15 July 2010

I had a bad night last night. Not that anything terrible happened, or even that I was worried about anything – I just couldn’t get to sleep. After trying to fall asleep for about 2 hours, I think I dozed off for about 30 minutes, only to be woken up by the sound of my wife coming to bed. Then, long after she fell asleep, I drifted off again, but within the hour I woke up having to go to the bathroom. In fact, I got out of bed 4 times to go to the bathroom which, in itself, is odd, because it’s not like a chugged a gallon of water before lying down.

I kept staring at my alarm clock, mentally deducting the time I had remaining to sleep. Around 4:45, I just cut my losses, got up, got ready for today, and drove to work. I didn’t even feel like eating breakfast, so I just had a banana.

I kept wondering what my problem was. I had had one cup of tea during the day – but that was over twelve hours before going to bed (~8:00 in the morning), so any caffeine should’ve worked it’s way out long before I went to sleep.

But then I remembered that we went out to eat last night. I didn’t order anything spicy. I ordered a pizza. In fact, it was a very tasty pizza. There were mushrooms on it, big pieces of tomatoes, peppers, onion and some cheese. All good stuff. I don’t think I overate, either. I didn’t get a side salad to go with it and I declined the dessert.

The only thing I could figure is that my son ordered the spaghetti for his meal and it came with a single meatball. That’s it. One single meatball. Owen didn’t even want any sauce on it. My wife cut it into about twenty pieces for him to eat. I think he ate one of those pieces, then decided he didn’t like it. But I ate two pieces of it, mostly just to show Owen what to do with it, in an attempt to get him to finish his meal.

The only upside to having slept so poorly last night is that I know I’ll sleep well tonight – no matter what. I’m so insanely tired that I know I’ll fall asleep quickly and deeply.

16 July 2010

So, we’ve been trying to buy a coming-home outfit for child #2 for sometime now. We always – always – have difficulty finding things we want at stores.

I think I’ve mentioned this before but the problem is that stores want consumers to come in and browse and buy the things they see. Jennifer and I do it differently – we think up something we need, then we go buy it. Okay, for things like food and toiletries this isn’t usually a problem. And when it comes to media – music, books, and movies – we usually have no problem either (probably because we hear of something we think we’ll like and then, knowing it does exist, we go buy it). But everything else, we have great difficultly.

Jennifer had a very classy coming home outfit for Owen. It was simple, white, and comfortable. In fact, just click here to see him modeling it. Unfortunately, it appears that no other outfit like this exists in the known universe.

We’ve tried several stores: Peapods, Gymboree, Baby Gap, Babies-R-Us, Carter’s, Baby Grand, and Janie and Jack (a place I’d never heard of until actually walking into it at the Mall of Hysteria). But all those stores, which have an ridiculous amount of overlap all have a combination of one or more of the same problems:

-Hardly anything for newborns. Yeah, it’s true: some of these stores seem to think humans come into the word weighing 12 pounds. Which, I know, happens sometimes, but I just don’t think that’s going to be our case.

-Too cutesy. I have no problem with outfits that sport multiple da-glo colors, or outfits with pictures of bears or giraffes or other animals on them. But can’t we just get a simple gown with no decals on it?

-Gender-specific. Why are we assigning these infants gender roles? All the pink gowns are frilly as anything – and I won’t be raising a girl that wears frilly crap like that. And so many boy outfits have huge (as in “life size”) baseballs pictured on them.

Anyway, today I ventured, along with a co-worker to Edelweiss Baby. Doesn’t that just sound expensive? Not sure why…maybe it’s the ‘foreign’ sound of it’s name. Regardless, the name is appropriate because, damn, that place was expensive. My co-worker used her iPhone and took pictures of some of the outfits so that we could email them to Jennifer and they ranged in price from $28 to $90. I’m sorry, but I just can’t justify spending $90 on a piece of clothing. I’m pretty sure the only piece of clothing I own that cost me more than $90 is a suit. Which, first of all, is actually two pieces of clothing and, second of all, has lasted me 12 years already. I’m not sure child #2 will be able to get 12 years out of his/her coming home outfit.

17 July 2010

This morning, Owen and I tried to go to the Farmer’s Market. There’s a farmer’s market near our home, but, unfortunately, they’re only open Friday afternoons, so it’s tough to get there after work. Also, it’s a small market. A few times, I’ve inquired about certain kinds of produce, and the vendors tell me such items are only available at the mega-market in downtown St. Paul.

But here’s the one area where St. Paul sucks just as bad as Minnecrapolis: there’s no place to park. In the entire city. I didn’t think the parking would be a problem, since there would be a lot less business workers there. But it turns out, everyone in St. Paul and the seven-county metro area visits this market. There was no place to park within five blocks. Actually, I did find one spot, but guess what? You have to feed the meter. On a Saturday! I had no change on me. “James,” you might say, “how can you be so stupid as to not keep any change in your car?” That’s a great question, though I don’t appreciate being made fun. Here’s the answer: it’s a new car. Had I brought my Cavalier, I would’ve had enough change to feed five meters.

Anyway, I would’ve parked six or seven blocks away, but it was about 110 degrees outside with a relative humidity of 300% and I had Owen with me and I didn’t want to make him walk through that sauna just to go walk around a crowded outdoor market. So we went back home.

This afternoon, we went to Oh Baby! a store with a less highfaluting name than Edelweiss Baby but, since it’s located in the Galleria in Edina, more than makes up for that. They had this one outfit made out of bamboo that looked and felt so stinking comfortable that, for a fleeting moment, I wished I was only 20 inches tall. Alas, it wasn’t exactly what Jennifer wanted for a coming home outfit and, at 50 bucks, we weren’t about to settle. Still, I liked the outfit, so feel free to but it for us. On second thought, just go to Goodwill and get us 10 outfits with that same $50.

Then we drove north for a couple of miles and stopped at Goodnight Moon, a store named after that bizarre children’s book that, like Ummagumma, I’m told is a lot better if experienced when high. To make a long story short, they had what we wanted. The employee tried talking us into buying both a light pink and a light blue hat to go with the gown but after I expressed my dissatisfaction with that idea, she said: “Well, I can check out back stock,” which was her way of saying “I can open this drawer right here.” I’m glad she was able to go through all that effort for us, because that drawer harbored a simple white cap that matched the gown very well. We spent $42. Yikes – that’s still a lot, but somehow not as bad as $90.

I’ll show you what the gown looks like in a few weeks, once we’ve photographed it being modeled by child #2.

13 July 2010

This morning on the radio, there was a discussion about Money magazine’s 100 Best Places to Live. They said the list includes only small cities, which they interpret to mean 50,000-300,000 residents.

It turns out that #1 on the list is Eden Prairie. Even after reading the reasons for Eden Prairie’s honored selection, though, I still couldn’t figure out why it was #1. Granted, I don’t have extensive knowledge of all the small cities in America, but I’m not sure, exactly, what makes Eden Prairie stand out so much from so many other cities nearby. Why not Edina? Or Maple Grove? Or Minnetonka? Perhaps it’s because they purposely excluded retirement communities and cities with over 95% white people. ‘Cause, you know, those cities can’t possible be good. Those cities didn’t even make the list.

Money magazine appears to have  an infatuation with Minnesota it would seem. Or, at least, they did initially, and then their love floundered. Four other Minnesota cities make the top 20, and then there’s not a single Minnesota citing in the rest of the list. The other four cities from the Land of 10,000 Lakes are: Plymouth (at #11), Woodbury (at #13), Eagan (at #15) and Apple Valley (at #20). The only one of these five cities I’ve ever lived in is Apple Valley. I gotta admit, Apple Valley was a very clean, safe place, with lots of stores and restaurants right in town. They also had some great parks, most notably the Minnesota Zoo. I bet those animals are all happy that they live in the 20th best place to live in America.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Eden Prairie. Plymouth was #1 back in 2008, and now look how it’s fallen! Meanwhile, the city of Chanhassen ranked #2 last year, and doesn’t appear at all in this year’s list.

Also today: My sister has entered her 30s today. When last I saw her, at that wedding back on Saturday, she was pretty keen on having the baby share her birthday. Sorry, Diane, doesn’t look like that’s happening. I called her today to wish her a happy birthday. She said she spent four hours mowing the lawn today. Oh well. Hope the rest of her 30s are more fun than that.

14 July 2010

I didn’t realize this until I was driving in to work this morning, but my son is five years and two months old as of today. I agree, that’s a pretty meaningless milestone, but here’s why I found it noteworthy: That’s how old I was when I became a big brother. So, unless the new baby doesn’t arrive until after August 14th (by which time it would be considered overdue), Owen will be the same age – to the month – that I was when I first got a sibling. We didn’t plan that, honest.

The three of us when for a walk around the mall today. The glasses-fogging humidity was too much to handle, so I thought a leisurely stroll through the mall would be good. After walking around for a while, and lamenting the lack of nice newborn outfits for sale at all the kids’ stores, we ate at Tucci Benucch. Jennifer pointed out that, on the day before Owen’s birth, that’s exactly what we did: we went for a walk at a mall, then ate at an Italian restaurant. So, who knows, maybe the baby will be born tomorrow. But I’ve been assured that it most likely will not.

11 July 2010

Today we spent cleaning our home. We finished up the bedroom and one of the bathrooms. They’re spotless and all ready for the baby. We even took two bags of stuff to the goodwill. I always like doing that as it means more room in the house.

I’m pleased that the house is in such good shape and that we’ve finished everything we needed to finish before the baby arrives.

This evening, after paying a visit to the goodwill, we ate dinner at Old Chicago. Have you ever had a pizzini? I think tonight was a first for me. For $9.99 I got a salad, a pizzini, and a dessert. Pretty good price, pretty good food and all vegetarian. I’ve become a vegetarian by virtue of living with a vegetarian. If I have an appreciable amount of any meat, red meat in particular, I nearly feel like doubling over in pain, so I guess I won’t be eating too much meat. Fish seems to be okay, so maybe I’ll go buy some goldfish from the pet store and keep them on hand for when I need protein.

12 July 2010

I was going to begin this post by saying: “Today, for the first time since early 1986, I don’t own any birds.” But that’s not exactly true. I guess I’ll just give you a brief history of birds in my life:

On March 1, 1986, we bought a pet parakeet from a private breeder. His name was Beaker. He was basically my sister’s bird. A few weeks later, on April 4, we returned to the same breeder and bought a bird for me, named Peppy. Peppy died about a year later and so my parents bought me a new bird, whom I named Ruffles. Beaker and Ruffles got along so well, they shared a cage. Soon they had babies. We gave one baby to my grandparents, and we kept the other one (named Squeaky).

In 1991, Ruffles died, and so we were left with Beaker and Squeaky. Shortly after Jennifer and I got married (in 1996), my parents gave me the birds. Jennifer and I supplemented our bird collection by buying a third parakeet named Dotti. Then we bought a cockatiel named Cosmo. Since Cosmo was extremely needy and wanted constant companionship, we went to another private breeder’s place and bought him a friend, named Anni.

Then here’s where things got weird: the same day we bought Anni, we also bought a lovebird named Tango. Why did I do that? I don’t know. See, lovebirds, despite their name, aren’t very friendly. We couldn’t let Tango out of her cage to fly around with the other birds, because she would attack them. And she didn’t like us, she only bit us. So we had to buy her a friend so that she had at least some companionship. That bird was named Tequila.

So then these breeders had to get out of the bird business for one reason or another, and they asked us if we wanted their breeding lovebirds. Insanely, we said yes, and so, in one day, we became the proud owners of four more lovebirds. Only one pair of them ever produced any eggs, though. The first egg that hatched – the second of four in that clutch – we called “2 of 4”. Get it?

We had fed that bird. We had to bring her with us on a vacation. I even had to stop home after my sister’s wedding (on my way to her reception) so as to feed 2 of 4. Our idea was to sell her to make money but, guess what? Any money we made would’ve only reimbursed us for the money we spent on the birds in the first place. She was such a cute baby bird. She often went under my shirt and sat on my shoulder, falling asleep, sometimes for hours as I watched a movie or read a book. One time, when my friend Ryan came over, he saw how adorable she was towards me, and he said: “Oh, you can’t get rid of cute little ‘two-y.'” I cringed when he said that, because I knew giving her a real name (Twoey) meant I couldn’t get rid of her.

And I couldn’t.

In 1998, when Twoey was only a couple of months old, 12 and-a-half year old Beaker finally died. Cosmo, the cockatiel, died in 1999, and we gave his mate Anni to an avian rescue sanctuary. Squeaky died in 2002, and we bought Dotti a replacement friend (Heidi), who then died in 2006. My sister took Dotti soon after.

As for the lovebirds, we pawned off those breeding pairs and, in 1998, when Tango died unexpectedly, we saw that both Tequila and Twoey were alone. In no time at all, they became friends, and they lived happily together in a single cage until 2007, when Twoey evidently killed Tequila. From December 2007 until today, we’ve owned just one single lovebird…Twoey.

Why didn’t we buy a new mate for Twoey? you ask. And why didn’t we give her to someone else? Answers:

First, I didn’t want to buy another bird. The problem with replacing a fallen mate is that soon the other bird will die. See, I figured if I bought Twoey a mate, then soon Twoey would die, and then I’d be left with her mate. It would never end. Also, lovebirds are very temperamental, so there’s no guarantee she’d get along with the new bird. Further, Twoey was already nine years old, which I thought was about the upper limit of a lovebird’s life.

Second, I tried giving Twoey to my sister, who owns about 50 animals. But she said she didn’t like the idea of me giving her all my birds who are ready to die. This isn’t exactly fair, as I only ever gave her one bird (Dotti, the parakeet), and she lived for over a year with my sister. Still, as I’ve stated above, the lovebird wouldn’t fit in nicely with her bevy of parakeets and other critters, so I couldn’t really push the issue. Instead, I just kept the bird, assuring Jennifer that Twoey would die soon, so we might as well let her stay with us.

Unfortunately, we only have a two-bedroom apartment right now. She chirps loud without any other birds around, and there’s no good place to keep her. She turned ten years old…then eleven…then twelve. I wanted to keep her, but in the last few months, especially as our human family is about to grow, I realized that the only reason I wanted to keep her was sentimental – we’d raised her from a hatchling and had her (almost) longer than any other pet. She had lived with us in four different dwellings.

Still, she’s not a photo album or a family heirloom, so sentimentality is a lousy reason to keep a living thing. I couldn’t stand her. She wasn’t attached to me anymore, having lived with another bird for so long. Even today, I tried to put my hand out to pet her, and she tried to rip a chunk out of my flesh. She’s not happy. We’re not happy.

I called the avian rescue place that took our cockatiel Anni, but they said they’re not accepting new birds right now. They did, however, refer me to PAEP. So, today, Owen and I drove to Lino Lakes and surrendered care of Twoey. We left her with her cage, stand, lots of toys, ten pounds of food and a $25 donation.

In a way, I will miss her, but I know she’ll have a better life now. And so will we.

10 July 2010

I’ve never actually written down this list, but somewhere in my brain is a list of major goals I have for my life. Most of them are private matters, what I call Sam Beckett goals. Others – such as not having an only-child – are goals I’ve made rather public. Around 1:00 this afternoon, I was able to finally accomplish one of the longest-standing goals on the list.

Today, for the first time ever, I performed a wedding ceremony. How did I find myself in this situation, you may ask, and why did I even want to do that? Those are good questions. I’ll try my best to answer them, so prepare for some back story…

Even when I was a little kid, I thought it was weird how, so often, the person officiating a wedding had no special connection to the bride or the groom. I think I saw this most often on TV: the bride and groom would invite all their closest friends and family, and then just get some judge to be there with them. At the last minute, he’d have to lean into them and say: “What are your names?”

When Jennifer and I were married, I had my grandfather perform the ceremony. Two years later, my sister was slated to get married but, alas, she did not share the same closeness with our grandfather that I did. As a marginal Witness at best, she also wasn’t close to any of the elders in our congregation, either. So, she and her fiance’ asked me to do the job. I went into the Dakota County courthouse and asked what would be required, and the old lady behind the counter said I would need either a minister’s certificate or a ‘letter in good standing’ from my religious body.

Witnesses don’t pass out certificates to their ministers, so I figured I’d have to get a good-standing letter. At the next meeting, I approached Phil, the congregation presiding overseer. He basically just said he’d get back to me on that. Over the next several weeks, I worked on the wedding talk. Witnesses have an outline for their wedding talks, and I used that to fashion a great talk. After about two months, Phil asked me one evening: “Do you still want to do your sister’s wedding?” I thought this was an odd question, because it seemed as though Phil just thought the matter would evaporate in such a way that he wouldn’t have to take care of it (yes, I think he would make a great manager, too). I said yes, my sister still did want me to perform her wedding.  I even told him I’d been working on the talk, and Phil looked at me funny, probably wondering how a non-elder had gotten his hands on the outline (oh Phil…so innocent). So Phil said we would talk about it after the next meeting. God, he was great at stalling.

After the next meeting, Phil asked me to join him and another elder down in the basement (never a good sign). The other elder happened to be my Uncle Jeff who, as both an elder and my Uncle, always thought it was his place to stick his nose into my business a little too much for my liking. Anyway, Phil said that the Watchtower Society really prefers if only elders perform wedding ceremonies. This was bizarre news for me to hear, as I had, of course, already looked up the Watchtower Society’s stance on the matter, and, in a Watchtower from the 1970s, they said that any baptized member of the congregation was qualified to perform weddings and funerals, as long as they had a penis.

But before I could pull out this article and share it with Phil, my Uncle Jeff jumped into the conversation. We argued for about five minutes, going in a complete logistical circle, in which Jeff asked why my sister wouldn’t want an elder to perform her wedding (I said: “‘Cause she doesn’t like them”), then said the elders from my last congregation didn’t like me and asked why that was (I wasn’t sure, but I think it’s because they were assholes), then said that he’d never heard of a non-elder performing a wedding (I reminded him of my non-elder Uncle, from my mom’s side of the family, who had performed a wedding just a few months prior – Jeff had been present at that wedding).

Phil finally cut in and basically said that if I insisted on performing the wedding, he would give me the letter I needed, but that he really felt I should consider the Society’s viewpoint. That’s a weasel phrase that elders like to use a lot. See, the beauty of that phrase is that they can’t later be accused of forcing anyone to do anything, yet if you don’t do what they want you to do, they can make things very difficult for you. It’s kind of like the Mafia.

A few days later, I told Phil that I wouldn’t do the ceremony. I told him that “if the Society doesn’t want me to do it, then I guess I shouldn’t want to do it” (notice how God isn’t even in the equation here?). Later, some of my relatives expressed dismay that I even contemplated performing the wedding and, when I asked how they knew, it turned out Uncle Jeff felt no compulsion for confidentiality. I also learned that the Society DID allow any baptized male to perform a wedding, but that they had recently changed it – via a private letter to the elders – such that only elders could perform ceremonies. Don’t ask me how I was supposed to know this.

Anyway, I didn’t perform my sister’s wedding. I did, however, get to say the prayer. From that day on I held out hope that, one day, I would get to perform a wedding. In fact, had it not been for this very incident which convinced me to never strive to be an elder, I may have tried to become an elder just so that I could perform weddings.

In 2002, my sister married for the second time. She asked if I wanted to do the officiating, seeing how she knew I no longer gave a rat’s ass about Uncle Jeff and the other elders. But without crawling to the elders for permission, I didn’t know how to go about getting a minister’s license, so I had to decline.

In 2006, one of my co-workers announced he was going to perform a wedding. In a matter of days, he became an online minister and received certification to marry in Minnesota. I was jealous of way he was able to just decide to do something and then, with relatively low hassle, actually do that thing. I repeatedly told him how I had long wished to perform a wedding one day.

Soon after, a couple of our friends planned their wedding, and I was again approached regarding doing weddings. With the internet in full force, I looked up online to see if I could get a minster’s certification without going through the Watchtower. Turns out, I could have, but doing so would have aligned me with another belief structure, an explicit no-no in the Witness cult, and I surely would have faced discipline.

Then one day, I wasn’t a Witness. This solved the problem of getting certified, but it created a new problem: everyone I knew either shunned me, or was already married.

But today, I finally achieved my goal. My sister’s husband’s younger brother married his girlfriend this afternoon and there, on a pier in the St. Croix River (but definitely on the Minnesota side of the river), I officiated. Later, during the reception, my sister said to me: “Now you have one more thing you can cross off your list.” Indeed, I do.

08 July 2010

This evening, Jennifer and I had dinner over at our friends’ house. We got a baby-sitter for Owen so that we could stay out late. In fact, Owen will be sleeping there tonight. I am always of mixed mind when it comes to Owen spending the night at someone else’s house. Speaking super-selfishly, I like it, because it means I don’t have to hassle with him going to sleep and it means all evening, and the next morning, Jennifer and I can just do whatever we want to do. But, on the other hand, I do miss him, and I’m never quite sure what’s going on at someone else’s house: is he just sitting there watching TV all day? Is he eating McDonald’s “food”? Is he being talked into becoming a lawyer? All terrible scenarios.

We performed a mini plant-swap with our friends. I brought a pot with basil plants in it, and another pot with a spider-plant in it. (And don’t feel left out here – if you want a spider-plant, just say so. I have plenty.) In return, we received three tomato plants. I think I got the better end of the deal on this one, but if my friends feel cheated and extract payment consisting of another spider-plant, all they have to do is give the word.

09 July 2010

I think, what makes the baby’s arrival seem so close is not the passing of each day (which are passing just as fast or slow as they always do). , but the fact that we are constantly finishing up all sorts of things around the house.

This week, Jennifer got the birth kit all ready. The cradle is back in the house and sitting in the living room. And today I brought the scratching post and desk down to the garage.

This is a bigger to-do than you might think. We live on the third floor, so it’s not like the garage is “just off the kitchen.” Also, the scratching post is taller than my wife and quite heavy. I loaded it up onto the wagon, but even still, I had to steady it on the wagon the whole time while dodging the exit signs.

I tried cleaning the house today, but I couldn’t really stay focused. Jennifer said we can try some more on the weekend.

We wrapped up the evening by watching a Netflix of Little House on the Prairie. I suppose I should suspend the ol’ Netflix account for a couple months, too.