There's been a lot of moving lately.
Some have recently moved (Twenty-Sum, Hot Toddy), some far distances (Wayward Puppy, Josh & Josh), some in the process of moving (ThatGuy, Traveling Spotlight) and some will more than likely be moving soon (Faustus, Blueberry Pie). Then there are those that are always on the move (Matt) and those who have the longing to relocate (Sardonic Bomb).
To all of you I express my sincere sympathy as the process of moving can very well suck big donkey balls. (That's the nicest thing I could think to say about that.)
I myself will be staying put, barring natural disasters or human acts of stupidity, somewhere along the lines of "a long ass time". Also because I don't want to have to think about moving things like a piano. Oh, and also because I'll be paying on this house for said "long ass time".
Katrina, of course, has put me in purge mode, getting rid of unnecessary crap to make things a bit more...portable. I haven't ever had to evacuate since we are on the highest ground around here, but I don't see the raging storms calming down anytime soon. We've been very lucky but I don't put much stock in that.
I think you dear readers may be a little confused as to my living situation. I seem to have to explain it a lot to those I talk to. As for me, I never moved, I still live in the same house. C and the boys moved out months ago, but merely down a couple blocks and across the street, to reside with Grandma & Grandpa. Hence I see them just about every day.
It was up in the air for a very long time, should I move closer to work, should I get a job closer to the boys, will I be able to eat after paying rent, child support & too much debt, should I just live in my car, etc. So, I got a hefty home loan to take care of the mortgage and most of our accumulated debt, put it in my name. I'm glad to do it. It means we are back at more of a clean slate financially, schools and jobs are in place, and we seem to be in a stable routine again. All of which are good things.
But you know, I don't really want to move. Even when I had a reason to, I didn't want to. I'd like to visit some new places of course, so I don't become such a cracker that I just snap in two from being stale. For the most part I think I have it alright down here.
Regardless, my place of employment is still a good 45 minutes away. It's a conundrum. I'll do what I have to, of course, but I despise using all that gas. Not because of the current prices, either. It's always been a play on my conscience since I've owned a car that I should just learn to ride a bike and stop supporting that whole massive aspect of consumerism. I could ride the bus but that would take many hours a day. Sometimes practicality has to rule over efficiency.
Work is moving, which is why I bring all this up. Only down the road from where they are now, so no change in drive for me really. This weekend in fact. And we aren't just talking about a few offices, we have a whole warehouse full of stuff. We are a small company but not that small. Being on salary has it's downfalls of course. This is the second time we've moved our base of operations so by the third time we'll be pros and should just start a moving company.
Monkey News:
C got a beta fish yesterday. Upon questioning of resident monkeys, Elder Monkey decided on Oscar (I'm sure this couldn't have ANYTHING to do with what I affectionately dub "That Other Fish Movie") and Younger Monkey declared that it's name be Christmas (Younger Monkey). Thus, Oscar Christmas, or as I shall be calling it, the OC, has found a new home. May it live a long fishy life. C also had to do some mysterious research last night. This may be leading towards their adoption of a four legged creature, but I'll report on that if it happens. It appears Grandma is now on board but convincing Grandpa is another matter.
These are the things that wake me up on a Sunday morning.
UPDATE: And now there is lice. Ye gods.
Peace,
Simon
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Kindergarten 101
Monkey, the Elder, doesn't tell us much about school. It's the curse of trying to be an involved parent I suppose. We know that he gets on a bus that takes him somewhere and that he brings home a notebook that the teacher signs everyday to give his progress. All it has in it, everyday without fail, is a smiley face. Upon inquiry, he doesn't seem to have any knowledge of what occurred in the preceding hours.
By all accounts he could be testing top secret devices in a classified underground lair. Which, you know, if that's the case, I understand, mums the word. He did reveal to us the other day that only kids can be spies. Grown ups are too old to be spies. It would explain why he's so completely dirty when I pick him up sometimes, and not to give in under interrogation...
Last night was his Kindergarten open house. Although he'd never admit to it apparently he does indeed attend class everyday and interacts with a whole bevy of other monkeys and enjoys it.
His teacher, Mrs. M, is a very kind lady with a droll tone of voice, who can't come in for 7AM conferences and resembles Karen Carpenter if she consumed food. The room was adorned with all the trappings for a full day of books and toys and crayons. Dear lord, that's a lot of tadpoles. So, generally, it's much like my office at work, except we have dogs instead of tadpoles and they have their own bathroom.
Somewhere in there, the new principal, the assistant principal (I think) and the PTA recruiter all made appearances. They all fit elementary school stereotypes to a fault, all being jovial and with over-annunciated flare. "We love your children! Please love me, too! Join the PTA!"
One thing that has never changed, there is something awry with all school administrators hair. Pretty much always. The assistant principal had seemed to have an entire water park mountain slide on the left side of her head. And some of the office employees have some interesting do's as well. It must be a dress code thing.
Was all that too mean? I'm just tellin' it like it is...I'm just a hippie in need of a haircut.
What else. He can write his name, yay! He has a few problems with the lower case "a", it looks more like a "q" and hence his name turns into something given by the Jedi Council. Numbers, shapes, and all that stuff are a cinch. He knows around 30 letters of the alphabet. Words are starting to emerge. Day begins at 7:45, lunch at 10:10 in the morning, which is a bit insane, but then they get out at 1:45. He gets Music on Wednesdays and Art on Fridays, and PE the other three days.
Nap time is turning into Daydream time. Enjoy that while you can little mister.
When they do some assessment testing very soon, he'll need to be able to relay the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears from memory. While that is a good thing, as there was a time when he wouldn't go to sleep without that particular tale being told, I'm worried he might have picked up some of the creative liberties that C and I may have inadvertently introduced to make it more interesting. They probably aren't looking to find Goldilocks ending up as a conglomerate CEO and the target of contract hits from the three ninja Kodiaks. Or something. It was a while ago, give me some slack.
I don't remember anything of consequence before the third grade so I often wonder how much of this he'll retain. All the better to keep it documented and filed away for future embarrassm--, um, reference.
Peace,
Simon
By all accounts he could be testing top secret devices in a classified underground lair. Which, you know, if that's the case, I understand, mums the word. He did reveal to us the other day that only kids can be spies. Grown ups are too old to be spies. It would explain why he's so completely dirty when I pick him up sometimes, and not to give in under interrogation...
Last night was his Kindergarten open house. Although he'd never admit to it apparently he does indeed attend class everyday and interacts with a whole bevy of other monkeys and enjoys it.
His teacher, Mrs. M, is a very kind lady with a droll tone of voice, who can't come in for 7AM conferences and resembles Karen Carpenter if she consumed food. The room was adorned with all the trappings for a full day of books and toys and crayons. Dear lord, that's a lot of tadpoles. So, generally, it's much like my office at work, except we have dogs instead of tadpoles and they have their own bathroom.
Somewhere in there, the new principal, the assistant principal (I think) and the PTA recruiter all made appearances. They all fit elementary school stereotypes to a fault, all being jovial and with over-annunciated flare. "We love your children! Please love me, too! Join the PTA!"
One thing that has never changed, there is something awry with all school administrators hair. Pretty much always. The assistant principal had seemed to have an entire water park mountain slide on the left side of her head. And some of the office employees have some interesting do's as well. It must be a dress code thing.
Was all that too mean? I'm just tellin' it like it is...I'm just a hippie in need of a haircut.
What else. He can write his name, yay! He has a few problems with the lower case "a", it looks more like a "q" and hence his name turns into something given by the Jedi Council. Numbers, shapes, and all that stuff are a cinch. He knows around 30 letters of the alphabet. Words are starting to emerge. Day begins at 7:45, lunch at 10:10 in the morning, which is a bit insane, but then they get out at 1:45. He gets Music on Wednesdays and Art on Fridays, and PE the other three days.
Nap time is turning into Daydream time. Enjoy that while you can little mister.
When they do some assessment testing very soon, he'll need to be able to relay the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears from memory. While that is a good thing, as there was a time when he wouldn't go to sleep without that particular tale being told, I'm worried he might have picked up some of the creative liberties that C and I may have inadvertently introduced to make it more interesting. They probably aren't looking to find Goldilocks ending up as a conglomerate CEO and the target of contract hits from the three ninja Kodiaks. Or something. It was a while ago, give me some slack.
I don't remember anything of consequence before the third grade so I often wonder how much of this he'll retain. All the better to keep it documented and filed away for future embarrassm--, um, reference.
Peace,
Simon
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Here Dwells the Vampire Manatees
It's good to have inside jokes. For me and my wife C, those inane pieces of information that know one else gets are in steady supply. I could tell you all about how we came up with the concept of the crazed vampire manatees, in their speedboats seeking vengeance, but I think that's best left to wandering minds.
Actually, I couldn't tell you. But somewhere in there was something about chocolate super spy laxatives. Inside jokes are all about being happenstance and not so much the end result, anyways.
Our relationship is the weirdest thing I've ever personally heard or read about. I'm talking about when I write it all down and read it again later. When I go back and see the ways that we interact and interact now. The hows and wheres and whens all conspire with each other and try in vain to give way to the whys. It all seems so random sometimes.
I think that I like being by myself. Maybe.
Today, I woke up at 10, went back to bed, floundered around in my underwear, played a mindless but entertaining video game, tried to get to the gym, listened to music way too loudly, sipped on warm Gatorade until the wavering heat of the afternoon started to tell me it was much, much nicer outside.
Gatorade always makes me think about when I was young and pathetically ill. That was the only time Gatorade was ever in the house. I drink it more often now without an accompanying ailment, however the Lemon-Lime flavor always brings flashbacks of fever and phlegm.
The video game of choice was Alien Hominid. It's probably the most violent and carpal tunnel inducing game that I own. Even though there a setting to turn off the gore, I don't let the monkeys play this one. Come get me you FBI mofos I can take your heat. And your spaceships. Bring it.
I'm stuck right now, in Area 51 against an electric wielding foe. It's what I get for trying the Medium difficulty setting.
I could blame all this behavior on the strangely mild but ominous stomach flu type thing that has been plaguing me this weekend. Or the lack of other beings in the house to answer to. But I know better. Even though my responsibility to be present has somewhat been lessened, I find myself down the street in my wife's presence still more than anyone else. This weekend we were pretty much sick together, switching off to who was feeling better with toxic burps, diarrhea and keeping the monkeys from playing dodgeball with kitchen utensils.
She asked me a bit ago when I fell out of love with her. There's a kicker of a question if I ever heard one. I couldn't answer her. Because I don't know. I should know but I don't. Maybe I never did. Maybe it's always been a different kind of love. Perhaps I'm just a madman.
So then I don't talk about it. If ever you have a conversation with me and I am silent, it's because I like you and I'm trying to think of the best words to put together but there just aren't any that are suitable. It drives her crazy. She says I need to communicate better with those that I may wish to have any kind of relationship with. Easier said than done. Except in my case it's easier done than said, though. Sans the easier part.
Even with all this freedom, I feel all the passion draining out of my life slowly. My confusions about social interaction are turning me slightly asexual. Lately, I haven't the desire to be with anyone in the palm-sweating romantical type fashion. I don't want to seek out dates or debaucherous nights on the town. I mean, I do, but I don't. You know?
No, I imagine some of you don't know.
But then, she doesn't either. She's familiar, she's what I know about my experience with love. She's a safe haven. She's comfortable. She's a friend beyond obligation. I wish that I could be what she needs in all respects. I just want to be able to please people. That is all.
Currently it's my turn to be nauseous. Time to go drink some more Gatorade and go to bed.
Peace,
Simon
Actually, I couldn't tell you. But somewhere in there was something about chocolate super spy laxatives. Inside jokes are all about being happenstance and not so much the end result, anyways.
Our relationship is the weirdest thing I've ever personally heard or read about. I'm talking about when I write it all down and read it again later. When I go back and see the ways that we interact and interact now. The hows and wheres and whens all conspire with each other and try in vain to give way to the whys. It all seems so random sometimes.
I think that I like being by myself. Maybe.
Today, I woke up at 10, went back to bed, floundered around in my underwear, played a mindless but entertaining video game, tried to get to the gym, listened to music way too loudly, sipped on warm Gatorade until the wavering heat of the afternoon started to tell me it was much, much nicer outside.
Gatorade always makes me think about when I was young and pathetically ill. That was the only time Gatorade was ever in the house. I drink it more often now without an accompanying ailment, however the Lemon-Lime flavor always brings flashbacks of fever and phlegm.
The video game of choice was Alien Hominid. It's probably the most violent and carpal tunnel inducing game that I own. Even though there a setting to turn off the gore, I don't let the monkeys play this one. Come get me you FBI mofos I can take your heat. And your spaceships. Bring it.
I'm stuck right now, in Area 51 against an electric wielding foe. It's what I get for trying the Medium difficulty setting.
I could blame all this behavior on the strangely mild but ominous stomach flu type thing that has been plaguing me this weekend. Or the lack of other beings in the house to answer to. But I know better. Even though my responsibility to be present has somewhat been lessened, I find myself down the street in my wife's presence still more than anyone else. This weekend we were pretty much sick together, switching off to who was feeling better with toxic burps, diarrhea and keeping the monkeys from playing dodgeball with kitchen utensils.
She asked me a bit ago when I fell out of love with her. There's a kicker of a question if I ever heard one. I couldn't answer her. Because I don't know. I should know but I don't. Maybe I never did. Maybe it's always been a different kind of love. Perhaps I'm just a madman.
So then I don't talk about it. If ever you have a conversation with me and I am silent, it's because I like you and I'm trying to think of the best words to put together but there just aren't any that are suitable. It drives her crazy. She says I need to communicate better with those that I may wish to have any kind of relationship with. Easier said than done. Except in my case it's easier done than said, though. Sans the easier part.
Even with all this freedom, I feel all the passion draining out of my life slowly. My confusions about social interaction are turning me slightly asexual. Lately, I haven't the desire to be with anyone in the palm-sweating romantical type fashion. I don't want to seek out dates or debaucherous nights on the town. I mean, I do, but I don't. You know?
No, I imagine some of you don't know.
But then, she doesn't either. She's familiar, she's what I know about my experience with love. She's a safe haven. She's comfortable. She's a friend beyond obligation. I wish that I could be what she needs in all respects. I just want to be able to please people. That is all.
Currently it's my turn to be nauseous. Time to go drink some more Gatorade and go to bed.
Peace,
Simon
Friday, September 09, 2005
Quoth the Monkey
Elder Monkey goes outside to wait for the bus: "This morning smells like dog."
Mom, a bit perplexed: "What?"
Elder Monkey: "You know, it's like dog. There's this boy in my class who smells like dog."
Mom, a bit aghast: "Did you tell him that?"
Elder Monkey: "Yeah."
Mom, a bit more aghast: "Why?"
Elder Monkey: "Cause he smells like DOG."
Apparently the dog in question was not just a dog but a Doooooooooog, spoken, I am sure, complete with the swoopy, dialect, dramatic eyes, hands, and head tilt. I swear, he's a teenager trapped in a five-year olds body.
Like when talking about his impending trip to see March of the Penguins this afternoon, he will so get on your case if you call it "that Penguin movie."
"Daddy, it's March of the Penguins." (Insert silent sigh that so says "Why do I always have to correct you people.") I'll be awaiting his review this evening.
This has been the comedic highlight of my week. Up there with my wife's description of that sequel to Silence of the Lambs wherein she will never again be able to watch Ray Liotta without giving new meaning to the term the term brain food. Sorry if that's a spoiler to anyone but really, there aught to be an extra warning on movies that involve eating one's own brain.
I'm pretty sure it doesn't make you smarter but go ahead let me know how that works out for you.
Peace,
Simon
Mom, a bit perplexed: "What?"
Elder Monkey: "You know, it's like dog. There's this boy in my class who smells like dog."
Mom, a bit aghast: "Did you tell him that?"
Elder Monkey: "Yeah."
Mom, a bit more aghast: "Why?"
Elder Monkey: "Cause he smells like DOG."
Apparently the dog in question was not just a dog but a Doooooooooog, spoken, I am sure, complete with the swoopy, dialect, dramatic eyes, hands, and head tilt. I swear, he's a teenager trapped in a five-year olds body.
Like when talking about his impending trip to see March of the Penguins this afternoon, he will so get on your case if you call it "that Penguin movie."
"Daddy, it's March of the Penguins." (Insert silent sigh that so says "Why do I always have to correct you people.") I'll be awaiting his review this evening.
This has been the comedic highlight of my week. Up there with my wife's description of that sequel to Silence of the Lambs wherein she will never again be able to watch Ray Liotta without giving new meaning to the term the term brain food. Sorry if that's a spoiler to anyone but really, there aught to be an extra warning on movies that involve eating one's own brain.
I'm pretty sure it doesn't make you smarter but go ahead let me know how that works out for you.
Peace,
Simon
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