Because I Am Immature

Lumpyhead put the first ball down his shirt. I put the other one in, and then giggled madly while dashing for the camera.

But Beer Is Supposed To Taste Good

I hate it when I spend months looking forward to something and it turns out to be a raging disappointment.

This morning we went to the Air and Space Museum. No, the other one. Lumpyhead ran around the place squealing and falling out of his shoes, taking note of only really important things like stairs and plastic chairs. I didn't spend much time dwelling on anything other than the $12 they charged me to park.

The thing I was really looking forward to though, and the whole reason I wanted to go out to BFE in the first place, was to have lunch at the Dominion Brewery. Aunt Bob, Bump, Scrubly and I visited this place years ago, when they couldn't sell you beer at the end of the brewery tour and just had to give it to you for free. I remember it being seven shades of awesome.

Now they have a brew pub that serves resoundingly mediocre food. We started with the beer sampler, and the summer ale was so bad we almost left it on the table after one sip. (Relax, I said "almost.")

Yes Internet, I spent the morning with the space shuttle, the Enola Gay and the Concorde; had beer for lunch; and am still managing to complain about it. What a jerk.

At least the company was fantastic.

Lula's Favorite Joke

Bump: Hi.
Lula: [peals of laughter]

Yeah, I don't get it either. And it must be all in the delivery, because she couldn't give a rat's ass when I tell it.

The Worst Part? We Never Got to Drink the Beer

Now that I’m well into Maternity Leave, Part II, I should tell you that I have no idea what day it is. Ever. Monday? Thursday? Huh?

I always have to ask Bump what day it is. I don’t know how he is able to keep track, but he always knows. Maybe it is because he reads the paper every day, a task I somehow cannot manage to work in.

With Tivo, I don’t even have the usual Polaris of last night’s prime time television shows to guide me in my “What the Hell Day Is It?” Dilemma.

I also don’t shower anymore. I suspected this would be the case even before I stopped working, but it is much worse than I anticipated. There is a twenty-minute window after I pump when I can shower, after which it becomes pointless because I leak all over. When I’m working, I have a regular schedule and a shower fits in nicely. Now, not so much.

So I’m smelly and I have no idea what day it is. I am awesome.

I started telling you these boring factoids (oh look! A point! An equally boring point!) as a lead-up to what I did for Fathers Day.

This weekend, the condo association held its pool party, and there was trouble with the beer. We decided that it was easier to bring Elvis (our kegerator - our empty, badly mistreated and neglected kegerator) out poolside than to run back to Total Beverage and get a new tap.

After all the effort, the beer never flowed really smoothly. It sort of trickled out, no matter how much I messed with the carbon dioxide canister. I tapped and retapped the keg, making a mess each time, to no avail. I finally came to the sad conclusion that I probably needed a new CO2 regulator.

When the party ended, the building manager gave us what was left of the keg. (Woot! Free beer!) We brought Elvis and the keg back into the house, where I had more trouble retapping the keg. (I should say that I usually have no problem tapping a keg. I can do it quickly, with no mess or difficulty.)

I put the tap on, and well . . . Peter later suggested the term be “Beer-suvius.”

Bump left Lula in Lumpyhead’s crib to come see what the hell had happened. From his perspective, he was changing the baby and suddenly there was a strange hissing sound in the kitchen followed by me saying, flatly, “Holy shit.”

Do they shout something when an offshore rig hits oil? Like “Timber!” but for a geyser of something shooting straight up into the air? Because that would have been appropriate.

There was beer everywhere. The ceiling, the cupboards, under the fridge . . . everywhere. I’ve mopped the floor three times but it is still sticky.

While I was wet, I wasn’t dripping, and we were late for dinner at Aunt Bob and Peter’s. So after a cursory cleanup of the kitchen I left the house feeling like a movie theater floor and reeking of beer.

When we got home, I realized that I had made myself beer-flavored. Happy Fathers Day, Baby! Are you appropriately honored?

Except it was Saturday.

[Shrug] At least it was sort of a shower.

From Today's Home Depot Circular

Can someone explain to me why this guy is using a ladder, and not just standing on the damn ground? Anyone?
While we're at it, why is he painting in a nice shirt and dress shoes? Shouldn't he be wearing an old tee shirt and flip flops? I just don't get it.

Oh, and what are your plans for Fathers Day? 'Cuz I got nuthin, and need some ideas.

What I've Been Doing

Ironing Baby Clothes

Honestly, what kind of a sick fuck makes baby clothes that need to be ironed? My clothes don’t need to be ironed, and if they do, I am really bad at it. Imagine what I’m like with tiny garments. Tiny garments with ribbons and bows and gathers and pintucks and whatnot. Christ.

All I’m saying is that the next time Lula shows up in one of those sweet little dresses, it better be a big damn special occasion. They are not popping up in the rotation just because it’s Tuesday and she’s feeling flirty.

My iron has a spray feature, which comes in handy when trying to remove a wrinkle one has just created (something I do quite often, just to add to my frustration, thankyewverymuch). It also has a “steam burst” feature, which is located right next to the spray button. You see where this complaint is going, right? Incidentally, how long does it take for fingerprints to grow back? If anyone is planning a jewelry heist, you might want to give me a call.


Saying Goodbye

On Monday, my friend Jerry got in his car and began driving to New Mexico, where his new job awaits. I will miss him, and I’m also profoundly jealous of him. I envy the excitement of a new beginning, the fresh start in a new place (also the real estate market in his new home. Damn).

Over the past years, I have held on to a vision of my pre-parenthood life through Jerry. I crave his stories of weekend trips and parties and first dates and job interviews in cities far away. I like to think that if I weren’t married with two kids, I would be doing what he’s doing.

He doesn’t know anyone in New Mexico, but I’m sure he will make friends quickly. I sincerely want to stay in touch with him, but I worry that I won’t. I’m envious, but if I weren’t married with two kids, I probably wouldn’t have the guts to move cross-country with my dog and flat-screen TV.

Deep down, Jerry wants -- and he has told me this, it is not just me projecting -- to find the right woman to share his life with, and eventually become a dad. I realize that while I envy the journey he’s taking, I’m already at his desired destination.


Except for those fucking wrinkly baby clothes.

Colonoscopy Number 3

Bump is currently getting his third -yes, third - colonoscopy. I waited at the hospital during his previous two procedures, leaving Lumpyhead with Nana Vicky. This time I am home with Lumpyhead and Lula, forced to assume things are going okay.

We’ll all go pick Bump up when he is done, making the traditional stop at Five Guys to reward Bump for being done with the Saddest Diet Ever (clear liquids for 24 hours). I imagine Bump will sleep for most of the afternoon, or he may just relax. At any rate, I’m sure he will relish no longer having to remain close to toilet facilities.

Onward Christian Soldiers of Misfortune

My parents flew home last Tuesday. (I started this post on the day they left, but am just getting around to posting it now.) It was a nice visit, and I even miss having them around a little.

My mother will prattle on about nothing when given the chance. My dad pipes up with questions or remembered stories when we are alone. On the drive to the airport, they both ride mute like stones. It’s both creepy and kind of nice.

Bump and I are not as religious as they would like us to be, and they use opportunities like being trapped in a car to broach subjects like that. Religion and our lack of it, whether or not particular people are gay, and when we are moving back to Minnesota are all good silence-fillers for my parents. Bump has become adept at avoiding these situations, but I can’t seem to escape them.

I’m sure they don’t speak on the way to the airport because they are sad. They are anxious to be home, but never quite ready to leave. They are returning to the familiar and comfortable, but miss their grandchildren (and Bump and me, but to a much lesser extent) terribly. They much prefer when we visit them because they don’t deal with new experiences very well. Plus, something always seems to go slightly wrong when they visit.

It’s not that they are beacons of disaster, there’s just always. . . something. It’s usually not even their fault. They were staying at Aunt Bob’s this visit, and on their first night, they couldn’t get into the house. Turns out the keyring I had given them didn’t have the key to Aunt Bob’s house on it. Later one of the dryers was broken when Mom tried to use it. These types of episodes overwhelm them.

Last visit, one of the washers broke while Mom was using it. Mom and Dad tried to gas up Bump’s car but couldn’t get the pumps to work. Oh, and there was the time Aunt Bob’s water heater broke.

I think my parents are a little unlucky, but also have trouble dealing with even the tiniest of hiccups. Their world at home is small and predictable, and they like it that way.

They just wish their only grandchildren lived closer.

Perhaps an Explanation Is In Order

I like that Bump leaves comments here (although it would be nice if he wrote a post every once in a damn while), but sometimes he makes his comments by just turning around and speaking to me. Novel, huh?

He says stuff like, “What the hell! You didn’t even clean up the kitchen,” or “What is this Twenty-Four Month Letter all about?”

Oh.

I thought the Calendar Milestone Letter was a blog mainstay. Writers describe what their child is doing and marvel at the kid’s development or report on some aspect of their own growth as a parent. As in all things blog, Dooce does it, so must we all (just not as well as she does).

I was feeling all “Sunrise, Sunset”-y about Lumpyhead. I played the video of his first birthday party for my parents, and was appalled by the degree to which he is no longer a baby. Then at gymnastics class on the actual, glorious two-year anniversary of his birth, Lumpyhead spent 35 minutes lying on the floor and whining instead of tumbling. Hello, Two.

For both trains of thought, I felt “What the fuck?” summed things up much better than my ramblings could. Concise and vulgar, how nifty is that?

I dithered about whether I should use the acronym or spell it out. Because I take this here weblog very seriously, you know.