Happy New Year!

First post of the year and we're only three days in!  The lights are down, the boxes stowed away under the stairs, the faux pine needles are vacuumed and the house looks empty.

We want to remodel our kitchen.  That's such an overwhelming project.  So many things you need to figure out before you can figure out who to contact to help you figure out how much it'll cost and when it can get done.  It's not easy.  

It's hard going back to work again after the last two weeks basically off.  Today was more or less a wasted day.  Time to get back into the habit of going to work.  

Did I tell you that timeouts don't work on Elliott?  They don't.  We stuck with them for a while before we had to fall back on something else...mostly redirection to keep him out of trouble.  Not that he's ever in that much trouble to begin with, but he's verrrrry inquisitive, so he keeps ping-ponging from one thing to the next.  Knife on the counter from cutting strawberries?  He's reaching for it.  Hot coffee?  His fingers are on the handle.  Unguarded electronics?  He's swiping.

No resolutions this year.  Just a sense that I need to stop eating trash.  I'm on the treadmill almost nightly, so working out isn't the issue, but it's a bit counterproductive to eat a bag of chips between workouts.  That's my struggle.  

Lily goes back to school tomorrow.  She had one extra day.  She won't be happy.  Looking for a dentist for her.  Apparently Children's Hospital no longer accepts kids over 12.  This policy change was apparently made last year.  Lily hasn't seen a dentist since the pandemic.  She's due.  I feel like I overused apparently in that paragraph.

Looking for a dentist for me too.  Mine retired three years ago.  So...yeah, probably about due for a cleaning.

Last year I did a Goodreads book reading challenge.  First time I've done one of those in years.  Most of what I read now is Audiobooks.  I can't do a hardcopy book...or at least I can't do them as my primary means of reading.  For the longest time I've put quotes around "reading" when I refer to an audiobook.  It seemed like cheating.  It's not.  I "read" ...no...I READ 62 books last year.  I overshot my goal of 24 (two a month...I thought that was doable) by almost triple.  I just didn't really have a handle on how many books I was reading because I wasn't really tracking it.  

I have recommendations.  I'll do a post about them.  Too much to go into just off the cuff, but definitely read some really good stuff.  Some very interesting, well-written, imaginative stuff...sometimes all in one book!

Tik tok has sort of revitalized my reading.  I follow a bunch of book readers there and watch their reviews and I've picked up TONS of good books as a result.  I realized that one of the reasons I wasn't really reading as much is because Libby (the library app I use to download books) wasn't really showing me new books that I wanted to read.  I needed to get names and search for them, and there they were!  So great way to get reading inspo.  

This year's goal is set at 52.  A book a week.  Doable - since I did more last year - but not sandbagging it.

https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/9106086-jim

The Most

Angie was listening to Glennon Doyle's podcast.  She doesn't know who said it, but they said the holidays aren't necessarily the "most wonderful time of the year", they're just the most.  Definitely some truth to that.  

We talked about how women are primarily the creators of the magic and how creation of the magic is super stressful around this time.  I mentioned that I thought it was the memory of the magic that sustains us as we strive to recreate it for our kids.  I do still love the holidays.  But they are a lot.  A lot a lot.

I was reading some Facebook meme that talked about how when someone wishes you Happy Holidays it's not because they hate christmas...it's because they have no fucking idea what/who you are...christian, atheist, jewish, muslim?  Who knows?  They're just trying to be polite.  I was raised christian.  I love Christmas and I love wishing people a merry Christmas...but I don't do it to strangers, because I want to be respectful.  

Emma was googling the menorah because the place she's working is trying to include some Hanukah in their branding to be more inclusive, and she wasn't sure what candle they were supposed to be lighting.  I like that people want to include more people rather than fewer.  I also get confused by what constitutes inclusivity/diversity and what constitutes cultural appropriation and racism.  And sometimes it makes my head hurt.  And mostly I just try to be a nice person and be respectful but I'm also aware from time to time that's going to offend someone...and that I need to be able to say I'm sorry for things I didn't necessarily intend, but were found offensive.  Not that it comes up much, since I don't really talk to people that aren't in my family, or at work.  But still. Just trying not to be an asshole.  Sometimes when you're trying something you don't succeed at it.  But that doesn't mean you give up. 

Elliott likes Santa.  He's seen him a few times...we have a neighbor (Angie's term for anyone within a one mile radius) who has a "Wiggly Santa".  It's one of those car dealership noodle people that use a blower to wiggle all over and wave at passersby, but it's decorated like Santa.  He asks about it several times a day.  

Elliott doesn't like being called Elliott.  "Not ewiott.  I'M EEH-WI."  That's adorable Elliott.  Kidding.  Mostly.  We call him Eli for the most part I think.

Lily just turned 17.  She got some new shoes.  Now she has a couple changeups from the Van's...some hiking shoes and a cute pair of suede boots.  We'll see how that works out.  Still waiting for the waterproofing spray from Amazon, so I'm really careful a bout when she wears the boots.  She seems mostly unperturbed by the holiday season as long as there's an iPad on her lap and orange drink in her cup.

We're ready for Christmas now.  Getting the house prepped for Christmas Eve surf 'n' turf.  It's one of my favorite things about Christmas.

Happy Holidays everyone.

Easy Enchiladas

 

Old blog post from another blog where I posted recipes with a couple friends.  Now that my oldest has moved out, she needs recipes and I know she'll like this.

I'm all about fool-proof.  And you should be too.  No offense.  I'm not calling you a fool.  I have been making these enchiladas for centuries, and they've never not been enjoyed.  I'm saying they're enjoyable.  They are not "scratch" authentic Mexican cuisine.  They are "what can I make that my kids will actually eat that won't take me an entire weekend to prepare" Mexican cuisine.  A lot of the recipe (all) can be made in advance, refrigerated, and cooked the next day.

I made these the day before yesterday and then when my parents watched the kids yesterday I had them just shove the dish in the oven and take 'em out before I got home.

So...without further adieu:  Easy Chicken and Cheese Enchiladas

What you'll need:
13 x 9 pyrex dish (or whatever you can heat in an oven)
1 package burrito size tortillas
2 chicken breasts
15 oz can enchilada sauce (mild or hot, they're all good)
1 lb cheese (give or take)
salt
pepper
dried mince garlic

Prepare in advance in advance (not a typo).

Cook your chicken.  A couple words about chicken.  My wife, god rest her soul, used to boil the chicken in this recipe.  Boil it.  It was still great.  You literally cannot fuck up this chicken.  It's impossible.  So...cook the chicken however you want.  Emma...you can cook this in a pan with butter, since you don't have a grill!

A couple things.  When I took over this recipe I grilled the chicken.  I seasoned the hell out of it with salt, pepper, and dried minced garlic, and grilled it.  And it made it even better.

Tip 1:  Suck at preparing chicken on the grill?  (too dry on the outside, still not done on the inside?)  Butterfly it.  Cut it in half thickness-wise.  Cooks faster and more evenly.  Okay...

Tip 2:  I once heard Lydia (of Lydia's Italian Cuccina) on a cooking show say that when you cook chicken you should season it three times.  Once before you cook it, then as you cook it, then after it's done.  DO THIS.  Chicken...I don't know why this is...is bland as shit unless you really season it.  Like...more than you think you should.  I typically only season it before I cook it then after it's done.  And the only seasoning I add AFTER I cook it is salt.  But seriously.  Grill this chicken, then slice it up (we'll get there in a minute) then taste it.  Needs salt.  Add salt.  I was just talking to Emma about this literally last night.  I'm glad I found this old post.

Okay...so grill your seasoned chicken to taste (DO NOT TASTE THE RAW CHICKEN...it's just something people say).  Mine is usually about a 1/2" thick, and takes about three minutes per side in a hot grill.

Let the chicken cool a bit, and cut in about 1/2" pieces.  TASTE THE CHICKEN.  If it's sorta bland...that's the sign that you should add salt.  Honestly though?  Even if you STILL don't season the chicken.  This will still be good.

Okay...put the chicken in a bowl and add about half of the can of enchilada sauce.  mix it up and set aside.

If you stopped here, refrigerated the chicken and finished the rest the next day?  That would work.  Otherwise...

Grate the cheese in a big bowl.  It's a lot of cheese so you need a lot of bowl.

Use non-stick spray to grease your 13 x 9 dish, and lay a tortilla in it.  Spoon a serving spoon full of the cut chicken mix into the middle.  Top with cheese.  Roll up and slide against the edge of the dish.  Repeat until you run out of room or run out of chicken mix.  If you run out of cheese...god help you, why are you using so much fucking cheese?  Grate some more.  It'll be even more delicious, but you will probably die of heart failure sometime during the night.

Drizzle the rest of the enchilada sauce atop the shells.

Cover the entire thing with all the rest of the cheese.  You ran out of cheese again, didn't you, dummy?  Grate some more. 

Okay...if you stopped HERE...cover, put in refrigerator and cook the following day.  That would work TOO.  Otherwise...

Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Put the dish in the oven.
Cook for 15 - 20 minutes (the chicken is already cooked, so you're essentially just heating it up and melting the cheese) or until the cheese (jesus, how much did you use?) is all bubbly and melty.

Serve with a dollop of sour cream and some chives or (if you're in a sour cream free/green stuff free home like ours) plain. 

~ Jim

Home

 It's getting cold out.  I'm out of firewood.  Man we burn through that stuff quickly.  

I started following Tok-tok.  I really like it.  I guess it's been a couple years.  I mostly follow art pages and book pages (book Tok) but there are some really great random funny things there and I find a few tidbits every day to share with Angie that she ignores because she refuses one general principle to add one more time-wasting social media site to her list.

Emma came by for dinner.  It's nice having her home.  Eli adores her and it's fun to watch them play, and of course I love having her in the house to talk to (or talk at, if she's absorbed by her phone).  It makes me wonder when "home" stops being your parent's house.  For me it was after I moved away for college and the moved back after it was over.  The transition was easy:  they sold the house and moved to another one.  The next house they built was never 'mine'.  There were no memories in it.  It makes me a little sad.  She has a house that she rents with some classmates in Pittsburgh.  She spends less time here.  It's understandable but sad.  When will this house stop feeling like her house and start feeling like "Dad and Angie's house".  Hopefully not yet.  

Elliott said, "I'm glad you're here."  His vocabulary and speech is crazy.  I think I just forgot how smart kids are and how quickly they pick things up at his age.

"Mama, can you come join us on the carpet?" is how he asks Angie to come play with us.  It's nuts.

Forgot

 I was walking upstairs this evening and thought..."I forgot I was writing again!"  And the thing that made me forget was that Elliott did something and now I forget what it was that made me remember that I forgot I was writing.  Because at the time I was thinking, "Angie should write that in her journal that she keeps for Eli." but then immediately after I thought...wait...I WRITE TOO!    And the fact that I forgot that I write and then forgot the reason I remembered why I write is just so...me-at-this-age.

So I know it wasn't this, but tonight I was putting Eli to bed.  Angie has taken it upon herself to be the bed putter for Eli.  I do it every so often, but for the most part, my portion of the ritual ends with the "whoosh" and "Weeeee" where I swing him upside down from where I'm holding him, his arms reaching up (down) as his outstretched fingers nearly touch the carpet as he swings down between my legs then back up to my chest and I say "WHOOOSH!" and then I do it again and say "WEEEEE" and I ask him each night whether he wants whoosh or wee and he tells me and I do it three times then plop him on his mother's lap where she waits to read him a story.

But wait...then he climbs back down for one last hug, on my right side.  Also one squeeze daddy.  Followed by "now dis side" and one more squeeze then a request for water, which he drinks way too slowly and insists upon closing and putting back by himself before crawling back up onto his mother's lap where she waits to read him a story.

But wait...then we blow kisses and after I blow a kiss to him Angie says, "blow dada a kiss" and Eli says, "You do it mama" and so Angie blows me a kiss and I catch it and press it to my cheek and then Eli climbs back down on the floor for one more kiss, leaning is forehead toward me so I can kiss his soft hair and muss it in, before he finally climbs one last time up onto his mother's lap where she waits to read him a story.  

I slowly leave, telling him I love him and then he says he loves me and we each say it two more times in silly voices before I shut the door behind me.

But that is not what I did tonight.  Tonight I put him to bed, and since I rarely do it we don't really have a set routine apart from reading him a story, then snuggling him and scratching his back while I sing him a song.  

Tonight I read him Grandfather Twilight and then snuggled him and asked him what he wanted me to sing.  "Gata" I thought I heard him say, but that didn't ring a bell, so I said, "what about Twinkle Twinkle?"  

"Gata" again.  "Sorry buddy, I don't know that one.  I'm going to sing Twinkle twinkle."  So I did.  He didn't seem to care, so I sang it and then sang Bah Bah Blacksheep and the Alphabet song since they're all the same melody.  His little head was turned away and he was lying against my shoulder.  I turned him back to face me and asked if he wanted me to sing another song and he said, more clearly this time, "Gah Gato".

"Don Gato," I asked, surprised?

"Yeah," he agreed.

The last time I put him to bed, and I can't even tell you when that was, perhaps the last time Angie had an event at work where she needed to stay late, or maybe she was meeting friends or something, but it was months ago.  The last time I put him to bed, I sang him "Senor Don Gato".

Señor Don Gato was a song we sang when I was in grade school.  I learned it in 3rd Grade.  Mrs. Wetterhaus (later Gniting...butchering these name spellings I'm pretty sure) was our music teacher.  Señor Don Gato was THE favorite song we sang in third grade and SOMEhow I still remember it to this day.  I've sung it to all the kids, but honestly don't remember all the words.  Just most.

Here's what I sang:

Oh Senor Don Gato was a cat,

on a high red roof don Gato sat,

he was there to read a letter

meow meow meow

where the reading light was better

meow meow meow

'twas a love note for don gato.

'I adore you' wrote the lady cat,

who was fluffy white and nice and fat

there was not a sweeter kitty 

meow meow meow

in the country or the city 

meow meow meow

and she said she'd wed don gato.

Oh don gato jumped so happily,

he fell off the roof and broke his knee

broke his ribs and all his whiskers

meow meow meow

and his little solar plexus 

meow meow meow

twas the ending of don gato Ay carumba! cried don gato

*Completely forgot these two verses:*

Then the doctors all came on the run,
Just to see if something could be done.
And they held a consultation, Meow, meow, meow
About how to save their patient, Meow, meow, meow
How to save Señor Don Gato.

But in spite of everything they tried,
Poor Señor Don Gato up and died.
Oh it wasn't very merry, Meow, meow, meow
Going to the cemetery, Meow, meow, meow
For the ending of Don Gato.

*somehow skipped right to the end*

As the funeral passed the market square

such a smell of fish was in the air.

hmmm hmm hmmm hmm hmmm hm hmmm hmm though the burial was slated,

meow meow meow

he became reanimated meow meow meow

he came back to life don gato!!

We loved that song.  The "hmms" represent words I don't remember.  I recall trying to look it up years ago and not really finding anything online.  Not super surprising since it was a children's song we sang in the 70's.  But maybe I should take another look.

Anyway.  I forgot I was writing.  And then I remembered.  Maybe I'll remember what it was I actually wanted to write down.  But probably by then I'll have forgotten I'm writing again.

OH!  Nobody's seen this yet regardless, but after I posted I found it!  Not only that, I found it on Spotify too, so now we listen to it on our daily walks.

Señor Don Gato

 

 

Left

 I'm waging a lengthy campaign against a wasp colony that is somehow both inside and outside the house.  Outside they are constantly coming and going, bumping into the siding of my house as they maneuver between the gutter and the house to wherever they're all living.  Inside the house they appear in ones or twos over the course of several hours.  I kill them with paper towels, wadded to keep from getting stung.  An hour or two later, two more take their place.  Over the past two weeks I've killed maybe 30 wasps IN MY HOUSE.  I have no idea where they're coming from.  

Elliott possibly knows his right hand from his left.  He'll be two and a half years old next week.  He walked with me outside to 'help' pull weeds and water plants on the hillside.  Is that an unclear sentence?  Are you thinking he's pulling water plants and weeds?  That was not my intention.  Anyway...We had a retaining wall extended there about a year ago and all the grass is still dead so the ground leading up to the hill is like hard-packed dirt and it's a little slippery to walk on.  I was carrying something.  In my left hand and he was carrying something in his left hand, but I was reaching over his head so that I could hold his right hand in mine as we walked down the slope.  

It was sort of an awkward hand-hold, since my arm reach all the way over him to hold the arm furthest from me.  And at one point he looked up and said, "Dadda, can you hold my LEFT hand?"  Then he transfered the little toy rake from his left hand to his right and held his left hand out to me.  

I can REMEMBER struggling with left and right as late as kindergarten.  My mom would label my cowboy boots left and right with nail polish on the soles so that I knew which was which.  And maybe that was the struggle...which BOOT was the right boot and which was the left.  But I know I was still working out that whole left/right thing when I was 4 or 5.  So I was borderline stunned.  Also a tad skeptical.  

We walked down the slope into the grass and put our 'tools' away in the shed.  As we got ready to go into the house I hunkered down in front of him so I was centered and asked him if he could give me his left hand.  And he did.  Still a bit skeptical, but amazed.  

We tried it again a few hours later and he gave me his right hand.  Meh...he still knows there's a difference between left and right, and gets it correctly 2 out of 3 times...

Fun stuff.

Ramble On

Dobby is on my lap. It's very hard to type. Okay, he jumped down.   

Angie is writing postcards to registered voters. Abbott Elementary is on in the background. I'm not much for background music/tv while I'm writing. It is, however, Angie's default. I'm giving it a shot. We'll see. 

So much to catch up on. Covid stuff though. We were lysoling groceries last time we chatted. Emma was still in high school...sorta. I can't remember when she went remote. THIS is why I blogged. I'd look back at past blog posts, but I haven't written for two years, so I've got nothin'. 

 Eli was born and we were still in the hospital and customers were calling me in the hospital trying to get equipment delivered because they were afraid our company was going to be shut down and they'd be stuck without treatment equipment until the pandemic ended. Little did they know we'd give up on the pandemic lonnnng before it ended. Our company never shut down. Portions of it did, but we were "essential" because we make water treatment equipment. 

 I don't love Abbott Elementary. It's amusing and mildly entertaining, but not truly funny. It's probably good I'm not focusing on it, but I'm also not truly able to focus on this either, because every minute or so a snippet of dialogue will hook me and I'll see what's happening and stop doing this. 

Anyway, we were in the hospital for three days I think. God it's hard to think with this show in the background. Now I'm bluetoothed to "Essential Metal" on spotify...this might be better. 

 Emma went remote. My timeline is all over the map. I had to text her to find out.  Emma says she went remote three days before her 18th birthday, which was a full week before we went to the hospital to have Eli. Remote was a joke. I mean, I think there were kids that were able to learn, but Emma sure as shit wasn't one of them. She did what she had to do to graduate there at the end, but I think she, like a lot of her classmates, was resentful of the 'necessity'. Resentful that she had to go remote while all around her people were going to work or school since there was no universal policy on how to handle it. 

One school district was remote, another was in person, and a third was hybrid, and it was local government calling the shots. Like...REALLY local. School board local. So people she knew were going to school or work and she wasn't, and if she was a bit resentful, I'm pretty sure she can be forgiven. 

Honestly, what a shit show. I remember trying to legislate our own house badly. We were trying to figure out whose guidance to even follow. I remember telling Emma we'd follow whatever the governor recommended, but then he started recommending stupid bullshit and I had to pivot from that to "CDC isn't recommending that we do what he's telling us we can do". And recognizing that the political position he was in was driving him to make decisions that were "less unpopular" than the ones he started out with didn't really help. We were contact tracing each other before family get togethers. Sending out emails requesting two week isolation before visits, and masks to see Elliott once he was born. Keeping Emma from her boyfriend. Keeping family from meeting Eli. So much guilt and fear. 

And I get too that a lot of people think COVID is a big nothing burger, and I'm so happy those people didn't have to lose a loved one or spouse or child or whatever in order to see what a position of priviledge just 'acting like nothing is happening' was for them. We just wanted our baby to be healthy. We wanted Emma to get her prom and her graduation and we wanted Lily to stay healthy and our parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles not to die. Okay...done with Covid talk for a bit. 

Eli is 2 and a half. He's talking sooooo much. Also, I think I understand what the terrible twos are now. He's honestly a super well behaved kiddo, but he TESTS. And timeouts must be something that doesn't work for every kid. Because I can tell you...he LOVES them. And don't even try to tell me we don't do them right. We literally downloaded CDC guidance on timeouts. I'm not even kidding. That's a thing that exists and we're using it. For whatever that's worth.

Angie is vacuuming the house.  I don't know if pandemic started that or having a baby did.  Every night.  Does everyone do that?  Am I such a slob that it wouldn't even occur to me to vacuum 365 days of the year?  Maybe.  But anyway, she's vacuuming, and that means it's time to go to bed.  Goodnight.

Busy

I probably won't talk a lot about COVID here, but it's been such a huge influence over our lives for the past two plus years that it's hard to stray too far from it. One of the weird things about COVID was how it impacted my work. We were completely remote for over a year. In the middle of last year (maybe it was longer) our company sent us an email saying that HR wanted to chat with us all about how 'return to work' would look. Or at least that's what I thought it was going to be about. I think I sort of glossed over it in my rush to be outraged that the company was going to force us to go back into the office setting when we'd proven we could work productively from home. And that's not what they did. They basically said..."We don't know what the return to work will look like, so we want to solicit your feedback and see what you all want to do." They then gave us a lengthy presentation that more or less said what we all knew: We have proven we can work from home. Here are a list of the benfits we as a company have seen over the past year of working remotely...less polution, lower insurance rates, less wear and tear on the car, less gas used, happier workers, and on and on. I was pretty surprised. I was also surprised how many people actually wanted to return to work, for at least some of the time. In the end, about 6 months later, they laid out a plan to return to work for one day a week for the first couple months, followed by two days a week moving forward. And that's where we're at. And I, no shit, totally forgot where I was going with this BUT...I rambled on enough that I remembered. So anyway, one of the weird things about coming back from COVID was...everyone started retiring. All at once. I suspect there were a few people who got used to being at home full time and were nearing retirement and, when faced with the return thought, nah...fuck that, and retired. The Engineering Manager who I worked with daily was one. Also the guy that ran the shop that I worked with weekly. And the sales manager that I worked with daily. Then my boss, and then his boss (both retired on the same day) as well as one of our applications engineers, and others rumored to be done by the end of the year. And what ended up happening was...I got promoted to my boss's old position and assumed his responsibilities as well as my own until I could bring someone in to relieve me of them. But then also my boss's boss thought it probably wasn't fair to dump all the stuff she was doing on HER replacement, so she decided to have me do some of that stuff as well. And then, because it seemed to make sense and because the guy who was doing it was sort of half-assing it and hated it...I also assumed the responsibilities of the service product manager. So...I'm sort of treading water in a way that I have never had to before. And I'm slowly recovering. I promoted someone to manage the Project Managers (something I had been handling), and I promoted someone to help me with Product Management and Service Product Management, and she's been helping with that. And I hired a new project manager to replace the one that was promoted and things are starting to get back to manageable...but it's not there yet. The promotion is nice. But there's always that feeling that you need to prove you deserved it, so I've been reluctant to say, HEY...enough already. You want me to handle that too, I'll handle it, but pay me more, or get me some more help. Something along those lines. OH! I wanted to mention something about quiet quitting. I don't like the term, but I 100% agree with the philosophy. I used to work another place where they quite openly and proudly told everyone, "We know that a work week is 40 hours, but we expect 45 minimum. If you're not working 45 hours then you're not busy enough." Very proud of that mantra. I always worked exactly 45 hours every week too. At least...that's what I put on my timesheet. I managed to work 8 hours a day for five weeks and every week my timesheet said 45. Because...that's what they wanted to see. And it's bullshit. I'll work 45 hours. I'll work 60 if I need to get something done that is my responsibility and I'm behind, or it's an emergency or whatever. But that's not the gig permanently. It's a salaried position and that means 40 hours a week, and sometimes it's 45, but you know what? Sometimes it's 35. And that's okay. Just get your shit done. Anyway, I don't like that it's in any way considered "quitting" to leave work on time and have a healthy home life with your family and friends because working until you're 65 in order to finally be able to "rest" and do all the things you've always wanted to do but never had time to do...but now can't do anyway because your knees are shot to shit and you have chronic back pain is bullllllshit. Quick sidebar and then I'll wrap up. I worked at another company (not 45 hours a week company, much more forgiving) where I had an engineer reporting to me. We worked together for 7 years. Great guy. He'd been with the company for 50 years. He was the proverbial "started in the mail room at 18 guy", went to Vietnam for 3 years and the company held his spot, then he worked 50 plus years for them. He liked to golf and hang out with his kids and grandkids and I quit that job and went to work for the place I am now and he retired maybe a year later. And died a month after that. Fuuuuuuuck that noise. I do not want to work all my life in order to build a savings that I need to finally be able to relax and then...die. So balance your work life and home life. Realize what's important. And quiet quit all you want as long as you get your work done. Okay, end sidebar. So I'm busy. And this week was really busy, but I thought about writing two or three times during that time and just couldn't quite carve out enough time to do it. But even thinking about it as an option makes me feel good. I think it's a good sign. Making it more of a habit is something I want again. And because I need to start telling you about Eli. And of course catch you up on the rest of the gang: Angie, Emma, and Lily.

Still here

 We had our family fantasy football draft yes- hey!  come back!  this isn't about the draft!  So we had our family fantasy football draft yesterday so I didn't really get to write anything, but I thought about it, and that has to be good.  

Still plugging away at "where to begin" which is weird.  I find that when I have way too much material to cover I end up covering it like an 8th grade history text...very basic, topic sentences, quick description, summary, move on to the next thing.  But sometimes when I really have "nothing" to write about, or maybe it's not nothing, but just "something that I was thinking about", I'll take all the time in the world developing that shit.  Like the creation is the fun part and the mechanics of "what happened and when" is a slog.  

And I don't want it to be a slog, because it's when Eli was born, and the first weeks of the pandemic, and Emma's 18th, but there's SO much that happened, and my memory just isn't what it used to be...so history book.

I think just knowing that it's reading that way should help me 'fix it' by taking more time with it, but it's just depressing to an extent because I think if I ever wanted to write a book, and I had the material and it was all outlined and ready, I would be bored writing it because all the fun stuff would already be done.  Maybe not.  

Angie is getting a haircut and I just put Eli to bed.  Lily is watching her iPad, so it's a decent time to just type out some thoughts.

Oh, and my fantasy football team is not so excellent.  

Where to Begin

I started writing this on 4/1/2020.  I never finished.  My opening line seems evergreen.  So let's hop in the wayback machine and set the dial to April Fool's Day, 2020.  

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Lots of crazy shit going on and knowing where to start is not intuitively obvious to me.  So first off, let me say this post is NOT going to talk about the Covid-19.  I mean, it kinda HAS to a little, but it's not a post about coping with it, or what we're doing with it.  It's just background noise.  Really loud background noise.  But if you're thinking...I'm not reading ANYTHING about this fucking virus...then you're in a good spot.  Sorta.

I say sorta because it gets in the way of some of the stuff I want to talk about, and blocks some other stuff, and changes the way we approached some other stuff and in the end even though it's not about Covid...isn't everything in some way about covid right now?

Anyway...

Emma turned 18 on the 16th of March.  Without fanfare.  Because that was the week that shit went literally viral.  I canceled the reservation I'd made to the fancy restaurant we were going to celebrate the day before.  And I canceled the family party the week after. And that sucks.  She got shafted, folks.  Here's the current catalog of bullshit she's had thrown her way this past month:

Birthday party postponed
Can't see her boyfriend
Trip to Virginia Beach canceled
Weekend performances of Musical canceled
Trip to Australia postponed
Can't go to work (hostess at Chili's)
Prom?
Graduation?
College Orientation?

This is supposed to be a magical year for her (and all the other seniors this impacts) and it's ...it's just not.  Emma, somehow has managed to pull straight A's her senior year.  She's kicking this year's ass, and the payoff is...well...uncertain at best.

She did trot out the fact that I can no longer use 'because I'm an adult and you're a child' with her, so Angie thinks I'm going to need to pivot to 'as long as you live under my roof you need to follow my rules'.

Anyway...Happy Birthday, Emma!  I'm so proud of you, and I'm so sorry this suctacular viral apocalypse is fucking up your finest hours.

Here's Emma as part of the dragon (trio) in Shrek the musical before it was shut down...(thanks to Lota for the pictures, I stole them from Facebook)

She's wearing red...and purple

She's the one on the right.

still on the right.

So we're trying to figure out how to make it up to her, but there's some stuff we just can't fix.  Prom?  Graduation?  Prom seems doomed at this point; she's not even looking at dresses.  Even graduation...it's hard to imagine how that looks for her if it gets done remotely or online or whatever.  Man, these kids are getting screwed.

And we all get it.  It's to flatten the curve and hopefully not kill a million people.  I'm not arguing that what we're doing is unnecessary.  But doing the right thing never sucked so much.

MEANWHILE...

Can you say meanwhile if you mean to go back in time?

ONE WEEK EARLIER (than Emma's birthday)

Angie and I were talking about her obgyn's question to her about whether anyone had discussed 39-week induction with her.  They hadn't.  So she did.  I guess the idea is that you induce labor the previous week and it reduces the odds that you'll need a c-section.  We talked about it with the lady who taught us our pregnancy classes through the hospital and she sorta said that the study wasn't recognized by ACOG or WHO because of reasons (there was one, but I can't remember it). So we sort of opted out and said we'd just prefer it if the baby came when the baby came.

And then the world started to fall apart a week later and the news sorta sunk its hooks into our brains and started tearing at our reason and it was week 39 and we thought...if the hospitals are going to get more and more crowded with sick people and beds are scarce...do we really want to wait LONGER?

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That's all the further I got.  I don't know why I stopped.  I'm honestly not someone who starts writing then stops before finishing what I have to say.  Blogs are great for that kind of thing...I mean, I sometimes don't post right away, because I have to spell check/edit...although who am I kidding, I usually edit after it's already published so that no two people read the exact same words because I'm reading at the same time they are, changing it's to its and inserting words that I missed with hasty keystrokes.

So to continue, as best I can with the post I started writing two years ago...

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It was almost decided for us when Angie had some minor complications that we had to check out.  We spent about 8 hours in the hospital in order to be told "all is well" and were sent home.  We went back the next week for the due date induction.  By that point the hospital was just starting the process of closing to visitors.  Rather than wait, and run the risk that I wouldn't be permitted in the hospital during the birth, the doc allowed us to be induced at 40 weeks.  

They talk about a birth plan, and I think we were pretty flexible with ours (I legit just spelled that 'ares', so that should tell you how long it's been since I've written anything), which was essentially, "natural if possible, no meds unless needed, but if circumstances dictate a change, we'll change."  

I was allowed into the birthing suite, which was a relief.  Back then we were still washing our mail, literally spraying fucking Lysol (couldn't get 409 anymore because the shelves were empty) on our bills and opening them a day later after bathing them in the sweet sweet virucidal UV light of the sun on our dining room table, so my first order of business was taking chlorox wipes and wiping down all the surfaces in that entire room.  Anything a hand or ass might touch...it was wiped with chlorine solution.  My hands were red and rough and stung a bit after three days of it.  

We were hyper focused on nurse/doctor hand sanitizing.  Before every exam we'd scold the staff if they hadn't sanitized since entering the room.  

We knew he was a boy.  We had names (Elliott James was the winner, but we had considered Finn, Kieran, Henry, and Bastian (as god is my witness did I really sign off on Bastion??)).  Angie took her meds or...was GIVEN her meds...that morning and went into labor that afternoon.  

Angie is great with pain.  Very stoic.  She had told me this.  She did, however, begin dropping many many f-bombs as her contractions started getting worse.  Meds were administered for pain...I think around 8 hours in, but I might have the timing wrong on that.  There was another F-bomb or two during this process.  I think the staff was getting scared of her.  She was pushing just after midnight, but Elliott, content, would not consent to be born.  He was labeled an "arrested descent" and a c-section was scheduled.  

In an OR suite where tubes and hoses snaked across the floor, and wires and cords were tangling into and out of machines that went "ping", he was born healthy and happy and wrinkled, with eyes so dark they defied all attempts at color categorization.  We settled on brown, but honestly, to this day, they still look black they're so dark.  His hair was curly and slightly reddish.  The nurse took my phone over the curtain Angie's face and I were occupying and took pictures on the business end where all was clean, save for the new baby.  A few minutes later they brought him to us to gaze at, but not touch, until we were wheeled back into the birthing suite.

He looked a little bit like this:

Feet!

His stats:  19 3/4" Long, 7 lbs 3 oz, Eye color...black, hair color dark brown.  I think Angie's brother Michael won the "baby pool".  

At that point Angie hadn't eaten for...a long time.  And apparently there are good reasons for this, but she nibbled on ice chips for a while before, for WHATEVER reason, she was able to drink what she wanted more than anything else in the world:  Grape juice.  I've never seen her drink grape juice before or since, and frankly, I'm not sure I ever want to, because after burning through all the grape juice in the hospital (We sent nurses to find more, begging borrowing and stealing until we could slake her grape juice thirst) she vomited it allllll back into a little plastic tub that she held on her stomach until the feeling passed.  Then returned.  Then passed again.  Despit this she still says it was "the most delicious grape juice she'd ever had in her life".  

I think that's gotta be it for now.  I don't want to blow through my muse all in one sitting.  We still had a couple days left in the hospital before heading home.  And we have months of Covid isolation and loss and grief and injustice to catch us up to the present.  

But it's a start.  

New beginnings

 I just looked at the last post I wrote.  It was 4/20/2020.  A couple weeks after the pandemic officially closed us all down.  A couple weeks after Elliott was born.  A couple weeks after Emma's 18th birthday.  I don't know what stopped me from writing it all down.  Maybe the sheer amount of stuff?  Where to start?  

Fittingly the post was titled, "Where to Begin", and I wish I'd have finished it.  It talked about all the stuff that Emma had to say goodbye to her senior year, and it talked about Eli being born, or at least it would have, if I'd have finished it.  Maybe I will.  Maybe I'll go back and try to remember what I can of it all and hope I can do it at least a little justice.  

I've felt a lot of guilt about not blogging anymore.  Some relief, but mostly guilt.  It shouldn't be a job.  Unless you love your job, I guess.  And I really enjoy writing, though maybe my silence over the past two plus years hasn't been a good demonstration of that.  

I was talking to Angie about it the other day.  I think I've even blogged about it.  When I was in college I decided I wanted to take up running.  I figured the best way to do it would be to buy super expensive running shoes (at that time they were Nike Air Pegasus) from the athletic store where I worked.  They weren't the MOST expensive, but to a college kid making just over minimum wage they were pretty spendy.  And the thinking was...if I blow all this money on running shoes, I will DEFINITELY run, because not running will make me feel guilty about blowing the money on shoes.  You know, instead of beer.

This is not a picture of the actual shoes.

And it worked.  That one day.  I ran on a trail through the  mountains outside of Kalispell, Montana where I was visiting a friend who had invited me to a lakehouse.  It rained, but that was pretty cool, and I wasn't really sure what I was doing, but I was running, and taking in nature and fulfilling the promise that I'd made with my $120 shoe purchase.  And then I never did it again.

In the past I've posted and said, "I know I haven't been around much, but from here on out, you're going to see lots more from me."  And I do post more frequently.  And then I stop.  So no promises.  But I WANT to write more, and I want to tell you about how great Emma is doing in school, and how Lily is growing up and navigating her school, and how Elliott is doing, and I know that getting started is as simple as opening up the app and typing, "I just looked at the last post I wrote."  

So much has happened that it seems overwhelming to start, but isn't material that is seemingly endless every writer's dream?  I'm not post this on facebook or sharing it anywhere.  I think people used to subscribe to reading lists or whatever, and I don't know how to turn that stuff off, so I'm not going to bother trying.  I'm just going to write and post and try to get back in the habit of posting, and if I finally decide that I've written something that's truly worth sharing (or that I feel like sharing) then I'll give it a share.

In the meantime, I'll revisit, "Where to Begin" and just post a couple stream of consciousness type things until I get back into the habit.

Permission to Fail

We've talked before about giving ourselves permission ...wait...have we talked about this?  Permission to be late, for example?  Dammit.  Lemme look.

I...guess not?  I REALLY thought we'd chatted about this.

So, in a nutshell, I find myself really stubborn about plans.  In particular, if plans have to change at the last minute, I find myself in a long-term funk related to how I hoped something would go versus how it ended up.  Almost all of the time, the change in plan is minuscule.  But it never seems to matter, because I get really irritated regardless of how unimportant.  I guess the issue is that I've taken all this time to plan something out, and communicate that plan, and do what I can to execute it according to expectations, and...something happens.  Maybe the other person is late, maybe the place we go has a wait list, or the movie is sold out, or whatever.  The reason I thought I'd blogged about this in the past is because I've been doing a lot better about that stuff lately for just the absolute stupidest reason...I started adding "change plans if X happens" to my planning.

Honestly this ridiculous "revelation" happened initially when I was dating a girl (prior to Angie, after Leslie) who was always late.  Always.  And there was always a good reason, and she had to drive like an hour to see me every time we went out, so it wasn't like I was the one who was put out necessarily, but I started including "change of plans if she's late" to my plan...and it made everything magically fine.  Pissed if plans changed, until "change plans" was added to the plan in the first place.  Boom, no longer pissed.

What crazy-ass psychological phenomenon is this?  I think I started implementing it after she was an hour late to something and I was in a foul mood the rest of the date, and I'm not saying I flawlessly implement it in general now, but when I do...A TON of the stress I feel about the plan/schedule/event just...evaporates.

Okay, so on to what I actually wanted to write about before I got sidetracked by the thing I thought I already wrote about that was the groundwork for THIS topic.  I think, and I'm not even going back to look at this point, that I mentioned in the last blog how I always feel better when I'm doing something creative/artistic.  Even if that thing is chore-like (paint the walls, for example).  Making noticeable changes or creating things...drawings, blogs, whatever, always makes me feel sort of accomplished.  Even reading gives me that same sort of enjoyment.  And I decided that if I truly wanted to draw/write/whatever, instead of spending time on my phone with apps...I could just do that thing.

And at first I did this thing I always do when I'm starting something...I delayed.  I can't draw without pencils, or a special eraser, or sketchpad.  Maybe I need a couple books on technical stuff.  And a pencil case.  It's stuff that sort of tricks me into thinking I'm doing the thing I said I wanted to do without actually doing it.  Like buying a pair of new running shoes in order to "make sure" you start running in order to justify the expense, or announcing to the world that you're writing a book so that you have no choice but to write the book because otherwise you're a liar.

And that doesn't always work.  In fact, maybe it usually doesn't.  I don't know.  Maybe two years ago (maybe three) I bought myself a sketchpad, pencils and a book instructing the basics of drawing.  And I read a couple pages, and I did a sketch, and then delayed and put it away and forgot about it until basically a few weeks ago.

Around the time I decided I needed to read more, I decided I also needed to write more (hence recent blog activity), I then also decided (again) that I needed to draw more.  So I've been taking my sketch pad with me to the little coffee shop in Etna that I go to wait when Lily has dance class on Saturdays.  While I'm there I order a cortado and get out my little pad and sketch.  So far I just did a picture of Emma that I drew from one of her senior pictures.

Oh...quick sidebar.  Emma introduced me to Tik Tok.  It's apparently the new Vine.  Anyway, lots of short videos by incredibly artistic and creative people all doing things that look really neat (at least that's the stuff I tend to like/follow).  And the more videos of a certain type that you like, the more your timeline is populated with similar videos.  Currently I could kill hours watching artists cut, draw, sculpt, paint, etc in real time or time lapse, giving their tips and tricks and providing tutorials that are...inspirational?  Yeah...I guess inspirational is the right word, because when I watch them it really makes ME want to draw.

There's this format (let's call it a format) of video by artists where they show their sketch pads.  There's a subcategory of this format where artists get real and REALLY show their sketch pads.  And they're almost always prefaced with some sort of blurb about..."okay, this really pisses me off, but here's what a real sketch pad looks like..." and the thing they're pissed about is all the sketch pads in the first format are amazing.  These artists sketch pencil drawings that look like photographs.  They're incredible.  But what many of them don't show is the goofy/badly-executed drawings that they started or stopped, the sloppy rejected pages of half finished drawings with big exes marked through them.  Their failures, basically.

The other thing I've noticed (before I move on from Tik Tok) when watching tutorials to help me with something that I don't do well and want to improve on is...these artists erase and restart ALL THE TIME.  I'm sure some small part of me KNEW that...but not on a conscious level.  I'll watch a five minute video of a person doing a sketch and see (in timelapse quicksilver progression) the evolution of an amazing drawing that is made and remade, drawn and erased, dozens of times to get it to its finished form (that is almost always incredible).  I don't think I ever really got to watch someone draw.  I don't think I was ever aware how a really great artist could fuck up so many times, erase and start over and finish with something amazing.

I always loved drawing as a kid.  I was telling Angie last night that I used to spend HOURS drawing.  In school when my work was done I'd draw.  I had tons of paper in my desk in grade school and whenever there was a break I'd just draw stuff.  Kids would stand around my desk and watch me do it.  Nobody ever taught me how...I just liked it.  And the more I did it the better I got at it, but...I didn't really know what the fuck I was actually doing.  My last art class was in sixth grade.  And around that time I started to have trouble with some of the kids in my class (probably seventh and eighth actually).  I started to withdraw into myself.  I stopped doing things that would draw attention to myself for a while.  I started worrying about how NOT to look dorky and, growing up as a kid in the 80's, art was dorky.  I stopped drawing.  I read instead.  I doodled a bit after my rough patch in seventh and eighth, but really nothing like what I used to do.  I never really went back to it.

What I'm saying is, I feel like I could DO some of the stuff I see on Tik Tok, but I just was never really taught how.  And having never witnessed someone ELSE drawing, I just had my own weird habits and hangups to judge from.  And here's where I go full circle to my point...I started giving myself permission to draw poorly in my sketch book.  I previously drew a thing or two here or there.  But there was always this weird self-imposed barrier to drawing for the sake of drawing.  I had to KNOW what I wanted to draw.  I had to map it all out and start it so that when it ended it would be something I'd be proud to show someone.  The whole sketchbook had to be pristine and something to show off and...that was wrong.  There were no doodles.  No half started sketches.  No brainstorming or experimentation.  It had to be right the first time.

That approach made the act of drawing so intimidating that I would never pick a subject.  I would never start.  I would only start if I knew I could make something cool/neat.  And now...now I've decided that I'm going to use my sketchpad not for finished projects, but to learn how to draw.

So I'm drawing a picture of Emma.  I'm working on her hair currently.  I draw hair badly.  There's a YouTube video of "Do's and Don't's" of drawing hair.  The artist shows in a single sketch all the things you shouldn't do, the "don't's" (is that apostrophized (is apostrophized a word?) properly?  Angie?)...and it's still better than what I can draw.  And her Do's???  Well it just looks like a photograph of someones hair.  And I'm looking back at things in the sketchpad that I drew before (some from years ago) and even just from watching a handful of tutorials on Tik Toc (and YouTube) I see lots of areas that are immediately better than what I was previously proud to call a finished product.  And this is just the learning process...not something I'm doing to call "art" or to give away or to show off.  This is just me educating myself on how to draw.  And by giving myself permission to draw for the sake of drawing, to draw just because drawing is fun and creating is fulfilling and practice makes me better, I've already found myself doing it more...and better.

I've given myself permission to not be perfect.  You wouldn't think that's something you'd have to do.  But I'm finding that artists' sketchpads are like Facebook families.  They show you the best and hide the worst.  And there's a lesson there for parents and friends, for family and for life in general, that what people show you and share with you is usually the best part of their life/love/art.  Behind each triumphant post are dozens or hundreds (or more) failures.  Facebook captures only the snapshots of our friends' lives that they choose to share and we know this subconsciously because it's what we ourselves also choose to share.  But we forget.  And in forgetting we feel driven to strive for that perfection that we and others share publicly and when we fall short, we have 'failed'.

I've given myself permission to use my sketchpad to learn how to draw better pictures.  I need to give myself permission to use my time with my family to learn to be a better father, son, husband, friend too.  To fuckup, but learn.  And realize that fucking up is PART of learning to be better, and that despite what the Tik Tok sketchpad of life might show, there are some pretty goofy-looking pictures in the sketchpads of all of our lives, even the most perfect-seeming.  And if we keep practicing we'll get better, and getting better is the goal.

I didn't meant to try to make that sound deeper than it really is.  I just find myself continually amazed at how the ridiculous conscious decision of "giving myself permission" to fail, draw badly, be late, change my plans, not be perfect, look goofy, etc, can relieve so much of my personal stress.

Newlyweds

Angie and I have been married about nine months.  We've both been previously married, so although I guess we're still technically newlyweds, we've also both had some marriage experience.

We just celebrated Valentine's Day, adapted it to our new blended family of dogs and cats and children, pregnancies and autism.  And in advance I think we agreed not to buy gifts, just go out to dinner and spend time together.  And this was a LITTLE different...a bit of a babymoon (yeah, I'd never heard of it either), a bit of a celebration of a year since I'd proposed, a hint of Valentine's Day...so I got her a little something.  Very little.

No big deal, but she and I had looked at these illustrations by this artist she followed on instagram, Yaoyao Ma Van As, and they were really cute.  It was mostly this woman and her dog doing different things.  She has a neat style though, and so we looked through the instagram feed and she told me which ones she liked and I told her which ones I preferred.

Here's the illustrator and her work, for reference:
https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/yaoyaomva/

I'm getting forgetful.  These days if I don't strike while the iron's hot, or put a reminder in my phone, I'm forgetting.  So I bought a couple prints from the website and a couple frames from Amazon, and when they arrived I hid them in my special hiding place that I cannot reveal here lest it no longer be special.  Or hidden.  It wasn't a big expediture, just something I thought she'd like.

I'm a pretty good husband, I think.  Mostly.  There are times, however, that I nitpick.  And I recognize (after the fact mostly but sometimes as it's happening) that I'm doing it, but in the moment I'm helpless to stop myself.  I try to learn from it, try to recognize how petty it is, and stop doing it before the NEXT conversation, but sometimes it just bubbles up anyway.

Some past examples:  Paper towel roll tears off the wrong direction on the vertical rod, vegetable peeler belongs in a different drawer, toilet lid shut sounds like it's slamming, and many many more.  I'm not saying I'm constantly peppering her with these things.  I'm honestly not.  But I see old married couples do this all the time, and as a bystander it annoys me, so I KNOW I need to chill the fuck out about it.  Also, for the most part I think I'm pretty good about recognizing it and apologizing for making a big deal out of nothing and trying to do better.

And on Angie's side, she typically hears my ridiculous "complaint" and does whatever unimportant thing I took issue with "my" way because she really doesn't give a shit, and one way is just as good as another so what's the harm?  And honestly thank god for her and for that, because it would be super easy for her to be pissed about it and then we'd be arguing about the least important shit and I'd have to apologize.  And I'd hate to let our streak of *checks notes* two years and five months without an argument go to waste.  From her perspective, she's been living alone long enough that she isn't concerned with things like "making too much noise closing a toilet lid".  So she says she recognizes not every habit adapts perfectly to living with three other humans, her dog and a cat.

So we've lived together for 11 months, and I'm getting used to her habits and she's getting used to mine.  And if you're worried that perhaps Angie is getting steamrolled in this relationship, bullied into doing things the Jim Walter way, please don't.  Angie holds her own just fine. 

I got her two inexpensive prints for Valentine's Day and we had dinner together and spend the night downtown and explored Lawrenceville the next day and it was so much fun.  And Angie wasn't caught flat-footed by my gifts despite my springing them on her at the last minute.  Not to be outdone, I had my own gift to unwrap on Valentine's Day.

A soft close toilet seat.

Bloggers Gonna Blog

As part of my 'return to reading' I just finished my wife's favorite book, "I Know This Much is True".  It was good.  It's not the kind of book I'd ordinarily read because a lot of it is sad and I honestly just feel like I can do without all the sadness in my 'entertainments'.  It's a drama.  But it was really thoughtful, and well written, and researched, and it made me think, which is key.

I had just finished IKTMIT and moved on to, "Manhood for Amateurs", which Angie's sister and brother-in-law (I think it was them, Angie?  Wasn't it?) gave me for Christmas.  It's by one of my favorite authors, Michael Chabon.  It's a series of essays, which is ALSO not something I typically read (Honestly, it's basically a book of blogs if we're being honest.  And I'm not sure you could go TOO wrong reading a blog written by Michael Chabon.  ANYWAY...), but straight out of the gate, his essay on - what?  Art?  Taking chances? - struck a chord.  It was called "Loser's Club". 

In the context of a story from his childhood where he attempted to create a comicbook fanclub (and failed), he writes about the process of creating art, and it resonated with me.  He said, "Every work of art is one half of a secret handshake...an act of hopeless optimism in the service of bottomless longing."  "Art, like fandom, asserts the possibility of fellowship in a world built entirely from materials of solitude."  He talks a bit about this failed fan club as a model for every book he writes.  "My story and my stories are all, in one way or another, the same, tales of solitude and the grand pursuit of connection, of success and the inevitability of defeat."

And boy, does that seem like blogging.  At least for me.  Whether I'm reaching out to fellow autism parents, writers, friends, family, or my kids...or maybe I'm reaching for memories or trying to capture a feeling for myself...blogging is looking for connection the way he describes making art as the pursuit of connection.  And with blogging, perhaps a much more direct and tangible result like interaction with like-minded people, and social media conversation.

And all this 'inevitability of defeat' stuff is a bit of a downer, except, EXCEPT, this is the Pulitzer Prize winner.  And it's kind of nice to know that even when you've written...however many novels he's written, and even when you've won...whatever awards he's won...you still question yourself and worry about failure.  And maybe for someone like me (or others who might read this) you shouldn't worry so much about the failure, because EVERYONE worries about failure, and instead just reach out for that secret handshake and search for a fellowship of readers in the solitude of writing.  I think that's what all bloggers do, or are doing...looking for people 'in their shoes' to read their words, acknowledge their own similar/same experiences, and take what was a work of solitude and turn it into a shared experience.

I hope that made sense. 

Meanwhile...or...actually "later":  I was 'reading' "Sharp Ends", which is a series of short stories (another nuther thing I usually don't read) by Joe Abercrombie.  I put reading in quotes because it's an audiobook.  I love Abercrombie's books.  At the end of Sharp Ends there's a ten minute interview with the narrator and Abercrombie, and they discuss "muse".  Abercrombie is asked how he approaches writing.  Does he wait for the muse to strike, or sit and write from 10 - 2, or other?  And Abercrombie said something that I thought was smart.  He said if he waited for the muse he'd never write.  He said that real writing, is writing in SPITE of your muse (or lack thereof), the hardwork of writing something even though you don't really feel inspired to do so. 

I think I've always known that, but again, it's nice to hear an established author talk about not really being particularly inspired, but writing through it anyway, because...it's what he does for a living.  He went on to say that he sometimes IS inspired and sometimes DOES get a great idea he wants to commit to the page, but that his writing is not and can not be dependent upon that.  It's too inconstant. 

That, to a certain extent, is advice I need to apply directly to myself.  I mean, I don't ever really want to feel like writing is a slog, or writing isn't enjoyable.  But maybe abandoning writing entirely because you're at a particularly uninspired place and waiting for ideas to come to you is the wrong approach.  And maybe getting into the habit of writing...on good days, on bad days, so that overall you've enjoyed the process even if a few times you felt like what you produced was complete dogshit, is the right way to do it, if you want to DO it. 

I often pay lip service to the idea that I want to write, but also struggle from time to time making the effort to do so.

Anyway.  I've wanted to write.  And to read.  And so this is some stuff that I read and it made me want to write about it.  Win-win!

Hello

Two posts in 2019.  Yikes.

I always used to say that when my online friends went AWOL it was usually one of two reasons...
Things were going really well, or things were going really badly. 

I don't know if there's a way to track time spent on social media, but sometime over the course of 2016 - present, I started dreading social media in general and facebook in particular.  The vast majority of the dread stemmed from constant divisive political discourse.  I decided twitter was easier for my psyche, but I still post sporadically on Facebook. 

Often I have almost this posting paralysis.  I think...I should post this, and then my brain starts analyzing it and I end up not posting.  Lots of stuff going on in my head, some of which I really need to work out...guilt-type stuff, but mostly just not as engaged on social media as I once was.

And...things are going really well (see above).  So *pats self on back* I was right all along!

2019 had a proposal, a wedding, a honeymoon, a pregnancy (this is a developing story), college visits, nursery planning, and much much more.  But I suppose I could have taken the time to write at least SOME of it. 

And the more I don't write the more I feel weird writing again.  Like I somehow have to make up for all the stuff I didn't cover.  Like the longer I don't write the more stuff builds up that I NEED to write about, and the more pressure I feel to either write it all...or write none of it.  And so I write none of it.

I was telling Angie a week or so ago that I want to write again. 

There are a lot of things I want to do.  There always have been.  And nobody ever has all the time they need to do all the things they want to do.  But recently I started reading books again.  I've never stopped..."consuming" them.  I listen to audio books every day on my commute, or during walks.  But I just started picking up paper books and reading those around the time we flew to Athens in June/July on our honeymoon.  It felt good.  It felt nostalgic.  And it felt...productive(?) to choose a book over apps on my phone. 

I want to draw again too.  I've been watching TikToks (speaking of unproductive phone apps) of artists drawing/painting/carving...and it's so satisfying to WATCH, and I really enjoy doing it...who knows, maybe that's next. 

Creative stuff in general, I guess.  That's what I've been missing in general.  I think somewhere in these 'pages' I once wrote about things that make me happy...I think one of those things was 'creating'...writing/drawing/etc.  I have to go find that now. 

But I digress.  I won't say I'M BACK!  But it's likely I'll try to make more time to write.

I have stuff that needs saying...heavy stuff, sad stuff, happy stuff, silly stuff.  The usual.

Plus also, I'll be the father of a baby boy sometime in the late March timeframe, so I basically will have a whole shitload of new material about raising a baby at 50, etc.  So...enjoy THAT shitshow.

Laundry and Asks

One of the things that being previously married did NOT prepare me for was how much granularity there would need to be between a t-shirt, a running t-shirt, or a hanging up "nice" t-shirt.  Every time we do laundry the decision-tree my brain runs through in order to determine what drawer or hanger (also, hang on top (normal clothes) or bottom (I've gained a couple pounds clothes)) each item must be properly housed inside,  approaches legendary-oak-growing-in-the-town-square proportions.  That's not fair.  There are really only three branches to the shirt tree.  Three branches to the leggings tree.  Two branches to the tank top tree.  etc.  But too many fucking branches.

I do recognize, that this also applies to me, to some extent, but you'd think a Chem E graduate in his 40s (clinging tightly to this for a few more weeks...grasping to it) would have little difficulty determining whether these are:  Running leggings, everyday leggings, or lounging/painting leggings.

I put clothes away this morning after you left, Angie, if you're reading this.  See?  You really DO inspire me every day.

MEANWHILE...

I have a bone to pick with you sons-a-bitches and your prom/homecoming "asks".  Each ask is a bit more convoluted and "clever" than the last, and requires a bit more work to complete and...and this is the kicker, people...the fucking parents do them.  THE PARENTS.  This is just like every science project my kid has ever done, but it's for a damn DANCE!

Emma got asked to Hoco by her boyfriend.  Yes, boyfriend, and no...I can't elaborate.  I found out that his mom did his ask sign (He also gave her two dozen roses, so I'm sorta cool with him right now) while I was vehemently arguing AGAINST helping Emma do her friend's boyfriend's ask sign.  (He asked her nicely, gave her $20 for supplies and told her to keep whatever was left for gas money).  So yeah...I did Emma's friend's friend's ask sign for him.  I mean...Emma and I did.

Also...ALSO...you know how she got me to do it??  And don't think I didn't see through this shit INSTANTLY (yet was powerless to do anything about it)...she said, "I love it when we do this kind of stuff together, dad."

Well jesus.  Hope you liked your goddamn ask sign.

MEANWHILE...

Lily is settling back in to the school schedule.  It hasn't been easy, but it hasn't been exactly hard either.  I guess when you do something enough times, even if it seems difficult to someone who hasn't...it's just...the way it is.  She remains happy, healthy, and very Wiggles focused (but also Frozen focused...because branching out).

Lastly, we're all settling in now after the wedding.  Wait...shit...did I post about getting married?  GOD I'm getting old (still in my 40s, still in my 40s, still in my 40s).  I'm going to hit post on this and then have to GO BACK and search for it.  To be fair, my last post was a LONG time ago.  So there's that.  Anyway...married...settling in.  Everything is really going well.

As you were.

Hello there.

*picks up blog...turns it over reverently in my hands.  Blows on it.  A cloud of dust fans out, obscuring vision, choked breathing can be heard.  I cough.  Clear my throat.  Begin.*

Hello there.  It's me.  Jim.  Jim...Walter?  You remember me, right?  It's been a while.  Six months is definitely the longest I've gone without posting.  September 2018 was the last thing I wrote here.  Let's catch up.

In blogging.  Or...maybe in social media in general, when people disappear for a long time usually it's one of two things...Things are going great, or things are going terribly. 

Things aren't going terribly.  That's a spoiler.  But not a big one. 

Back in September I decided that instead of posting blogs, I'd start writing a book.  Nanowrimo started in November, and I decided to join this year in earnest.  Nanowrimo is a portmanteau for "National Novel Writing Month".  https://nanowrimo.org/

Instead of posting things here serial/monthly style, I started posting daily to a cloud-based "pages" document.  That allowed me to write wherever (not that I couldn't have done that here, but it felt like something I needed to do separately) without carting around flash drives or laptops or whatever. 

Second spoiler...I didn't finish.  The target of 1667 words per day (to get you to a respectable 50,000 word novel) was at first pretty easy, but started to weigh on me over the weekends.  There wasn't a good "lunch time" period to bang out my words, so I would fall behind every weekend.  And every weekend after that I would fall further behind, until I eventually just stopped trying to catch up in frustration. 

I won't go into the specifics (it's dull) but a combination of goal-anxiety, lack of organization, and schedule fullness conspired against me.  That said, it's still out there, and I still want to finish it, and I still can (and will).  I made it about 20,000 words in before I petered out, well short of the goal, but also a decent distance in.

But that was just "a month" of the six it's been.  Except that every time I felt like writing, I would think, "This should go in the BOOK, not the blog."  And then I'd do neither until pretty soon six months had gone by and the blog kept calling to me and saying in a faraway voice..."duuuuuuude...you suuuuuuuuck...come write a blog pooooooost". 

Things are either going great or they're going terribly.  The other thing that was not going terribly was my relationship with the previously mentioned (previously in other blog posts, mind you), Angie.  Things were going SO not terribly that I sat down with Emma to pick her brain on what her thoughts would be if I asked Angie to marry me. 

They were, "Yeah, I kinda assumed you would.  I like Angie."  Okay...okay...that's sorted.

They were going SO not terribly that I visited the Clark building and my old friends at Frost and Company jewelers to order an engagement ring. 

And, after briefly seeking (and receiving) her parents' blessing at a blizzard-interrupted "Meatball Sunday" (after lying to her that I forgot my phone on the counter in their house and rushing back inside to ask them in "privacy"), I set up a date to pop the question during our observation of Valentine's day a week later. 

Valentine's Day itself was out of the question.  She was in charge of a major fund raising event at her office the day after, and I didn't want to distract her.  Instead, my sister Dawn, and I went to the fund raiser, and I bid on one of the fundraiser's auction prizes: a cocktail reception with service, bar, and stations for 25 people.  I bid thinking, "Hey, if she says yes we have our reception already taken care of!", not pausing to consider that I might be called upon to explain WHY I thought a cocktail reception for 25 people was a good idea (Dawn and I brainstormed and I ended up telling her it was my Dad's 75th this year and she bought it.  hahaha...sucker.)

The upside to all of this is that she was so busy she wasn't really able to think about any weirdness that I might have thought she'd consider. 

"Left his PHONE?"  You mean that thing he has surgically implanted in his pocket?  Weeeeeeird."
"Bid a $1,250 on a cocktail party?  For his dad's 75th?  Pecuuuuuuuliar."

Those things that seemed so glaring to me at the time apparently never crossed her mind. 

We dined at Morcilla, a great tapas restaurant in Lawrenceville.  We had an amazing meal.  I felt conspicuous about the amount of attention I paid to the heart-spangled gift bag where I'd secreted the ring box.  In the Uber, in the restaurant...I REALLY saw myself leaving it behind like a to-go box so I was overly attentive to it.  But again...she was oblivious. 

I arranged (ultimately...there were several previous iterations that logistics or the weather (it was very cold) nixed) to have the Uber drop us off near the river.  I told her we would walk along the river to Butcher and the Rye, where we had our first date.  I asked her to show me where we had our first kiss and then, once we found it and kissed, I said, "Ready to go to bar?"

She said yes, and I rummaged in the bag, saying, "One more thing..." (Doubtless she'll edit me on my actual words, her memory is amazing, but it amounted to that if it wasn't EXACTLY that).  I fumbled for the ring (visions of it tumbling into the river moving slowly to the forefront) before securing it, dropping to my knee, producing it with a flourish (opening the box toward her like a clam shell...I couldn't help but glance inside to make sure it was still there) and carefully saying, "Angie, will you marry me?"

She was genuinely dumbstruck, but did manage to say those four words that every man longs to hear...*checks notes*..."Are you fucking kidding?"

I was not, I assured her, fucking kidding.  And then she was nodding and her eyes were pressed shut and her hands were covering her face and she was crying and I rose up to hold her, hugging her close and breathing into her hair, "Was...was that yes?" 

"Yes," she laugh cried, and we stood like that for what seemed like a really really long time.

And then I said, "I...I really need you to take this ring, my fingers are freezing".  And she took it.  It was much too large.  Dainty fingers I'd told the jeweler when I'd tried with him to guess her size.  She would later return to find that the 6.5 he'd assumed was quite a bit larger than the 5.25 she would ultimately need. 

When the crying slowed down I said, "Do you want to go to the bar and have a drink with your mom and dad and my mom and dad and my sister?" 

And she said, "Oh nooooo..." and the crying started all over again and I was pretty sure they were happy tears but a part of me kept thinking, "Oh no?  Oh no?  Crap, what does that mean?"

They were happy tears. 

We went to the bar and they bought us champagne and we drank and the parents (and my sister) bonded a bit and all in all it was a super successful engagement mostly because of the "yes". 

And so...we circle back at last to my opening message.  I haven't been around because things have been great.  And because I've been busy.  And because I was writing somewhere else for a bit (and will return to that as well).  I'll try to make it back a bit more frequently. 

But I know you've read that somewhere before...

I look smug.  That...that's probably accurate.