Settling into the Cold War Dream House

I can honestly say that remodeling a house to sell, remodeling a house to move into, moving 15 years of marital bliss and 23 bicycles is probably not much different than the effort it took to put a man on the moon. Rest in peace Neil Armstrong.

Speaking of Space Race, while the new place was being worked on I had a dream that I neglected to check the basement cabinets for a portal into a backyard bomb shelter. I woke in a sweat, heart racing at 3 a.m. figuring how it would totally make sense given the slope of the lawn, the patio cement slab and access from said floor to ceiling cabinets. I raced over to the new house the next morning to check, but alas there was no subterranean survival center. The contractors, (a great group of guys that felt more like friends helping with my project, only better, as they showed up on time, finished on time, didn't eat all our food, but wanted to be paid with more than beer. Go figure.) all laughed when I explained my dream. They agreed with the logic that it would have been a great place for a bomb shelter and offered to bid the job.

So we're mostly moved in and getting a feel for the neighborhood. At the old place when G and I would ride to Thunder-dome there was an occasional homeless guy sleeping under a tree but never any other signs of degradation. It was never a problem. I expect so much from a Portland City Park that resembles a campground with the soft ground, tall old trees and such.

At the new place, the park doesn't quite compare, so G has taken to making a "race course" around the surrounding blocks. On the backside descent to the tight, off-camber corner near the retirement home, we've already found used condoms in the street. I guess it makes sense that these old guys are popping Viagra like PEZ and taking Grandma on a walk up the hill to the gazebo that looks out over the community garden. Just the other night the retirement home had a Luau that went well past 9 p.m.

With the Luau in full swing and G and I watching his favorite movie, A decided to hit the grocery store alone in hopes of some peace and quiet while shopping. Turns out, after dinner Friday night at the Fred Meyer's is as much as a meat market as the retirement home.
She got back just as G and I were walking upstairs to get ready for bed. I had the living room windows open and the house smelled of smoke. The neighbors have consistently been partying on weekends and have a fire pit so I gave it no thought. In fact, a week after we moved in, the retired neighbor lady came over to tell us of her parties and apologize if they get too loud. Apparently backgammon after dark gets a little rowdy.

A was flustered and complained of the smoke just as I was processing that it smelled a little strong. I closed up the windows, looked out the kitchen window to see a glowing house a block away filtered by heavy smoke just as she asked if I hadn't heard the sirens.

She then went on to explain, in her animated way, her shopping experience and the guy in flip flops pushing a flatbed cart that she couldn't shake through the store amid the beer buying maze of party goers. In fact, her story was so intricate that she had to sit at the kitchen table and draw a diagram of how it all went down while barely able to contain herself.

The guy left the store about the same time as A and, as chance would have it, they were parked right by each other. By now his cart was loaded with a way-too-big-to-fit-into-his-car, boxed bistro table set. A loaded her groceries and watched puzzlingly as he opened all the doors of his Crown Vic and tried to jam the box unsuccessfully into each portal one at a time.

He got it jammed partially into the trunk, took the cart to the cart corral, walked back, jumped on the box some more, swore, tried to stomp his frustrations but was emasculated by his own flip flops. He then brought the cart back, held it from rolling down the slope, pinning him against his car with a fully extended leg and his big toe against the handle of the cart while now standing on one leg and attempting to pick up the large box, pivot and set it back on the cart behind him. I think she said he swore some more.

As sweet a soul as A is, she decided that 10'oclock at night was no time to offer to help or tell the guy to just take the table and chairs out of the box.

"It was so obvious the thing wouldn't fit! He didn't even need to measure anything to know the box wasn't going into that car. He was so angry, he finally stomped his flip flops and pushed the beat up box back into the store, presumably to return the thing, and I just threw it in reverse and floored it to get away from the guy."

Now, standing in the middle of the kitchen surrounded by empty grocery bags, eyes ablaze with her story, she turned casually to see out the window at the glowing house a block away, "old people are having sex, houses are burning, what's next: pets' heads falling off!?"

Swan song

As best as I figure, tonight was going to be G's last evening at the local park he calls Thunderdome, as residents of the neighborhood.

The neighbors along the four blocks or so to the park have become accustomed to his tearing down the sidewalk on his skuut bike with me next to or right behind him on my own bike. The one guy around the corner especially, who recently told us that riding bikes on the sidewalk was illegal. What keeps me entertained about him is that every day that we ride by his house, Gavin asks, "Is the cranky guy happy yet?"

Cranky guy sits in his living room next to an open window reading the paper every evening. I answer, "We can only hope so son."

So tonight I had visions of G riding through the park, down the grassy hill, circling around giant redwood trees, not understanding the magnitude of this last after dinner excursion. I imagined it a summary of all the riding and playing we have done there over the last 3 years.

Instead, he wanted to walk to the park...wait for it...with Abeeee in her stroller.

I thought A threw that stupid stroller away months ago. At the very least in the last few days while packing. I admit I am the one who caved and bought it for him after he earned a trip to the toy aisle at Fred Meyers for not peeing his pants or eating all his dinner or something.

But alas, my lovely wife, the mother of this fine child, had not thrown it away. Leaving me to walk to the park with my son, his doll and her pink stroller.

Cranky guy was happy this evening.

The dog walkers, other families making their way to the park and most everyone driving by, all smiled. Some pointed. Some shared how great they felt it was to let a child express him/herself.

I was impressed by G, not for wanting to embrace his feminine side, but for being able to launch Abeeeeeee down every slope we came across. He pushed evenly never tipping her heavy either left or right. She did have a few jettison moments with curbs though.

He was careful to look for cars before letting her "cross the street by herself."

Once at the park, G found a cool stick, ditched Abeeeeee and ran around till he was dripping with sweat and finally broke the stick. I sat on a bench consoling her while talking with another dad whose daughter regularly wears a super hero suit consisting of purple snow boots, butterfly wings and a cat mask made from a paper plate.

Abeeeee thought the stick breaking was pretty awesome and that G had it coming after dropping her like a homely prom date once the slow dances started. We had to discuss her attitude before it got the better of her. Bitterness is ugliness.

Then G and Super Girl found a Hot Wheel car under a pile of bark dust and Abeeeeeeee was indignant. So much so that when it came time to walk home, Abeeeeeee wanted nothing to do with Gavin.

It's one thing to walk to the park with your son while he pushes a pink stroller with his 'daughter' in it. It's totally different to carry that stroller yourself while your 4-year-old gets to cradle a rad, lime green Ford Mustang Hot Wheel car.

Believe it or not, as a red blooded man, there is a right way to carry a toy stroller and a doll. Unlike carrying your wife's purse which is just plain wrong. First, is the fundamental chin up, chest out. Good posture is the foundation of confidence.

Next is to palm the stroller like a basketball. Squeezing the flimsy pink plastic handles together with just enough force that they may break, but not until your close enough to home that you don't have to carry a broken girl toy with your son for a distance further than you could throw the stupid thing. Despite the grip, the girl toy should hang casually at your side like how the old timers carried their lunch pale into the factory every day.

Lastly, is to acknowledge passers by with a subtle sternness. A look that says, "Yeah, I know that you see me carrying a girly toy and walking with my son, but wouldn't it suck if you got beat up with this stupid, pink, pre-school play thing?"

It worked. As Gavin stumbled over the uneven sidewalk, not watching where he was going, while analyzing the car in his dirty, sweaty, little hands, the same dog walkers and new parents who walked in a haze with their precious babies asleep in real strollers, looked at us again but instead of smiling that cheesy, "oh how cute," smile, gave me the nod that men give men out of a silent respect.

Then we got home and each had an Otter Pop while G told me knock knock jokes that all ended with Abeeeee farting.

Crime and Punishment

A sorted through her purse today and found a forgotten gift card.

"Sweet!" you might say.

Or "Big deal."

But here's the thing: 'We,' have history of saving gift-cards. Not really hoarding; hoarding is too strong a word for this. And hoarding gift-cards doesn't have the same dramatic effect on TV as say, hoarding garbage does. If she were to buy loads of crap with gift cards based on late night infomercials and then never throw any of it away, and the Fire Marshall couldn't find any of my dozen or so bikes from underneath her hoarding ways, then yeah, that would be a problem that could make for good TV. But this, this is not hoarding.

Yet there is a strong historical trend of hanging onto gift-cards or gift certificates well past their expiratition date while all along being too gun-shy to pull the trigger because next time/month/year there might be a better deal/sale/need where that twenty-bucks might make the difference of us eating or not. Then the odd day comes to clean out the purse and low and behold; a stack of free movie passes, coffee, dinner or $$ off at select stores, all as valuable as East German currency.

Anyway, she found a gift card today from like 3 years ago and decided to test it to see if it worked. She logged onto her favorite on-line retailer and bought earrings.

"Good for you," I said.

I would have done the same thing. Except I don't carry a purse or let any amount of money in any form last for more than about 12 hours in my possesion. Except for the one time I carried a single $1.00 bill for a month. It was when I stumbled across another $1.00 bill on the sidewalk that I remembered I had the first one and immediately bought a cup of coffee.

At anyrate, A buys the earrings and the total, including shipping is more than the value of the card. Except that, and here's where the story really gets good, the charge goes through. The card worked at 101.4% of it's original value 3 years ago. Gift cards as I am aware are not an investment. Worse case, they lose a percentage value over time until they are worth nothing (at which point she tries to use them). Best case, they are worth what say they are worth.

So now, she's really amped. She also feels a wave of guilt. As if she just kicked The Man in the crotch. She becomes distraught. Then excited again. Then a fire truck drives by 6 blocks away and she thinks its the cops coming to arrest her. Then I walk in and she spills her guts of the whole thing. Knowing that telling the truth should set her free she remains torn, frought with emotion after her confession and is now additionally processing her anger at me for laughing at her.

"The true cost of these earrings," she says, pointing her finger of justice at me,"No, the punishment... no, both the cost and the punishment, is my conscience. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to wear them!"