07 March 2010

I barely watched the Oscars tonight.

This is quite a difference from the past. The Academy Awards used to be our family’s Super Bowl.  Jennifer and I would watch them start to finish. I kept track of all the winners on a handy ballot check-sheet that came inside Entertainment Weekly. A couple of times, we staged Oscar Parties, one year even offering a prize for whichever guest picked the most winners. For a time, Jennifer and I even made it our goal to see every Best Picture nominee. This began in 1998, when we went to the theater five times: three times to see a movie based in World War II (Saving Private Ryan, the Thin Red Line, Life is Beautiful) and twice to see a movie with Queen Elizabeth (Shakespeare in Love, Elizabeth).

In fact, it wasn’t until 2005 that, for the first time, I missed the bulk of the awards show. My wife was pregnant with Owen at that time, and we had only lived in our house a few months. My brother-in-law and a friend of ours came over that day to assist me with some jobs around the house. I turned on the Oscars when the prgram began, but we were still busy hanging sheetrock.

The last time we did anything special for the Oscars was in 2008. Jennifer bought some party trays of food, and we each picked out a special drink. We set Owen’s little table in the middle of the living room and the three of us watched Oscars together. We had had a stressful couple of weeks, as we were in the process of moving, so it was fun to settle down in our house one last time before we had to get busy packing.

But tonight…nothing special. Maybe it’s because we’d hardly seen any of the movies, and some of the movies we did see were ones that I, at least, didn’t care for (Precious).

08 March 2010

We moved out of Big Lake two years ago today. That means it’s been two years since I’ve been in the town. Which, I think, is kind of funny, because it seems like I never go too long without visiting all the other towns I’ve lived in. For example, I used to live in Burnsville, and, just a couple of weeks ago, I drove to Burnsville to get my hair cut. I also used to live in Apple Valley, and last weekend I was in that city to stop by a friend’s house. But Big Lake…I don’t really see myself stopping there ever again. About a year ago, one of my co-workers invited me to her house-warming party in Big Lake, but I didn’t go. Apart from that, I haven’t even had a reason to visit.

In short, Big Lake = crazy life anamoly.

09 March 2010

There was not much food in the kitchen today, so we planned to go food shopping this evening. When Jennifer came home from school, she said she didn’t feel like making dinner, so I suggested that before going to the grocery store, we first go to a restaurant. This met with hearty approval from both Jennifer and Owen.

We didn’t want to drive far, so we drove over to Shamrock’s. After barely squeezing in to a parking spot, we walked into a very loud restaurant. It was crowded. I asked the hostess for a table, and she said there’d be a half hour wait. “Really?” I asked, surprised that a restaruant would be so busy on a Tuesday evening. She said: “Yeah, because of the Wild game.”

So, um, I guess that qualifies as an explanation. Maybe the Wild switched from the Excel Energy Center to Shamrock’s for this season?

So we walked out.

My wife spotted a very non-descript pizza place (Hot City Pizza) across the street, so she and Owen walked over there while I moved the car. We walked in to this particular dive, only to find a very tall man yelling at the employees. Well, he wasn’t really yelling, it was more like stern talking. He was upset, I gathered, because his son had parked in Hot City’s parking lot earlier in the day and met up with a friend who was dining at the restaurant. The two of them then got in the friend’s car to go somewhere, leaving the son’s car parked in the lot. So, the pizza place employees had the car impounded.

The father’s position was that the restaurant has no signage saying it’s illegal to park in the lot if you’re not eating there. One of the cashiers, who spoke very broken English, argued that there is a sign outside. But the father went outside and discovered the sign was on the south side of the building, and his son had parked on the east side.  The father asked for the restaurant owner’s name and number. The employees were not very forthcoming about this. They said things like: “He no here right now.” and, when pressed to give the name, only gave the first name. The father announced to everyone at the restaurant: “If you’re gonna park here, it’s gonna cost you $325.”

Meanwhile, a woman who arrived after we did, butted ahead of us and, when it came time for her to order, decided to air her support for the restaurant’s position. The cashier just politely nodded…after all, he already agreed with her.

The three of us, after listening to all of this and staring at the menu for five minutes, decided to leave.

I know that part of the appeal of Minnecrapolis and St. Paul is supposed to be their charming little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, but what you don’t find out until you actually go into one of thes places is that charming is defined as: “Terrible service, high price.”

We drove to Trader Joe’s, bought our groceries, and ate at home.

04 March 2010

I wrote a post for today, but then I deleted it. So here’s another go…

Owen and I walked to Mississippi Market this evening. We walked up to the check-out counters at the same second as two other people. Since they both had one item, and we had three, I let them both go ahead of us. So, since they were busy checking out at registers #2 and 3, Owen and I walked over to register #1. But that cashier was busy helping a lady with a whole cartful of food, so we walked back over to #2. That woman was extremely slow, and was using the opportunity to not only buy a single onion (I kid you not) but also to chat with the cashier about life, the Universe and nothing. We scooted over to #3, but that featured a half-drunk guy asking the cashier about the medicinal properties of the bottle of vitamins he held in his hand. He also felt the need to point out that the safety seal had been compromised.

So Owen and I stood right in between the two customers, waiting to see who would finish first. But then a husband and wife (or boyfriend and girlfriend) walked up behind us, and started moving towards #3, forcing Owen and me to scoot back over to #2. Then – and this is the best part – an employee walks over to register #4 and shouts out, “I can help whoever’s next!”

You know who was freakin’ next? Me. That’s who. But did she help me? Come on, if she had, I wouldn’t be telling this story.

Hippies. Go figure.

05 March 2010

Today, while at work and even while driving home, I was anticipating this evening. A couple of our friends had made arrangements to go out to eat with us and then to go hear an author read from her book at the local library. I was excited; it’s not often we get invited to do fun events like that, especially on a weekday. It was even fun to have something to tell my co-workers when they asked: “What do you have planned for this weekend?”

As soon as I got in the door of our apartment this evening, I asked my wife what time our friends would be arriving, and she said they cancelled. Oh well.

We decided to go out to eat at the St. Clair Broiler, but as we neared the establishment, we saw that there were at least 20 people waiting for a table. So we went to Panera instead. I guess you have to specifically ask if you want your bagel toasted. And the cream cheese incurs an extra charge. And they only give you enough to cover half the bagel.

06 March 2010

We purchased a toy kitchen for Owen in August, 2006, and he’s finally starting to use it. Today, as he’s done several times in the past week, he invited me into his ‘restaurant’ for breakfast. I sat on the floor, and then he walked up and took my order. I asked for French Toast, but he said he couldn’t make that. He said: “How about an egg?” So I said that would be fine, but I added that I wanted tea, too.

Owen banged a bunch of pots and silverware around, and about five minutes later he walked over to me with a bowl filled with wooden toy food. I call it meat-muffin-fish-shrimp soup, ’cause that’s what’s in it. He also handed me a tiny mug, assuring me it was filled with “tea, with a little bit of hot cocoa and some chocolate chips.”

When I had finished ‘eating,’ Owen brought me the bill and a box of ‘mints.’ He told me the mints would help me drive home better. When I asked him how that was possible, he said the mints have vitamins in them that make a person drive good. They must be the opposite of hallucinogenics, I’m guessing.

02 March 2010

Owen has recently become interested in his lava lamp. Jennifer bought him a small, used lamp at a thrift store. It needed a bulb, but even after I bought one, the lamp just sat on his shelf for months. But lately he’s been keeping it on his nightstand and watching the ‘lava’ as he drifts off to sleep. He also has this contraption that’s sort of like an hourglass, only instead of sand, there’s gel. And instead of an hour, it’s about 10 minutes. He keeps flipping the thing over and over as he’s supposed to be going to sleep.

Well, last night, seeing the relaxing effect slowly moving particles have on my son, I said: “I’m gonna go get you something very special, okay?” He perked his head up, but I told him to lay back down: “I’ll be right back.”

I came back in with my antique hourglass. I turned it over and the sand began trickling down. “This used to belong to my dad’s mom’s dad,” I said. He just stared at me for a second, so I added: “Did you understand that?” He nodded yes, but I decided to clarify: “You know my dad is grandpa from Florida, right?”

Another nod.

“Okay, well this used to belong to his mama – and she got it from her daddy a long time ago.”

“Where did he get it?” Owen asked. This is such an obvious question, but I must confess I’d never thought of it before.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know. And he died a long time ago, so we can’t ask him anymore, can we?”

“You can ask grandpa from Florida,” Owen suggested.

I told Owen I didn’t think grandpa would know. I didn’t explain all this to Owen, but my Dad never owned the hourglass (its possession went straight from my grandma to me). Owen then suggested we ask my Dad’s mom…which is not a bad idea, since she owned the hourglass for years (decades?) and could possible offer some history behind the object. Only…she won’t have nothing to do with me.

That brings me to today. I kept considering if I should write to my grandma and inquire about the hourglass. A letter, after all, would be far less confrontational than a phone call. She could just chuck the letter in the trash if she wanted to; or she could read it and see there’s nothing in the letter to scar her faith.

An easier solution, I think, would be to call my Dad. I thought of calling him all today. He doesn’t shun me, but I thought it would be weir to call him to ask about something that, normally, I should be able to call my grandma for. Make sense?

Also today: I watched this  mini-documentary. This was fascinating. One incredible artist/musician was discussing why he chose to cover a song created by another incredible artist/musician, then that person talks about why they covered a particular song penned by the former. I’ve loved Paul Simon’s “The Boy in the Bubble” for years – but watching this 9 minute video helped me appreciate it in a deeper way.

03 March 2010

Class again today. I had an enjoyable time in class; probably the best I’ve had this semester so far. I turned in my assignment right away, then we read Ethan Coen’s book of short plays Almost an Evening. I volunteered to read a part in each play, ’cause it seemed like the fun thing to do.

Anyway, I’m just not feeling it this semester. I’m not sure if its really the class itself, the late, long class periods – or just life. I’ve never been the ‘traditional’ student (someone who enters college immediately after high school). During every semester I’ve been in college, I’ve always been married and had a job, and I’ve never lived on campus. But school seems to have slipped to a lower priority than ever before.  Being sick for 4 weeks didn’t help. Problems with buying a home and needing a new car are chipping away at my attention, too. Did I mention there are lay-offs looming at my job, too? Also, Jennifer and I have a child on the way. All this tends to make me relegate school to a lower position on the priority pole than is probably recommended by college advisers.

01 March 2010
At the gas pump today, I was once again confronted with the conundrum of which way to insert my check card. There’s a handy little diagram etched on the panel, but for some reason, my mind always flips it, and I can’t see which way it goes. It’s like one of those optical illusions where you can’t determine which way the stairs are facing.
The screen on the pump asks if I’m a “Rewards Member.” Yeah, I am, though I hate joining those corporate clubs, but hey, I gather points and one day I can trade them in for free gas. The really creepy thing, however, is that once I’ve swiped the card, the screen reads “processing loyalty.” I can’t really express it in words…but something’s just doesn’t feel right about having my loyalty “processed.”

I made a post a few weeks ago about a new wallet I purchased. It was only over the past weekend that I finally got around to shifting the contents of my wallet from the old one to the new. (I needed to see the new one on a shelf for a while so I could warm up to it.) Overall, I like it better, but at the pump today, I discovered a problem: less compartments for cards means I have to search through more cards. What I mean is, I know which compartment had my check card in it, but I have four cards in there now instead of two, so, you know, more work.

27 February 2010
Owen and I walked to the park today. As we approached a cross-walk, I pointed out a large plastic square with a ‘3’ on it just lying in the snow. I picked it up and showed it to Owen. “Look at this big 3 just sitting here in the snow,” I said.
He said: “What’s your idea for what it’s there for?”
“Well,” I said, I think it fell off this sign,” and I pointed to the large SuperAmerica sign directly above us. I showed Owen how there were removable numbers on the sign that the employees put up there to display the price of gas.
“What was your idea?” I asked him.
“I thought the 3 was there to show that we live on Earth,” he said. I guess he figures that there are ‘3s’ liberally sprinkled throughout the planet so that would-be intergalactic travelers can quickly identify which planet they’re on. (And, yes, Earth does = 3 because it’s the third planet in line from the sun.)

This evening, the three of us went to a nearby Mexican (and El Salvadoran and Peruvian) restaurant for dinner. While examining the menu, Jennifer asked: “What’s the difference again between a burrito and an enchilada?” Since I didn’t know, precisely, how to answer her question, I referred her back to a joke my old friend Joel used to say: “Everything at a Mexican restaurant is just the same three ingredients in different combinations.” We both laughed.
It’s true, you know. I mean, I think 3 is an exaggeration, but no matter what a person orders at such a place, they are going to get a plate with a tortilla stuffed with cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, with rice and beans on the side. There might be some beans inside the tortilla, and the tortilla itself might be hard or soft, but, essentially, there’s no point in fretting over whether to order #5 or #33.
It’s funny how something as innocuous as that can make me miss Joel. I only started getting to know him in the last few years that I was a Witness, but we had a lot in common, and I always enjoyed being with him. In 2006, he and his new wife Laura even moved a couple towns away from us (which was close comparatively), and I was excited to have him so close. We saw movies together, we worked on some films together, and we joked about all manner of pop culture lore. We had some great email exchanges, too, and I knew any link he sent me was bound to be compelling (or, at least, a time-waster).
Then I left the religion, and he said he wasn’t gonna be my friend anymore. Actually, he didn’t say anything, so I emailed him to see if he’d come over one evening to watch a movie with me. He declined, saying he’d heard I might be detrimental to his faith. He said if things ever changed, he’d hook up with me again.
Still waiting…

28 February 2010
Today I kept thinking about not having a new house for the baby. At the time Jennifer got pregnant, I had reason to believe that we’d be moving into a house within six months. But thanks to some end-of-the-year rulings in Congress (fuck you, Democrats), we now have to wait three years. As Jennifer pointed out, we never miss an opportunity to fail, and this is just another instance of that. I’m not sure how the whole home-birth thing will play out now. I wanted our newest edition to be born in a home – our home, the way it’s meant to be…but I guess a short sale from two years ago means I can’t have a house.
This is, of course stupid. For one thing, had we declared bankruptcy two years ago, we’d be eligible for a house, so I guess we should have stopped paying all our bills instead of just one. It’s hard to see how the government can support such a contradiction logically, but this is the same government that will give me 90 days in prison for mugging someone, but 5 years for downloading a song. Go figure.
One option is to have a friend or family member buy a house and then rent it to us for a year until we are eligible to buy it. Even though I’d be happy to make this profitable for whoever would be willing to do it, I don’t think there are any options here, either. I mean, we are better with our money than, well, pretty much all of our peers, but there are still some big issues. For one thing, most of our friends are poorer than we are, having been likewise screwed over by their parents (via a cult), too. Then there’s my Dad, who might actually be willing to do such a thing, but having lost his rental property last year, and currently on unemployment, I don’t think he’s in a good position. My mom would likewise be willing to do such a thing, but she’s married to a guy that won’t even talk to us, so I don’t think he’d be willing to do business with us.
Maybe Jennifer and I should’ve hit up our relatives for cash back in the ’90s, back when all our siblings were doing it.

On another note: check it out – I’ve successfully written about something everyday for two months now. After reviewing some of my posts, I realize all my posts are either depressing or sarcastic. This probably explains the lack of interest in this blog. I’ll try to keep this going a little longer, if for no other reason than so that I don’t look like a loser to my future self reading these posts, but there are only so many depressing thing to write sarcastically about.
Either way, so long February, and good riddance.