Whinging It

When I was in college, I took Geology 101 as one of my science requirements. (I also took Astronomy and Nutrition in my one-woman attempt to find the easiest science courses at the university level.)

Geology was an hour and a half long, which is about an hour and twenty-nine minutes longer than I ever really want to think about igneous versus sedimentary. The professor didn’t take attendance, and he provided a “study sheet” for each class that was available on a table at the front of the room before class started. The class started at 12:00 pm, a time which is universally known as Dear-God-Feed-Whinger time.

I could only conclude from all of these factors that not only did I not have to attend lectures, but that the professor didn’t even want me there.  He wanted me to swing by on my way back from what I’m sure was some sort of hoity-toity literature class, pick up my study sheet, and go see what was for lunch. Otherwise, he wouldn’t make it that easy.  I mean, come test time, I only had to review the notes he handily made for me and fill in the appropriate dots on my Scan-tron slip.

When I got an “A” in the class, my conclusions were only confirmed:  Sometimes people make it overwhelmingly easy to do the “wrong” thing because they WANT you to.

I bring this all up, of course, because of increasing evidence that my friends would like me to have their babies.

Now, when I say “have their babies,” I don’t mean it in the sense of surrogacy.  I don’t mean my friends want me to carry their children for them in my womb in a selfless gesture of goodwill for the infertile. I mean that my friends want me to take their babies to come live with me and Wife and Dog and Cat and Chickens. It’s not like I wouldn’t tell the babies who their parents were, and it’s not like it’s forever: Once the babies turned into toddlers they’d be immediately returned from whence they came. I’m not looking to kidnap the babies. I’m not a monster. I just want to…borrow them. I really only need them long enough for the babies to nap on me for one or two hours a day.

I implore you to look at the proof that people are trying to give me their babies. Just as my Geology professor clearly wanted me to only show up on test days, people in my life are making their babies way too cute and available. For example, Kiki and Ish recently had Eve. We went to see her on Saturday, and they handed her right to me and let her nap in my arms for a full hour.  They took pains to point out her adorable hair, her feisty habit of waving her arms, her sweet little mouth.  They even dressed her up in a summery little pink outfit.  Showing her off?  Maybe. But doesn’t this all just sound like marketing?

I guess you could try to write it off as the typical behavior of new parents, but note that during the time when I had Eve in my possession, no one barred the door, something you should clearly do when your baby is as cute as Eve.  When I made comments on how much I wanted to snatch her, I received smiles in return.

While it’s possible Kiki and Ish misunderstood me, choosing to believe I spoke in a hyperbolic joking fashion about taking their baby, I think that really I should just bring a car seat the next time I visit.

I continue to fail miserably at bringing “how do you do?” back into the public’s lexicon, but let’s all say it together when meeting the newest and smallest members of our household.

Here’s Violet:

And here are Judy and Doralee:

(Judy’s facing away.)

They are, of course, named for the beleaguered employees of Franklin M. Hart, Jr., the sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical, bigoted antagonist in “Nine to Five.”

What a way to make a living.

The chickens are now at home taunting the dog with every move and plotting to take over the world with their God-given fluffy butts and cute cheeps.  So far, their likes include walking on each other, cabbage, and chicken chow.  Their dislikes include being held, the dog, and sudden movements.

A view of them in their newly completed house:

(Note the dog looking in on the chickens on the right side.  She only wants to love them and squeeze them and maybe nibble them, but just a little.)

This is inside the run looking out the right side.  So far, Doralee only likes the perch but can’t get anyone to hang out with her.

Here’s the ladder that leads into the coop as well as their food container.  Note the loving black dog who is asking sweetly if the chickens would like to come out and play.

How do you do, ladies?

Wife and I went to Carpinteria (just south of Santa Barbara) last week and had a fantastic seven days of tanning (her), drooly naps (me), and yummy cocktails (both).  We went with Wife’s sister and her family, and good times were had by all.

Highlights included, but were not limited to:

- Day-long viewing of a Junior Lifeguard competition on our beach where, in addition to traditional beach fun of watching people play in and be bowled over by surf, we got to watch nine- to seventeen-year-olds compete in events cleverly titled “Run, Swim, Run,” “Long Swim,” and “Short Swim.”  Sister-in-Law and I now have ardent ambitions to be Junior Lifeguards, and remain undeterred by arguments like “don’t you hate swimming?” or “you’re too old.”  Because shut up and where’s my red swimsuit?

- Accidental swimming with dolphins.  I swam out to a buoy one day and was happily and unexpectedly enveloped in a pod (?) of about eight dolphins who were totally just playing around me in Sea World-esque fashion with leaps and everything.  I did not grab onto any fins for a ride or touch them or anything as I reasoned they were still wild animals, but was thrilled nonetheless.  I was even more thrilled that the eight fins in the water around me were not sharks, as one was pulled from the beach a few days earlier. (One might question my sanity of swimming in any sort of shark-infested waters, but one has not seen just how very white I am.  I cannot possibly be mistaken for a seal or sea lion except possibly an albino.  Maybe a giant tuna.)

- Beers by the pool.  Because that rocks.

- Breakfast, coffee and ice cream within walking distance.

We totally did that thing that you do on vacation where you end up trying to figure out how to make it your life.  “If you start freelancing, and we downgrade to a condo, and the moon is in the seventh house, we could totally live here and learn to surf!”  But oh, how the bills they need paying and the dog needs to be kept in kibble.

From my office’s 23rd-floor window, I have a close-up of some workers who are putting a giant tulip-shaped, red “U” on the side of the building across the alley.  In the last week, I became obsessed with the U.  What does it stand for?  Is it a University?  Univision? UnderArmor? I asked my co-workers about it, who all humored me for minutes at a time.  I visited numerous websites of companies whose names start with U to see if the logos matched, worried that when none of them did, it was because the company was in the middle of re-branding and the logo wasn’t updated on the website yet.

Just as I was considering going into the lobby and asking, the sign guys put up the word “Union” underneath the U, and I was able to ascertain, by searching for the building’s address, that it is for “Union Banc.”

Weirdly, I miss not knowing, but I’m guessing my employer will be thrilled at my sudden and unexplained return of productivity, although I still tend to get distracted by watching how they wire all the letters for lighting, the amount of duct tape used, and how none of them gets motion-sick from the constantly swaying window-washing cart they’re on.

—————————

Chickens arrive next week.  I know you’re all on the edge of your seats.

To all of the lovely people who have requested to follow me on Twitter,*

Awwwwwwwww. You really think you would want the day-to-day chicken announcements and ponderings to which you would be subjected if I were on Twitter?  How sweet of you. Let me assure you: You would not.

Despite my love of blogs and my begrudging acceptance that I will be labeled un-American if I give up my Facebook and LinkedIn accounts, I have not taken a shine to Twitter.

Twitter makes me feel outsider-y. I used to follow a few people, and mostly just ended up all annoyed because of how often it seemed like I was eavesdropping on a conversation, and even when Twitter fixed that and told people how to properly address other Twitterers so that the rest of us in the fringe crowd were not bombarded with one-line private jokes directed at one or two people, the offending Twitterers STILL didn’t do it correctly, and that just made me even more irritated.

And truth be told, I don’t really need more excuses to be annoyed at people on the Internet as I already spend way too much time reading comments on articles about civil rights.  Man are people racist.

To put this dislike of Twitter in perspective, however, I should disclose that I also, in manner of a grumpy old man: (a) Refuse to spend more than $70 per year on cell phone usage; (b) Hate texting as just goddamn spell out your words already with some semblance of grammar and also stop interrupting your real-life conversations because you just received an important message from someone I can only assume is your 13-year-old girlfriend who wants to ask if you h8d Jessycas hair 2 and are you going to meet up b4 assembly tomorrow LOL?**; (c) Have not, to my knowledge, heard a Miley Cyrus song.

*This salutation unexplainedly got the Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson classic, “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” in my head.  Dammit.  That’s what I get for complaining about others’ Twitter habits.

**Wife is an avid texter, so of course this criteria doesn’t extend to HER.  Or YOU, of course.

————————–

Wife and I went to Denver last weekend so I could be in Amber’s wedding, which was fun and made all the more memorable by the rain that fell throughout the outdoor ceremony. I’ve decided bridesmaids are more charming when huddled together under an umbrella.