Abitu Haiku

A bit too chilly?
That became a bit too hot
a bit too quickly.

Sleeping on it

Supposedly you're supposed to do some of your most creative thinking while sleeping. While that may be true, it certainly was not reflected by my draft of the post I was planning for today. Apparently, in the midst of my typing I drifted off to "creative thinking," for when I went to review what I had written thus far I saw this on my screen:

The weather lately has been incredible. Save for a storm front that blew through the area Tuesday night, it has been mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

(I'm paraphrasing, of course, for space purposes.)

The weird thing (is if there is ever only one weird thing in my life) is I was certain I had typed more of the legible stuff than that. This means that I had been dreaming that I was sitting at my computer typing.

Sitting? Typing? What kind of effed-up dream is that?!?

It was not that long ago that my dreams consisted of, well, the stuff that dreams are made of. And while it may be somewhat of a letdown waking up and realizing that I am not really visiting a tropical resort at the same time as the convention of billionaire nymphomaniac bikini models, once that disappointment fades there are still residual memories to relish.

Even a bad dream is good in its own way. Ever wake up startled, only to be suddenly quite relieved that a) you're still alive, 2) all of your toes are still attached, and c) you don't really drive a Pinto?

I've woken up startled, relaxed, afraid, relieved, inspired, ecstatic, angry, perplexed, determined, awed, aggravated, content, liberated, confined, motivated, de-motivated, excited, energetic, (ahem) relieved, devoted, dejected, enthused, laughing, crying, arguing, hungry, horny, hopeful, pessimistic, optimistic, antagonistic, proud, happy, confused, uncertain, certain, convinced, impressed, depressed, pressured, and serene. I've woken up unsure of the time, unsure of the day, unsure of the year, and unsure that I can make it to a restroom in time. Sometimes I've woken up filled with a deep sense of wow-I-sure-hope-nobody-ever-finds-out-that-I-thought-that!

Good or bad, those varied reactions to my nocturnal musings have had their effect on me. If nothing else, they've helped me feel more alive.

But just how alive am I supposed to feel when my dreams have withered to the point that the all I can come up with is me ... sitting at a computer ... typing?

Do tell me what wondrous climax awaits me in this oh-so-titilating fantasy world I created.

Perhaps, had I not woken up so early, there would have been something more substantial. I might have set myself upon some grand (albeit dorky) quest. If my writing was any clue, I might have been on my way to see those M&M guys. Perhaps it was to involve something tasty, like an bottomless bag of Cheezy Poofs.

Maybe I'm being too cynical about this whole thing. For all I know, by waking up, I may have missed out on my chance at enlightenment. I can see it all now ...

There I am, typing away at a Cheez-encrusted keyboard. The clicking and crunching sounds fuse together to form an angelic harmony. Then suddenly, as I reach into the bag, I realize that I hold in my hand the final Poof. My voracious snacking has led me to the ultimate triumph! I have reached the end of the endless supply of Cheezy-Poofs!

I place the final bite-size artificially-orange powdery morsel into my mouth and savor the Cheezy goodness.

And with that, I reach infinity. Transcendence is mine.

Before me appears a light unlike any light I have ever seen. It beckons me closer. I walk towards the heavenly glow and realize that it's the gateway to Nirvana. I pause long enough to take in the enormity of it all, then head through the existential portal.

It is only then that I realize that the infinite supply of Cheezy Poofs gave me an infinitely fat ass, which naturally gets itself wedged into the crappy little gateway.

I'm left at the edge of the universe, staring at Heaven and mooning everything else. There I wait, twiddling my tremendously pudgy thumbs and pondering what kind of idiot would make a gateway that small knowing that you have to eat a whole effing lot of food to get to it, until my alarm finally goes off and calls me back to reality.

Oh well. In retrospect, I guess it's better that I woke up when I did.

Memorable Moments

My son has come to my room a couple times in recent weeks complaining that he "couldn't sleep." Being the obvious problem-solver that I am, I pointed out the obvious - that somehow his TV and light managed to turn back after I last visited the room - and suggested that were I to remove the cables from the back of the TV (thereby making the Static Channel the only option) it might help induce a slumberous state.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, the true problem is not the problem that is brought up initially. And while I have been taking courses on Active Listening wherein I am learning how to better seek out the underlying concern behind outward behaviors, 10:30pm is not the time at which I would like to employ these measures.

Last night, my son approached me differently.

"Dad," he said.

"Yes?" I replied calmly (it was before bedtime - after bedtime the response is "WHAT?!?").

"When can I come and sleep in your room again?" he asked.

In my last apartment, my son shared a room with his sister. When she got older (and when the X x-ited), I moved him into my room, as it was of sufficient size to hold two beds and still have substantial floor space. Until we moved into the house, he had always shared a room with someone else. Getting his own room was bittersweet; he has his own room, but it's just him in there at night.

"You've got your own room now," I said. "You need to sleep in there."

"But you've let me sleep in here before," he countered.

I did? I thought to myself. When?

"I did?" I asked. "When?"

As you see, I am a complex individual.

"That one night when you let me sleep at your feet," he answered.

Oh, yeah, I thought (this time to myself).

Before you get the impression that I treat my kid like the family dog, it's important to specify three things. First, we don't have a dog. Second, the boy likes table scraps. And third, he was remembering the night when he woke me up close to midnight and I was too tired to shoo him back to his room, so I capitulated and told him to get his comforter and pillow he could sleep on top of my bed.

What struck me was how he spoke of that memory so fondly. It was a Big Deal to him that he got to sleep in my room. For him, that was a Special Event, so special that it warrants Capital Letters when writing about it.

It dawned on me then how much effort I expend trying to artificially inflate the importance of one set of things and in doing so overlook another set of much simpler things that wind up having more value in the long run. I try (and often fail) to do a few things that are spectacular, yet I would probably get greater results if I invested the same amount of energy to do more things that are simply good.

"I really liked that," he said.

Wow. Something that cost me neither time nor money (it didn't even cost me much sleep!) turned into a positive memory that he's been holding onto and will continue to do so.

"Well, until the morning when you farted in my face."

Dudey's Dooties

Ms N came back from a three-night business trip today, so naturally I was up early this morning cleaning all of the parts of the house I had failed to clean during the previous three nights.

The kids were at my babies' momma's apartment overnight, so I had no worries of having to break from any tasks to go wake my son up for the third time or anything like that. Today was "schlep your kids to work" day, so I did have to pick up my daughter on my way to the train (which we missed by 2 minutes anyways), but other than that the morning was mine.

I had my schedule planned out perfectly: Get up at 5:15, go feed the cats, pull the sheets off the bed, get the extra bedding stuff out of my son's room (he got new sheets on Sunday, the old ones were still in a pile on his floor), take all the aformentioned linens downstairs, put the sheets and pillowcases in the wash, scoop up the cat crap from the litter boxes, go back to the kitchen and get the dishes, take the trash outside (it did, after all, have a bag of cat crap in it), put the sheets in the dryer, straighten up the coffee table, clean up the rest of the stuff in my son's room, take a shower, fold the two loads of laundry that I did on Tuesday, put my portion away, put my son's portion in his room, put Ms N's portion in a nice stack, brush my teeth, gather my stuff for work, get the sheets out of the dryer, make the bed, and head out by 7:25.

You know, a typical morning.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work as I planned. I didn't have time to bring the sheets back up and make the bed, and I left at 7:32, hence the missed train.

Oh, and one more thing ...

Ms N came back home and Leo, the primary cat, was acting a bit strange. Dude, the emergency backup cat, didn't so much as come to the living room to see her. She mistook the attention Leo was paying to her as some sort of "I missed you" gesture. (Ridiculous, I know ... cats don't miss anybody unless they are not being fed. I doubt the cats even notice that we're gone.) When she got upstairs, however, Leo ran straight to my son's door and started meowing.

That's when it dawned on her ... Dude wasn't being lazy or indifferent; he didn't come to see her because he was stuck behind a closed door.

Apparently, while I was in straightening up the room, Dude wandered in. He just failed to wander out before I left.

I got home soon after Ms N and she told me about Dude's traumatic ordeal. He seemed to be recovering well. Then again, Dude always seems to be doing well. If you translate his meows, he says, "Dude".

As I walked into my son's room, I quickly realized that Dude had, ahem, done his dooty while trapped therein. You can't blame him - when nature calls you can't send it to voicemail. The problem is he's a cat, and cats have some sort of turd-topping instinct. When dogs mess on the floor, it's always easy to find (especially if you have bare feet); they let their chips lay where they fall. Cats, though, are modest.

It took a few minutes of searching, but I finally found them ... neatly tucked underneath my son's stuffed turtle. Now matter how hard I try, I can't stop picturing the cat pushing that turtle across the floor just to have something under which he could hide his dooties.

Comb 'em if you got 'em

Last night I had the most uplifting experience a middle-age guy like myself can get (and still talk about publicly, that is).

There comes a point in every boy's life where he looks at older men and realizes "Oh, crap. Someday I may become just as bald as they are!"

Like the platypus, androgenetic alopecia (or male-pattern baldness for those of you who didn't seek out that article on Wikipedia) is proof that God has quite the sense of humor.

The problem is you have no way of knowing if the joke's on you.

It's very unnerving, really. You can spend decades hiding that inner fear. One day life is all fine and dandy, and then you see an uncle you haven't seen in a few years and suddenly you're in front of the bathroom mirror tracing your hairline with your finger to see if it's moved since the last time you checked.

My father, himself part of God's punchline, describes the part in his hair as "very wide." Growing up with him was like watching a stadium roof retract very, very, very slowly. Before I was even out of high school my brother's hair was like Mary-Kate Olsen. (And I do not mean long and blonde - that's Mary-Kate's hair. I mean his hair was no longer thin, it was emaciated.) He finally gave up combing and took up shaving.

Needless to say, it was not the most comfortable environment in which to remain vain.

So last night I got a haircut. After trimming the sides and taking down the length, without so much as asking the stylist grabbed that other set of shears - you know, the ones that cut some hairs out while leaving others in place.

It seems there was a problem with the hair atop my head. And while past performance is no guarantee of future results, it was promising, nonetheless.

My hair was too thick.

Mr. E's medical tip of the day

Replace your Zoloft with Cialis.

Enraged? Become enraptured, instead. Stop giving the finger when you have much better things to give. Turn your F You's into F Me's. Cialis works up to 36 hours, so you don't have to plan, you don't have to rush, you don't have to worry about time. The next time a relaxing moment turns into the wrong moment, you can be ready. While Cialis does nothing to stop the anxiety, Great Smokies does it make it more enjoyable!

Cialis is not for everyone. Do not take Cialis if you are single and unattractive. Before replacing your Zoloft, consult your physician to determine if you are healthy enough to be angry. Anger lasting for more than four hours is the sign of a serious condition which requires immediate treatment, meaning you'd better hope to God that you didn't say anything stupid to your significant other during your fit of frustration, as she is the one who administers said treatment. Piss her off and she'll tell you to go treat yourself, you F-ing A-hole.

Above and beyond the call of Daddy

Were you to ask me years ago, as I was first venturing out into the world as a young adult, from whom I learned the importance of love, decency, and kindness, I would reply without hesitation that my mother was the predominant teacher of that lesson. Out of the two, it was my mother who was more empathetic. She was also more patient, more involved with my daily activities, easier to talk to ... I could go on, but suffice it to say that for someone as emotionally demanding as I was, she was the parent with whom I could most easily relate. More often than not, if I wanted to talk about something or show off something that I had done, I would go right to Mom.

It never occurred to me then that I was shortchanging my dad (and my mom and myself, for that matter) by favoring my mom as I did. Then again, it never would have occurred to me to ponder if I was shortchanging anyone. I was a kid -- it was supposed to be all about me!

I guess I had the psycho part down pat, just not the analyzing.

Things have changed since then. I've gotten older, wiser, fatter ... and kids.

The process of raising a child helps the parent grow, too. If you're smart and/or lucky, somewhere around the time you start turning into your parents, you will start to learn all sorts of things about them.

As I've watched my kids grow -- as they've had their various encounters with the world -- I've often thought back to when I had similar experiences. And the more I think back, the more I appreciate the role my dad played.

For all those times that I went to Mom first, I cannot think of a single time where Dad showed the slightest bit of disappointment. While I'm sure that at least some of the time he was glad I was pestering someone other than him, I know now that a large part of it had to do with the type of father he is. It was the epitome of selflessness: whether I gave him credit for making my life better was unimportant so long as my life was, indeed, better.

Nothing put this lesson into focus for me more than my grandfather's death. Grandpa Ace was the center of my world. He was big and strong and fun. He could put my brother and I each on a shoulder and carry us around. He was kind and giving. He whittled wood down to make hulls so we could build boats. He knew everything about everything and made the world's best milkshakes. I thought my dad must have been so lucky having grown up with Grandpa Ace around all the time.

I came to find out that Grandpa Ace had learned a few things himself over the years, and that he was a much different grandfather than father. I found out that my dad had gone to great lengths to make sure he did not become the father he had. There was enough tension between the two of them that nobody would have faulted my dad if he moved far away and kept my brother and me away from his folks.

Dad did the former, but most certainly not the latter. My brother and I spent most of our summers with my grandparents and it was great. They came up to Alaska to visit us several times, too. And Dad, despite (or perhaps because of) his own difficulties, was seemingly at his happiest when we talked about how great my grandfather was. Fortunately for all concerned, my dad has turned into a great grandfather, too. My kids now go to Alaska for their summers, and I think they, too, will remember these trips among the highlights of their early years.

Inasmuch as he was a fun-oriented guy, Dad did an amazing job of keeping his priorities in order. Naturally, I didn't get it, so sometimes I felt his priorities were inverted. He would work late, work early, and sleep a lot in between. He still does, come to think of it. Yet the amazing thing about Dad is how while it seemed like he was always busy, he also managed to eke out a heck of a lot of time for us.

And boy did he know how to use that free time! He could really let his hair down (which is only appropriate, being that his hair has since let him down).

One of my favorite things about my dad is how much of a kid he is. While Mom made sure we had good clothes, Dad made sure we had good toys. He made sure we had more than that -- plenty to eat, a roof over our heads, yadda, yadda, yadda -- but the toys were what really stuck out for a ten year-old me. Shopping with Dad could be a rewarding adventure.

Dad is also quite the joker. Mom made sure we understood knew reverence, Dad made sure we knew irreverence. Between the two of them, my brother and I developed a wonderful blend of propriety and cynicism. Granted, I'm sure Mom had somewhat of a talk with Dad the day I told a certain joke to the pastor at brunch one Sunday. Tact, it seems, takes longer to master.

As the years have gone by, I've realized some important things. Some of the greatest lessons in life are not learned right away. Some gifts are so great that you can't appreciate them fully when you first get them (sometimes you don't even realize you've gotten them at all). Sometimes the greatest acts are those that go unnoticed. And sometimes the guy you’ve always thought of as a big irreverent prankster is an exemplar of love, respect, and fatherhood at its heart.

Today is Dad's 60th birthday. Dad, thank you for your amazing patience, love, selflessness, and, of course, irreverence. Thank you for providing an example of what I should strive to be as a father and a man. Thank you for giving so much (and for those certain times when you did not give).

Thank you for everything, Dad.
Happy Birthday!

The blogger's conundrum

Over the past few weeks I learned two new things.

Catawampus is a real word.

The more time you spend doing things worth blogging about, the less time you have to actually blog about them.

I have several things in partial form, waiting for some final touches before they take the grand stage that is this web page, and several other ideas that I would like to get in, but my time has been so restricted lately that I have not been able to do any of it. I could finish these tidbits and post them as I get to them, but posting Thanksgiving stories dated January seems a bit odd.

Not that being odd has ever stopped me before ...

I could also backfill, but then none of you would know which postings you've seen and which you haven't, and I know how you all just can't stand to miss any of my postings.

Luckily, I have come up with a wonderful idea.

I am going to backfill the blog (pinning stories to their appropriate time), but link to the stories on this post here. This should stay up long enough for you all (both?) to see what's there, and your browser should tell you which links you've already followed so, using your amazing powers of deduction, you should be able to see what you have yet to read.

Go, me!

So here is what to expect in the coming days (... weeks, months, or however long it takes me to finish this stuff!):

Thanksgiving traff*ck

Gettin' Red-Nekkid

Los(t) Gigantes

Pain in the glass (1/5/07)

Not bad for one week

Packing outside the box

TV, or not TV?

I was racially profiled ... by Wal-Mart

Oh, sh*t (The plumbing story)

Home Sweet Home Depot

Viking Hooch (and other Christmas memories)

At least I'm good for something

Channeling my inner Bob Vila

Like rabbits, I tell you!

It could be worse ... it could be happening to me

New Year's Resolution: Blog Regularly

Cockroach goes best with a white wine

Enjoy!

Pain in the glass

Posted January 5, 2007

Some jackhole broke into my car.

I wasn't the only one. My neighbor's car was parked in the same row as mine. His also got broken into. In both cases it was the same thing - that little triangular window on the back driver's side door was busted. The perp (look at me with the cop-talk) could reach in and unlock the back door, then enter the car and rummage for stuff. The back door of my neighbor's car was left ajar; mine was still closed. Of course, my car alarm goes off as soon as the latch is pressed, his was disengaged.

No other car in our part of the lot was touched.

Then again, no other car in our part of the lot had stuff on the seats. My neighbor had some CDs and other stuff. I had a gift bag for our office gift exchange.

For those of you who have never lived near the drug trade, most car break-ins are not done by people who want the car. Heck, most of the time the bastards don't even take the more valuable items in the car, like the radio or the dashboard Mary. People breaking into cars are looking for cash or something that can be turned into cash quickly so they can buy their next fix. A radio has to be disassembled and then sold; that takes time. Gathering ten bucks from two or three different cars only takes a few minutes.

When I lived in Philly my car got broken into. The only thing I lost was my $80 sunglasses, but the greeting cards I left in the glove compartment had been torn open. That SOB wasn't looking for a Hallmark moment. Remember, people put money in greeting cards.

My apartment complex occasionally gets the unsavory sort wandering through. Across the nearby main road are several motels, which see less and less business from travelers and "John and Mrs. Smith" types now that some better hotels were built nearby. The motels now double as low-income housing for people on welfare (and are among the few places in town far enough away from schools for sex-offenders to live). A cop in town told me that there are actually gangs forming over there.

While off the beaten path for drivers, my complex is on the walking route between the motels and the local Wawa (a convenience store chain common in this area). I'm glad I'm moving.

Speaking of which, I move in two days. In two stinkin' days my car will no longer be parked in this lot overnight. Six years with no problems, then this happens 48 measly hours before I leave.

Grrr. Argh.

I took my car to the local Chevy dealer and hitched a ride into work with Ms N. I figured it would be about $200 or so to get a new window.

I thought wrong.

I'm assuming that the jackhole chose that little windows thinking he was doing us a favor. It made things no easier for him - the smaller surface area meant it takes more force to break through, then he had to clear enough away to reach the door lock inside. Had he gone through the main window, he would have had plenty of clear space for his arm. Yeah, I broke your window, but I only broke the tiny window!

Guess what, fothermucker, that window happens to be the most expensive piece of glass on the entire freakin' car!

You see, the bigger windows on the door roll up and down, which means they are not permanently affixed to the vehicle. If one of those breaks, you pop the inside cover off the door, clean out the glass, stick in a new window, and reattach the liner. No big deal.

Those small windows, on the other hand, are permanently attached. To swap one out, you have to take out pieces and reattach other pieces, then put on the weather-stripping and whatnot. Hello new window, good-bye $730.

Growl. Snarl.

Oh, and the gift bag most likely led to the break-in? Every year we have a secret Santa gift exchange. Last year I forgot to bring my present in, meaning the admin whose name I drew didn't get her gift until a day after everyone else. For the past two weeks my co-workers have been ribbing me about it. In order to make sure I didn't forget the gift this year, I put the bag in the car as soon as I finished wrapping the gifts.

My previous job had a $20 limit on the gift exchange, but not my current one. We have two unique rules to ours.

1) You give your lucky recipient five separate gifts, each of which has to be useful to or representative of that person.

2) You can only buy the gifts at a dollar store.

In One Hundred Hours ...

... we'll be first-time homeowners!

Wo-hoo!

Oh, and it seems that your well-wishes may have had an effect, too. I'll find out for certain later.