Thursday, July 28, 2005

10 years later

I have not lived in Washington, D.C., for nearly a decade -- I moved west in the spring of 1996 -- but I still somehow feel connected to that city. Could be that the fun I had, the close friendships I developed and the varied experiences I, um, experienced all combine to drape a rosy glow around all things DC for me...still, now, even after 10 years.

Take for example this week -- I've been having an entertaining e-mail exchange with John Lavey, an old friend and newspaper colleague from the Northern Virginia Sun/Gazette days. I'm going to Houston tomorrow to visit Gene, a college friend with whom I shared many of my best times in Washington. And today I was drawn to an online item in the DC City Paper, a wonderful alternative weekly that doggedly attempts to keep the Post and the Moonie-owned Washington Times honest. I shouldn't really care what the City Paper says about the
Post's prudish reporting on a gay-bashing Anacostia preacher, but I still do.

In reading this stuff, I ran across a mention of the 10-year anniversary of the Million Man March, and the memories came flooding back. In October 1995, I was working as the Washington bureau chief (fancy title, but I was basically a reporter) for two financial newsletters: Wall Street Letter (yawn) and Compliance Reporter (double yawn). My office was just a few blocks from the White House, the Mall, etc. (on F St., between 14th and 15th, across from the The Shops at National Place and the National Press Club). When the Million Man March occurred, I walked down to the Mall to check out the crowds, the speeches, the food vendors. I felt vaguely uncomfortable as a white guy in a dress shirt and tie, but that may have been more me than any vibe from the throng.

Wow, fascinating anecdote, huh? March happened, I saw it. I suppose the point is that, I am using this blog to document my past experiences before they are overwhelmed in my brain by the lyrics to Ralph's kid songs or ophthalmology's position on NIH reauthorization or whatever. Case in point: the aforementioned John Lavey swears that he never attended a David Copperfield show with me at the Warner or National Theater in DC. So if it wasn't him, which I think it was, than who was it? Because I know I went...although that's something I probably should forget.

So, in the interest of documenting (or am I just bragging?):

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P.S. While I've managed to avoid too much crappy TV watching since Sunday...it's just kind of boring knocking around the domicile by myself. I miss Nicola and Lindsay! Reunion set for Monday at the Oakland airport. And check out the ladies in the pool -- love that Elmer Fudd hat!

Back with more next week, after my Houston trip.


Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Programmed

As I talked to Nicola on the phone last night -- she and Lindsay are still in Oregon -- I heard the Magic Bean crying in the background. And I was almost moved to tears -- I think it was a distinctly biologically programmed reaction a parent has to hearing his or her offspring in distress. The emotions -- missing the adorable little puddle of drool after 4 days -- are genuine, don't get me wrong. But I think they do originate from some hard-wired impulse: baby cries, parent responds.

Even more amazing: how Nicola and I have fought this natural caregiving instinct over the past couple of weeks as we helped Lindsay figure out her sleep schedule. I guess a few days of quiet around the house made me miss even the wailing.


10 days away from the family -- not something I'd like to repeat again soon.

I went and worked on my golf swing last night in preparation for my trip to Houston. I play less than five times a year, which is probably one-tenth of the amount I should play to get any good. I am resolved to being less than mediocre...but "Golf for Dummies" beckoned at the library, so away I went. My grip was wrong, my alignment sucks, etc. and so forth. It's a long list of flaws, believe me. I tried to keep the mindset that I was experimenting: "Gee, what happens when I slow my swing down and accentuate the turn in my hips?" But that gets old when you are actually missing the ball during this experiment.

My game has been crappy but predictable: a god-awful slice, profound lapses in concentration during the short game, so-so putting and the occasional purely struck shot that brings me back for more. This is the golf game that produced both of these in the same round (at Myrtle Beach during a bachelor party): 1) a glancing blow off a course ranger's golf cart, as he was driving between fairways to investigate our group's slow play and hijinks; and 2) a gently slicing driver off the 18th tee that bounced into the clubhouse parking lot and landed in the backseat of a car (the door was fortunately open, the car surrounded by golfers packing up their gear).

Now -- my quest for improvement may lead me to be even worse than I was. Oh boy. Nothing like facing with dread a 5-hour round of golf in the July Houston heat.
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Rescue Me last night: another fine show, highlighting the characters' shortcomings and failings. There are no heroes or completely likable people in the show, which makes it more interesting to me...and at times painful to watch. I do find some of the foibles to be cliche...but I suppose that doesn't make them untrue. And I thought the "firebug" storyline was a bit predictable. Heck, there was a lot that was predictable about the episode, but I still enjoyed it. Beats just about anything else on TV...besides the train wreck that is "Sports Kids Moms & Dads." I've mildly kvetched before about my parents' lack of interest in my athletic career, but man, it could have been worse!

Monday, July 25, 2005

Self flagellation

I had dinner tonight with my good friend Eric -- an enjoyable time, as usual. He and I have similar father issues/backgrounds, we've both been through divorces (well, he's an "almost"), and we think about things in a very similar way. I feel very fortunate that I randomly ran into him on Market Street in San Francisco one day last spring...more than a decade after we used to hang out in Chapel Hill as aimless post graduates.

As we battled through horrendous table service that crossed over from indifferent to inept (hey, we aren't all tourists here!), he and I got talking about how we are generally like ourselves these days, after periods of ongoing introspection. And I said..."Well, not today, because I spent the day beating myself up for watching hours of stupid TV last night and staying up too late and making myself tired all day" or something to that effect.

In the interest of self confession (and semi-public self flagellation), here's how I spent my precious Sunday night:

No, I don't feel better at all. But now I have something in writing to refer back to when I'm tempted to waste hours of my life being numbed by bad television. I will still indulge, but perhaps I can be a bit more selective..."Rescue Me" or the "Scrubs" first season DVD set I got for Father's Day...or an eagerly awaited Scott Caan tripleheader...someday!

Nicola, come home and save me from myself!

Referring to an earlier post, I've made outreach to some old friends...Theo, JL, you know who you are. Welcome, good to see you.

Final thought: me and the kids...right where I belong.


Sunday, July 24, 2005

Ella's pearls

Nicola and Lindsay left yesterday morning for a week in Philomath, Ore., visiting her parents. So it was just Ella and I for most of the weekend. We had a good time together, as we usually do. Two items of intellectual interest from this 5-year-old marvel:

Of course, she is still just five. We went to see March of the Penguins today, and she sat in my lap for the second half because she was afraid for the baby penguins. She's so sensitive...the appearance of "predators" (new word for her) really was upsetting, I think. She's been known to bail on movies all together before, so sitting through the whole thing was progress. Fascinating movie, by the way. I'd love to see a documentary of how they filmed it.

A quiet and lonely week ahead (sniff!). Maybe I'll find some time to work on what passes for my golf game.


Tuesday, July 19, 2005

In a fog

As the traditional San Francisco July weather presents itself -- foggy, windy, cool in the morning, with the burn-off by afternoon -- I find myself in a bit of a mental state that matches the external conditions. I attribute it to a couple of things, the biggest of which is the sad news recently received from mi hermano Gene. It's not my place to share what's going on down there in Houston, but "sad" is woefully inadequate to describe it. Tragic. Devastating. Courage-testing.

I'm headed off to Houston with my other best pal Dave on July 29 to provide Gene with whatever support we can. But in the meantime, I've found myself distracted...to the point of completely neglecting a mom/work balancing challenge that Nicola was struggling with right under my nose. My preoccupied state caused a few days of tension around the house, until we finally identified, confronted and talked it out last night. Our relationship has a low threshhold for discord, which is almost always a good thing. The big stuff gets handled, and the little stuff is dealt with and we move on. What a blessed change from previous relationships...and I'm sure I bear the brunt for at least half of the communication failures in my past. Hey, I learned early on to swallow feelings and express them through attention-grabbing misdeeds -- why would I stop doing that just because I'm a "grown-up?"

So anyway, Gene -- besos. Hang in there. And Nicola -- thanks for putting up with me as I struggled through the past few days.

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I am now going to COMPLETELY shift gears, at the risk of upsetting the gentle nature of this particular post.

But tonight, my favorite summer TV show -- "Rescue Me" -- is on. Denis Leary wuz robbed by the Emmys, by the way. Last week I was watching it, and the episode featured a lengthy discussion of the word...ahem..."twat." Yes, apparently they can say this on TV, and repeatedly. They can even say "twunt" -- an ill-formed combination of two misogynist slang words. Anyway, a later commercial break featured an extended ad for those electric scooters for the elderly and immobile. I think they are a Medicare scam, but the point is -- isn't there a massive disconnect between the viewing demographic and this ad buy? Can the same person possibly be amused by the edgy wordplay in "Rescue Me" AND be in the market for a scooter?

Curious, but perhaps only to me.

P.S. Welcome to all the people who googled the word "twat" and ended up here! Sorry to disappoint!

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Random #1

A couple of things I forgot to mention and/or follow up on yesterday:



Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Stow (Lake) away

Today, in a nice break from the usual work routine of making the American Academy of Ophthalmology Web site the best darn Web site it can be, I participated in the Academy's annual outdoor volunteer day. About 25 of us sallied forth to Golden Gate Park, where we helped clean up around Stow Lake (links here and here). In my two+ years of living here, I've never made it to the park or this lake, which features a big hill in the middle with amazing (today: fog-shrouded) views of the city and paddleboats and other interesting stuff. The park is very cool -- I must get back there with Nicola to explore.

Despite the gray skies and cool weather (yes, I SAW MY BREATH ON JULY 13), I still managed to get sunburned on my neck, and I'm tired and sore from trimming, shoveling, raking, scooping, sweeping, etc. But I'm so glad I work somewhere that sanctions something like this -- a way to give back to the city and the community. I realize it's a small gesture...yet it felt good. I saw a heron (I think), and I learned that you can suck nectar out of a nasturtium (spelling?) flower bud, and I saw a shopping cart couple cooking their lunch (or boiling their socks?) at a barbecue pit.

The best part: getting to come home a bit early and see more of Lindsay than I've seen in a few days. She was in an extremely happy mood tonight and let rip with some of the most delightful laughs and giggles -- it's crazy what you'll do to keep a baby laughing, just to keep the mirth coming. It's contagious and addictive and...man, I can't even do it justice. The photo is from a few weeks ago, but it shows how happy Lindsay is (even though we're letting her cry a bit at night now -- hard, but she's sleeping better and longer).

Cute tidbit from Ella the other day: we were reading "Tacky the Penguin" (love the author and illustrator team) the other day, and the penguin hunters say some rhyme about selling penguins for a dollar and getting rich, rich, rich. Ella opines: "How are they going to get rich selling them for a dollar? They'd need to sell them for like a thousand bucks or somethin' !" (appropriate missing "g" included). It really struck me as so cute and funny -- Ella was riffing off the book to make a joke. Holy crap, she's growing up fast!

Monday, July 11, 2005

What's ours is ours

Nicola and I have been talking lately about the concept of "ours" vs. "mine" and "yours" or "his" and "hers." As two people previously married, we both came to our life together with boxes and boxes full of the past, manifesting itself in the form of candlesticks, art, plants, furniture, books and every other type of knick-knack and gewgaw you can fathom.

Why do we have that black wrought iron candle thing on the book case? What's with this vase? Oh, one of us answers, I had that with "x" or "y" or "it was a gift." No, we don't really have these conversations, but metaphorically, it works -- we live in a house surrounded by his and hers, when it should be ours. We have "ours" too -- nice photos or what have you that represent our life together. But there's too much that's not us. It took about two years of living in Alameda for this nagging concept to rise to the surface, but rise it has...accompanied by a mounting need to rid our house of clutter and make things more simple. Boy, those two impulses go nicely together, don't they.

We've started small (the wrought iron candle thing is gone) and big (my fast-as-shit, 5-speed, V6 Jetta with leather interior, sunroof, etc., has been traded in for...gulp...a Toyota Sienna minivan). The car move makes so much sense -- we could barely fit both Ella and Lindsay in the back of the Jetta, which is the BIGGER of our two cars. And while I was sad to see the Jetta go -- it being a symbol of my freedom, in some way, after my marriage ended -- I'm also OK with the symbolism of the van: a true family vehicle that serves us in the life we have now.

"Us" is a family, with Lindsay approaching five months and Ella headed to kindergarten. And it's Nicola and I finding time to reconnect (babysitter this Friday!). And it's many more things that I won't belabor but that I'll simply say I love about where I find myself.

The picture included here represents one more thing I'll say I dig about my life: my in-laws. This is Phoenix, Nicola's stepmom, and she's great, as is Nicola's dad Tom. They've been so welcoming and supportive and loving to me, and now they are embracing Ella and Lindsay like the best grandparents you can ever imagine.

Not much is missing...except a few really close friends to share our lives with. We are making new friends here in the SF area, and there's definitely some potential for close, long-term friendships. But man, we left behind some wonderful friends in Portland, of which were were reminded during our recent trip there. If my pal Thad was close by, and all the zaniness and laughs and angst and comfort that goes with our friendship, I would truly be blessed. Same, I think, for Nicola with Molly and maybe some others...my others might be Gene, Dave Mello, Louis. Anyway, there's nothing like great friends with whom you feel totally at ease...where you are truly yourself without even trying. That is a gift that I've been lucky to experience and hope to again with somebody local (gee, stalker much?).

I make no promises about regular blogging from here on out. I'll do it when the mood strikes...and I'm sure I should have more to say about the bellwether event of buying a minivan, for example.


Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Tough love

We're back from our 5-day trip to Oregon, where we saw old friends in Portland and spent the holiday weekend in Philomath, where my wife spent her formative years. This is a tiny town of 4200 outside Corvallis, and there ain't much to do there except hang out with family, eat hamburgers at Paul's, stroll around "downtown" Corvallis once or twice, etc. Fortunately, I enjoy the time with my in-laws, and my brother-in-law Erik was along for the ride, and he's always entertaining.

Anyway, Lindsay did great on the trip, for the most part. A few rough nights, which brings us to the title of tonight's entry: tough love. We've decided that Lindsay needs to learn to soothe herself to sleep -- she's become accustomed to us going in and putting her on her side and replacing the pacifier, and this is happening every hour or so. It's exhausting for us and for her, and we haven't been making any progress on getting entire nights of sleep (except when we break down and use the magical swing). The "cry it out" philosophy is controversial...and excruciating, like right know as I hear her wailing back in the nursery and Nicola and I fight our parental urges to go in and make it stop/make it better. It's agony listening to her cry! Why, then, are we doing this? Well, a few nights of struggle make for a better, more consistent sleeper, which = a better rested baby which = more rested parents and so on. We will all be happier. This worked for Ella at about the same age...but my memory fails on how long we had to endure the cries (45 minutes the first night? and then?) before she got with the plan. I hope Lindsay catches on soon...and I hope we are doing the right thing! She seems ready -- she can put herself to sleep first thing at night and for naps, so why not other times?

Please, little one, don't be so upset! And don't hate us for making tough decisions that are temporarily painful (? -- can babies remember pain? let's hope not, or I've got two little girls who will hatch schemes to hamstring me some day).

I'll write more tomorrow and try to get back to regular blogging. I've got a few ideas, more along the observational/philosophical line. Like, why is it that I keep thinking that the word "sanguine" means, or sounds like it means, calm and at peace? When it really means bloodthirsty? The fourth definition at m-w.com is confident or optimistic...which is sort of like at peace? I just keep wanting to use the word wrong -- today I was driving briskly over the Bay Bridge on my way to Children's Hospital for Lindsay's doctor's appointment (there's an anomaly on her skull we want checked out). I was fuming at the lack of cooperation of my fellow drivers -- they didn't, apparently, understand the urgency of my journey. But then I realized that I had plenty of time to get there, so I took a deep breath, and I thought, "I'm sanguine about this situation" or something along those lines. I meant "I'm at peace"...not "I'm bloodred." Although I could have meant "I'm cheerful" (another meaning).

Enough about that vocabulary navel gazing. Perhaps I'll stick to writing just about our little girl over and over. We'll see -- if the crying keeps up, I may have to write to assuage my guilt.

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