pull it back inside.  Keaton’s playing now, Sharaun already got her clean – she’s making “Chichen Itza Pizza,” ala Backyardigans (don’t it eat if she offers though, it’s really just the pink washcloth with some invisible/pretend pepperoni on there).  I finish off the dishes, kick off the dishwasher, and wipe down the table and counters.

All told, we’re back to normal with, at most, a 10min delay.  Pretty good, if I do say so myself.  All those drills we ran before kids really paid off.  Pee at dinner in the highchair: Not a worry, we got it locked.

Goodnight.

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oh but i was young!

Bgawck.Hi.  Happy Friday.

Got one question on the “meaning behind” yesterday’s blog. No meaning, just random. An exercise to write in-character, something I wish I did more of as a creative thing… rather than the “I had this for dinner; Keaton said this” stuff. Sorry to throw you off, and I promise I’m not a misogynistic cocaine dealer.

Did you guys know that when I got married we hired a professional DJ for the reception? Well, we did. As part of our arrangements with the guy before the event, he gave us some printed song lists and preference sheets. A great idea I thought, as a music-nut. Along with the standard things any wedding DJ might ask, such as desired songs for featured dances, our DJ asked if there were any particular songs we’d prefer not be played at our reception. For this I was grateful, as I’d already gotten the “OK” from Sharaun to outlaw a few choice numbers from the event. On my list were such wedding staples as “The Chicken Dance,” “Macarena,” and “YMCA.” I can see how this might surprise some, being so uncompromising about what might be called the “sure things” of the all-inclusive dance-party circuit. It’s what I wanted.

Oh but I was young!, and have since learned.

As much as I did, and still do, loathe those songs, I realize now that, for the sake of participation on the dancefloor, such musical atrocities must be tolerated. Because, although it’s trite as all get-out, people will get out of their seat and do the Electric Slide. Back in my youth, though, I was above such things. No one at my wedding would be throwing their hands in the air to Isley Brothers if I could help it. We would instead dance to a masterful selection of “good” songs, and not be bothered. I knew “It Takes Two” can pack them tight on the floor, and that dads really only dance with their girls when it’s the chicken dance, but I didn’t care. What a pompous self-indulgent attitude. Sorry wedding guests, I have only myself to blame.

In the end, our massive tool of a “professional” DJ played nearly every single song we’d asked him not to. Perhaps he took professional liberty in order to save a wilted party (when my friends found out there was no alcohol, they simply left with a handshake and well-wishes), or perhaps he was just an idiot. I’ll never know. But, the tables emptied for “The Chicken Dance,” and the Ys and Ms and Cs and As had the place on its feet. So, maybe I owe the tool a “thanks.”

Thanks “tool.”

Have a good weekend friends.  Ours is all kids: babysitting and baby-birthdays.  Wish us luck. Goodnight.

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thanks for the pancakes

Much more of this and I might.I try to explain: When I take a call, I have to bring the rock. My customers come first. Women don’t understand this.

Fight after fight after fight, woman after woman after woman, and none can appreciate my level of commitment to the game.

It’s not that hard, at least to me: Dude calls needing a fix, I answer, tell dude I got his fix, dude and me meet and I get paid. If it was any simpler, I’d be out of a job and you could get rocks from a vending machine at the corner store. Anyway, with the pot of gold at the end of it all you’d think a woman wouldn’t care about the means (women like money, mostly a man’s money).

Simple job yes; easy to be good at it no. For my part, I bring people skills, finesse, character. Dudes don’t buy from me just because I’m holding, dudes buy from me because they want in on my action, want to be around me, know me.

And I know them.

Broke, hungry, tired, and willing to ignore it all for my junk. It’s the cycle: Trading junk for money and money for junk; taking significant losses with each exchange. So they come to me with crumpled money and crumpled spirits and I give them a toothy smile and a baggie that’ll send them over the moon for a while, maybe help them forget why they traded the junk for the junk in the first place. They’ll come back.  I got a record, I get repeat customers. My rock is the same as any rock on the street, but with my rock you get my record of service, my smile, my lighter if you need a light.

I have a reputation to maintain, how do you think we pay rent? I’m not the top and I’m not looking for the top, dudes know that and feel comfortable with me. They keep coming, they tell friends, they put my name in their favorite songs and sing funny lyrics about me and the rock they buy from me. I’m their connection to what they need so I need to be there when they need me to be there. Money doesn’t come on your terms, comes on money’s term.

Just cut me a break OK? I’m gonna run out, move this rock, and be right back to clean up the dishes. You just keep turning out the flapjacks, put them on a plate in a stack, and put another plate over them to keep them warm so my butter still melts when I’m back. You can’t be mad, I’ll come back with at least $20, more than you’ll take standing here my old boxers and t-shirt making pancakes… right? Yeah, I know it’s right.

So look: When I take a call, I have to bring the rock. You want me to say it again?

When I take a call, I have to bring the rock.

Thanks for the pancakes.

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give in to the nighttime

Snowballing, curtailed.A good Wednesday to you, internet.  Hope this day finds you well.

Work was a whirlwind again.  I’ve had a pea under my mattress ever since coming back, and have been finding myself uncharacteristically blunt and matter-of-fact in my communication.  Surprisingly, this has resulted in oiling some rusty gears back into motion on things I’d been struggling with for months.  In fact, I feel like the snowball I’ve been pushing idly around on flat ground finally tipped and is headed downhill without me.  Now to hope I aimed it right.

Right now Keaton is yelling from the confines of her (locked) room.  This has become an unfortunate bedtime happening.  For about a week or so now, the process of falling asleep has turned into a prolonged one-sided battle on her part.  In protest, she’ll scream “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” or “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! (whomever didn’t put her down), knock on the door, turn on her light, cry, scream – whatever.  Last night this went on for over an hour.  So far, our strategy has been to just let her have it out… to not intervene… which eventually works.  But man, it sure would be easier if she’d just rest her pretty head and give in to the nighttime.

Changing subjects before I split.

Today saw the official release of Animal Collective’s new record, Merriweather Post Pavilion.  As expected, the music-review community has all befouled their Jockeys.  Rather than write about the phenomenon here, I’ll just link to Stereogum’s article on the whole deal, which is sensationally entitled, “Is Merriweather Post Pavilion the Best Album of 2009?”  Good for some introduction to the hype around the album… and the comments offer a chuckle here and there too.  Unfortunately, you won’t find MPP (as the internet calls it) at your local wax-shop until the 20th when the actual CD drops (vinyl and digital only for today).  In the meantime, I’m sure you can find it if you look hard enough…

I’m taking off my friends.  Goodnight.

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lamentations

Give it a rest. Before we start (or maybe I should do it at the end, I’m not sure), you can take some time to check out the pictures page – I finally managed to update Keaton’s gallery and bring it current, shamefully having to go all the way back to October to get it done.  So, amble on over there (you can amble with a mouse, right?) and take a look… I’ll wait.  K?  K.

I know… it’s been a while.  Good to finally have some present-day Keaton representation.

Got home from work today and Sharaun said she couldn’t get the bread cooked because the oven wouldn’t get hot.  Hmmm… interesting.  I popped the hood and poked around like I knew what I was doing… looking for a pilot light or something easy.  No pilot light, no obvious “shutoff” switch that may have been tripped somewhere, and the gas burners still lit up and worked fine (yeah, that crossed my mind too).  Sitting there, still dressed in kahkis, brown shoes, and my work sweater… I Googled for some assistance.  Manual says there’s a oven shutoff, hidden deep under the stovetop.  I find it, cut my hand in several places trying to squeeze my fingers around it… but it’s not off, it’s on like it should be.

Calling the number tomorrow, stupid oven is broken.  Worked yesterday; busted today.

Sometime near the end of 2008, the subwoofer in my truck blew. Now, from the rear of the vehicle, any significant bass note manifests not as a deep smooth baritone but rather a rattling paper fart. I hate it, and the loss of the low-end has made the rest of the vehicle sound like a tinny prison where harsh treble tones stab and scrape the ears and make everything sound just awful. It’s amazing how much the bottom-end brings to music (I know, it all works together). I’ve always said that the most important aspect of my vehicle (aside from getting me from point A to point B) is the audio. May sound stupid, but I really do enjoy the music time I get while in the car – so sounding good (especially at loud volumes) is of utmost importance.

[audio:bustedbass.mp3]
Crappy bass sounds crappy.

Looking for used ’97 Explorer woofers on eBay, stupid bass is broken.  Worked last year; broken today.

Work today was a reminder that I’d been “off” for a couple weeks.  So much to do, so much left undone.  I got in before 8am and left after 6pm.  To be fair, the dread over going back turned into motivation to get things back to normal; to solve those problems that had been lingering; to get into some sort of normal, expected rhythm.  I managed… but I’d still rather win the lottery.

That’s it.  Goodnight.  Love you.

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inclusion

Just grant me this..

Welcome to 2009, readers.

New Years Eve day was another (nice!) slow one around the homestead.  Sharaun and I cleaned up a little more of the leftover Christmas mess (and foodstuffs lingering in the fridge, in my case).  Keaton got a deluxe edition DVD of Mary Poppins from our next-door neighbors, and, surprisingly, ate up the film (all that singing and dancing, she’s just a sucker for it); so we watched that in the morning.  The place was looking tip-top (as tip-top as our place tends to realistically get) long before noon.  And yes, I am shooting for most use of parenthetical notation in a single paragraph (get it?).

Right now I feel like I haven’t been to work in ages.  Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised to see my shoulders visibly sag were I looking in the mirror as the thought of going back this coming Monday enters my head.  To be clear, it’s not that I’m dreading it, but it seems I’ve been taken by the strangest “bug” lately… this insanely strong inclination to cling to family.

Thus the time spent here at home with Keaton and Sharaun, the week my folks visited over Christmas, and even going back to the nice long jaunt we took to Florida to visit Sharaun’s family back around Thanksgiving: All these things have created a snowball of emotion inside me… an almost physical urge to “family up.”

And, to mention this new desire within me without also mentioning my newfound desire to better integrate “church” (used here, I think, as a generic word for religion, introspect, tradition, spirituality, closeness, etc.) into my family would be impossible (the expressed concept of “ownership” of what is truly our family is actually intentional here). I know that may sound odd, or maybe random and untied to the whole “family” concept I mention above… but in my head lately they are tied so tightly together that I have to finish the thought here.

I’ve typed and typed (and deleted and deleted) about this family/church concept over the past couple weeks, but find I’m still not ready to put what I’m talking about into words… so I’m going to leave it (for now) with this (admittedly lacking) summary: At some point recently, I’ve “decided” that the things which are most important in life are those which, as a father and husband, I should be working to surround myself and my immediate family (Sharaun and Keaton) with.  Chief among those things, I’ve decided, are our relationships with extended family and our sense of “church.”

Right now, I can’t explain why this doesn’t mean we’re going ultra-religious (or scary-religious, however it strikes you), but it doesn’t.  It may read that way (so be it).  I think, basically, it means I want to spend more time with my family as a family, connected spiritually together through a common set of belief and faith (if that makes sense).  And, among other traditions and experiences, I want us to, together, enjoy and share this “church” thing I’m on about.

What it means… practically… I’m not 100% sure.  And, it may not even be blog stuff (there’s plenty of stuff that doesn’t make the blog, and it tends to be the more personal… so this might qualify for that exclusion… who knows).  I do feel better, however, for writing about it finally… and while the explanation is poor (by my own judgment), perhaps it’ll help cement, for me, what I’m even feeling – and maybe put some action around the concept.

I don’t know guys, I just don’t.  I do feel, though… so that’s something.  So hey, don’t read this and assume I’m making drastic wholesale changes.  But, then again, I guess don’t assume I’m not.  Realistically, I’m in early concept-phase here… so it’s a wonder I even put this much around the idea.  OK?

To lighten the mood before I go, here’s Keaton and I dancing to “Brothersport.”  (And, for real, you need to get this new Animal Collective album…)

[flv:https://blog.pharaohweb.com/video/mpp2.flv 320 240]

Goodnight.

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our white day

Trip to the snow.Tuesday and I took the day off (or something…) to take Keaton to the snow with her friend Matthew.

Matthew’s dad arrived shortly before 9am and we set off to the local “waffle” prefixed breakfast joint (y’know, the ones with the cat-head biscuits).  Ordered me a meat++ omelet ripe with fatty jalapenos and cheese and all kinds of sausages that had all kinds of different names.  Whomped that on down in sequential bites comprised of equal parts omelet and “homestyle” potatos.  Keaton and Matthew split a ham and eggs plate, and left their hasbrowns untouched (blasphemers).

We were on the road up the hill just after 10am.  Up a winding mountain road, we found the perfect patch of as-yet untouched-by-humans snow just before noon (had to stop for a couple kiddie potty breaks and to separate the car seats to prevent hair pulling and ear-poking).

The snow sat in thick drifts, but the sun was out and the weather was don’t-need-a-jacket warm.  Kevin (Matthew’s dad) and I ventured out into the snowfield first to see how deep it was.  My first steps and I was in to the knee.  Laboring, step-aerobics style, I lifted my foot to take another – and ended up just as deep.  We test-dropped Matthew onto the surface: guess being 15% of my weight is an advantage in deep snow – he and Keaton just dropped in a couple (manageable, as far as locomotion is concerned) inches.

Keaton whined for me to carry her for the first five minutes (that child is, through and through, one-thousand percent girl, being innately scared of everything).  After some time though, she was tromping off faster than knee-deep Daddy could follow along – quite independent.  Before long she was eating snow and peppering me with the balled-up stuff, like any good kid in the snow should their dad.

We dug holes; we built a sorry, sorry snowman (the snow wasn’t wet enough to hold shape); we pushed the kids once or twice in the saucer-sleds before they let us know they hated that; we ate white snow like ice cream; we had adult races to see who could move the quickest with each foot sunk in snow (I lost, face-down freezing-hands style).

For me, it was a Dad’s day with his daughter – and I loved it more than words can tell you about.  Here are a couple pictures, maybe they will help explain:

Gosh, those weren’t that good at all; and I look straight bald in one of them.  But, that’s it.

I didn’t even intend to write, but I had this in my head and the new Animal Collective album played loud (Sharaun’s out, Keaton’s asleep, and it’s my roost to rule for the time being) shook it loose onto the internet.

Love you, goodnight.