The Business

This blog is big business. The demands from it are incomprehensible to the little people. Readers from all over the world. It's humbling. Google though, in their infinite wisdom, decided I was too young to blog. Under age for such mature content. So they shut this outlet of enlightenment down cold like a kid crashing after a day at the circus. I'm gonna be totally honest; I'm over 40. I haven't even been carded when buying alcohol in years.

The damage though was to you dear reader. Your heart felt like it stopped when you saw the blank page on your work computer as you desperately tried to avoid the eyeball bleeding work that you do. And I apologise for that. I am mature enough to know the pain my alleged mistake of transposing digits to make me 3 years old on the Internet brought to you.

So I did what any graying forty-something would do; I yelled for my wife of a decade-and-a-half to bail me out. Again, with the honesty; I'm no technophile.  I chase a kid on a wooden bike with no pedals around the block and never seem to catch him.

A danced around the ring with her laptop for a few rounds, found Googles weakness, then stuck one to the breadbasket and shazaam! La Gazzetta dello NewmaForma is back. Now get back to work!

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.