A heartfelt kick to the rainface.

It's raining, I'm home alone, and mostly talking to myself -- maybe singing (but we keep that a secret (until I forget Peter's home (he's like a ninja))). It's been awhile since I've written anything non-school related, so I figured maybe it's time for a quick update for nobody in particular (I purposefully stopped writing so that I'd lose my audience so that I could start writing comfortably (I've been writing in parentheses far too much lately)).

Luci's so frickin' old now, it's weirding me out. Here's an example of her deliberately evil attitude: Lets say that you're brushing your teeth and you leave the toothpaste a little too close to the edge of the counter and Luci just happens to be within 12 miles of you. You better believe that before you even know she's in the room, the toothpaste is not only in her hands, but she's concentrating hard on figuring out the screw cap. Cute, the first 30 times of not learning our parental lesson, but now it's quickly become the 830th time and we're a little bemused and annoyed. So, you do the logical thing and address her as you would an adult, "Luci, you can't play with that because you'll get toothpaste all over the place." This she will ignore entirely with not so much as a glance when you say her name, so you calmly dumb it down a bit, "Luci, daddy says no." This time she'll nod her head, almost too responsive, as if there's a bit of sarcasm to the nod (can you have a sarcastic nod? Luci answers: yes). Finally, you baby it up: "Luci, no no toothpaste." This time, she'll respond "Lulu no no no toosh" and walk away, cap unscrewed, spraying toothpaste everywhere including her hair, mouth, and clothes, repeating "Lulu no no no toosh" and nodding her head.

"But Adam!" You'll say, "She's only 17 months! She doesn't understand!" And I call bullshit. She understand all too well, in fact. Exhibit A: My cell phone. She doesn't like playing with it very often because I'm always sure to put the key-guard on it before she can grab it, rendering it useless for calling 911, China, or ex-girlfriends*. One time, long, long ago, she decided that the next best thing would be to stick it in her mouth, or, because of its size, licking it like a cute little puppy (if that puppy could deceive and be evil). Well, my P key no longer works -- awesome. My response to her sticking it in her mouth? "No, Luci, that's daddy's." Words that, unfortunately, cannot be undone. Saying "no" to Luci is like handing her chapstick and believing she won't eat the entire stick in 50 seconds. So now EVERY time she gets my phone, she doesn't bother trying to hit keys or accidentally unlock it and call my co-workers, noooo, she immediately just looks at me, sticks out her tongue, and says "No no dadda" and proceeds to innocently touch the top of it to her tongue. This'll be cute for less than 2 seconds, and I'll ask for the phone, she'll respond "No no dadda" and lick it again. I'll make like I'm going to take it from her, she'll run away, lick it some more. At this point, I don't care, which annoys her. So she'll take my phone, run within 10 feet of me with her hand out, and say "Heeee" -- I'll reach for it, she'll pull back and run away, giggling, "No no dadda". Next is 5 feet, then 2, then I slap her across the face.

Okay, that last part was a lie. By slap her in the face I meant I take the phone from her and she has a 10 minute breakdown.

Fortunately, she's still cute, so the amount of evil she does is quickly diluted. She babbles a lot now, and doesn't quite have full sentences down unless you know her well (she says our neighbor Debie's name perfectly, which Debie was relieved at, because she thought Luci was scared of dark-skinned people).

As for me, I am, for once in my life, trying to get into shape. Most of you know I recently spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much on a bike, but I'm definitely getting my use out of it. I obsessed a little too much (and still do) over every aspect of biking, but I'm happy that I'm actually obsessing over something productive (well, I still obsess about football, which is more masochistic than productive when you're a Vikings fan). I also play basketball every weekend with my co-workers, which again certifies my mid-midlife crisis when I realize how out of shape and bad at basketball I've gotten. I hit 50 miles on my bike last week, and my attempt at 60 a few days ago failed due to a blown cleat on my biking shoes (almost die 8 times over, my shoe came unclipped riding uphill with cars whizzing by). This weeks is finals, and I have a day or two left of studying before I'm done with spring quarter. I'm taking another full-time load during summer quarter, but I'm not burnt out yet, so I don't mind (a couple of the credits are "fitness" credits that require me to do fitness related things... like bike).

Maja is good, she's working a lot more now that I'm part-time, even though I tell her she doesn't need to. Her bike arrived via UPS today (did I mention I may have talked her into getting a bike?), and she's pretty excited, but due to rain I haven't been able to finish assembling it. She's just getting over a sickness that I picked up over the weekend (and no, I don't mean the biking sickness that has enveloped my psyche for the last month or two) -- she's out with Luci running some errands (buying bedding/sheets, I'm sure) and Luci will undoubtedly randomly run off and hide from her because, well, Maja tells her not to (evil... blatantly evil).

Anyway, I'd better cut this off before I start talking about xbox or football.

Oh, and I should also mention that I'll be starting a new blog to document my bike trips around Spokane. I'll post the link as soon as my first blog is up.





*Please note: I do not have any numbers of ex-girlfriends listed in my phone, MAJA! JOKES!

Peek-a-boo

I’m flying. The air is cool above the clouds and for a moment I think I’ll stay here all day. This quiet, this silence, is all exhale; it’s holding your breath until your lungs burn and your heart thumps against your ribs, then releasing— forever. It’s a strange feeling – flying – as if I’ve been here before; there’s no moon, sun, or stars. No birds, no sound, no color, no sight. I’ve flown above sight, sound, and I’m not sure how to land. I wish that I could stay here all day.

I’m lying on my back, my hands stretched over my head. There’s a vibration against my neck – a massage, a thousand little fingers, begging me to sleep. Now I hear drums. The massage spreads toward the back of my skull. I’m falling through the sky. A guitar solo? I’m plummeting. There must be some kind of way out of here. I see land. Before I hit the ground, my eyes open to black. No angels, no sky, no sun, and no moon.

I’m awake. According to the cell phone under my pillow that’s vibrating and screaming Jimi Hendrix into my lifeless body, it’s 6am. Through the glow the phone, now in my palm, all I can see is the back of my wife’s head and Luci’s limp arm resting on my chest, her face buried in my armpit. They’re still above me, flying; they’ve learned to ignore Hendrix this early, and they’ll continue to fly while I take a shower, make some breakfast, back down our driveway, and drive into the frigid morning world.

I’m invisible. On most days I feel like a ghost. I wander from class to class, subject to subject, thought to thought, without the motivation of interest; only time. Time may be the most important thing in my life. Just like anything else, someone with too much time can easily take it for granted. I could say that I wish I had more time, but I’d be lying. Time may heal all wounds, cure the common cold, or leave scars that last a lifetime; but it’s time that makes a moment, a small fragment, seem so much more important; it’s time that makes little miracles.

I see people. I don’t watch them, I glance through them. I ponder my difficulty creating relationships, and then only shallow and tenuous, while wandering through halls, grass, and concrete. I, along with these invisible, moving statues, spend hours listening to lectures on society, equations, and words. This weight strapped to my back, between my shoulder blades, is my cross to bear - my time alone to ponder heaven, and realize that I’ll soon be there.

I’m driving. My mind is filled with knowledge, these few useful nuggets - I have to sift them through a pan. It feels like one too many voices, all giving me opinions I don’t agree with; they’ll argue, I’ll listen, and pretend not to care. I’ll try to avoid hitting a child darting across the street. I’ll try to make sense of the vibrations of knowledge still floating through my head.

Traffic is somehow humiliating. I find myself to be tolerant, accepting, and forgiving. I find myself to be loving, perhaps too confident in human nature, but… traffic is humiliating. When I’m behind the wheel, I’m a reckless bastard placing all possible judgment on one’s ability to signal before a turn; to ease into a stop; to go 5mph over the speed limit. Fuck you, guy staying stopped as the light turns green; I bet you’re a rapist, molester, or worse. It’s hard being confused on the way to heaven. Should you be angry, happy, or sad?

I’m home. I’ll slam my head on the car door seven out of ten times as I emerge into wind, sun, and green; knocking out the thoughts, the confusion, the ideas. My mind will run, but my body will drift; through grass, chest-high and soft; through flowers, a dot-matrix of hues; through gates, where judgment and conscience is erased. Everything gets erased here, and I feel like I’m flying. I am free, released from life. I don’t wake, I don’t learn, I don’t drive, and I see no one. I am flying.

I walk into the front hallway of our home; to the left is an opening with two stairs leading to the family room. There’s a couch and a few chairs in no particular arrangement, baby clothes and toys are scattered everywhere. The kitchen dining table, overlooking the family room through an open, rounded platform, has Cheerios and mashed potatoes smashed into abstract patterns. There was a war here, and it ended with a grenade of cuteness, exploding over everything. Through the family room, dining room, and kitchen, you’ll find a living room; a TV mounted in the corner, a well-placed couch and love seat, and a few more toys spilling into the entry. I’m still in the entryway, resting my backpack onto the floor and untying my shoes. I can hear small shrieks and little motor sounds coming from the normally-placed couch. As I slip my shoes off and bounce through the dining room, I can hear, “Mom-om-om-om-om-om.” I pretend she’s saying, “Dad-ad-ad-ad-ad-ad” as I walk around the corner and proclaim, “Luci Belle! Daddy’s home!” She’s actually quite unimpressed, but raises her hands above her head, moving all her little fingers and blowing into the air, her way of telling me she wants “up.”

Luci is my angel. She is nine months old, has curly hair like her mother, but light, almost blonde, in infancy. She’s a chub, but in the 15th percentile in both height and weight, which only means she’s going to be skinny like me and short like her mom. She is the cutest thing I have ever seen, and although that seems biased, you have to realize that I looked exactly like her when I was a baby, which makes me doubly biased. She’s learning to stand, but too wobbly to walk. She loves Cheerios, popsicles, and being held during long walks on the beach.

Luci likes playing with her toys on our bed. It’s easy on her knees while crawling and she can easily tempt fate by looking over the edge and blowing spit bubbles. But after school and with Daddy, Luci doesn’t like to play with toys. She doesn’t like to blow spit bubbles, tempt fate, or crawl. She’ll simply sit on a pillow with blankets snuggled all around her and wait. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work pants. She’ll wait for Daddy to change into his work shirt. She’ll wait while Daddy puts on different shoes. She’ll wait until Daddy changes into his life without her. She’ll wait until all of this is done, and without a sound, an action, or a tear.

“Peek-a-boo!” I’ll say as she rips the blanket from over her head. She’ll giggle and put the blanket back on. She’ll wait for a moment, until I call out her name, then she’ll rip it away again, and giggle even more. She’ll only do this for five minutes, because Daddy has to go. She’ll cry for ten minutes more, but Daddy will have already left. Ten minutes of her Daddy, after school, before work. Ten minutes of time we’ll never leave for granted.

I’m awake.

A man amongst children.

I've been feeling really old lately. The type of old that breeds common sense and a crude understanding of maturity'd'ness. I made up that word, because I can't think of any other that makes nearly everyone in my day-to-day seem extremely... f*cking... retarded. I ellipsed that for dramatic effect, and I bleeped the eff word because I'm old. As you can see, even my writing is suffering; I feel like the guy that has to point out that the pun that he cleverly constructed was in no way intended, but it secretly was.

My life as a mild-mannered cell phone salesman isn't all that complex, but even now - 4 months later - I'm still stunned to see the scope of absolute stupidity and/or failure of common sense in people astounding. This job is more complex and dramatic than bail bonds. It's as if the business man who's phone stopped working is having more of a crisis than the one who's arrested for assault and will inevitably lose his job. What makes people go so frickin' crazy over cell phones?

Beyond that, I work with a lot of guys around my age who just can't seem to peice together the mindfulness to not be idiots every hour of every day. One of said idiots even approached me and said "I think you'd make a good manager, you have a way of telling me what I'm doing wrong without making me feel stupid" - I still can't understand if that's a compliment.

I'll cut this one short, but what's making me feel really old right now is that my daughter plays more xbox than me :(.





(This is Luci rolling off her designated play-quilt, onto my movies and a few cords to get to my xbox remote, which she obsesses over not being able to have; all while nearly strangling herself with a measuring tape.)















Promise my next one will be less... bitchy.

It puts the lotion on its skin...

Hello, my name is Luci, and today I turned 6 months old.

After throwing all of my toys at mommy and daddy, I think I'll take a look to see if I can find anything I'm not supposed to have.

Aha! A bottle of the stuff mommy's always rubbing on daddy's back (hey, he's a hard-workin' man)!

How do I open it and eat all the white stuff inside?

First we'll try waving it around and screaming!

Maybe if I squeeze it reaaaaaally really hard!

Maybe I can smash it open with my other toys!

Man, I'm totally running out of ideas! Wait... maybe...



















Aha! I think I found the perfect plan!

The Absolute M&M

I have a tough time writing these days, but I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing. I look back on nearly every decent thing I've written and I realize that in every instance, every good story and poetic short, I was in some way unsatisfied with my life. I guess that's why I haven't been annoyed by my lack of creativity or pursuit of the absolute; seemingly making up for what I couldn't change in life. Sure, you might say killing children on Halloween or delightful suicide dialogue would quench whatever dissatisfaction I have in life like a cup of industrial bleach cures constipation, but you'd be wrong; it seemed like everything I used to write would just depress me more, which would make me want to write... what's hard is that I could never be satisfied - you have no idea how many times I've written my Halloween short, and to this day I still think it looks like it was written by a 15 year old.

What comes next is this sort of tied relationship between writing and the depression I've been able to avoid for quite some time. So I avoid writing, which is kind of annoying because I wish I could come up with some good ideas. My last good idea bagged Maja, so some good has to come of it, right?

So here I am with Luci on the floor, playing with a bag of mint M&Ms. She's pretty happy, which makes daddy pretty happy. So I guess that's the placement for my blog topic tonight, even though I haven't written a blog since, well, my first. I could write on and on about Luci, that's easy, but what isn't easy is writing about me... at least not so much anymore, especially when I'm in a good mood.

I can't wait for school, and I just can't understand why I didn't go back sooner. It's as though I turned 18 and just hit the ground running and I've never stopped. I've never stopped to think where it would take me or where I wanted to go. So here I am, 6 years later; a job I'm not happy with in a career field I've never liked. Not once, in six years, have I been satisfied with my "career", because I never looked at is as a career, just a job, and I'll continue to see it that way because I just don't want what a dislike to be half of my life. I guess this was never an issue until now, now that my life outside work is stable; it's my obsession to have the absolute, or at least close to it.

And that's where I land myself, stuck in a position where all my hard work pits me with an 19 year old and a college student who works half his shift, both making the same wage as me. I'm trying not to get burnt out, but it's getting harder to, well, work hard. I want my work to have meaning, it's what takes me away from my family more than I'd like, but every time I try and take it all seriously, I realize how juvenile the sales profession really is.

So my question: when will I get to play with my bag of mint M&Ms?

And since this isn't meant to be a negative blog, I'll answer. I think I've found the key to happiness, to find a normal that isn't what I'm used to. What used to depress me about life? C'mon, if you're my sister, you'll know it was mostly women. It wasn't until I found someone normal that I could say I was, finally, truely happy. And it wasn't that Maja was normal - or is normal - because she's totally not... it's that she's comfortable, she makes me feel normal, and that's quite a feat.

I can't keep settling for a career life that leaves me heartbroken and blogging about what could be or what could have been, because we all know how well that fixed my other issues in the past. I need to move on and see other jobs, and eventually marry that new job, and have little job babies - and in that specific order like a good Catholic would - and hope my little job-baby doesn't grow into what a frickin' nutball I was when I was a kid... wait, I forgot where I was going with this.

Oh yes, I remember.

My bag of M&Ms is full of candy, but I'll never understand how fun that bag could be if I just emptied it out and rolled around on the floor with it. Life doesn't have to be that complex, and sometimes a bag is all you need to be completely happy.

Well, boobies and airplane rides help.

There's something about Luci.

Did I ever tell you the story of how I got punched in the face? Don't worry, it's a short one. Danielle wrote a blog about how Shawn mutters obscenities and acts really creepy, well Maja beats me. So how does it feel to be one upped, Dani?

It was a night like any other for me and my beautiful Maja. After making a candlelight dinner, rubbing her feet, and tucking her in for the night, she fell quickly asleep. I stayed awake for a while longer to do the dishes and gaze at my favorite photos of her, sighing longingly for when we would both wake in the morning. Apon falling asleep with dreams of Maja, I suddenly found myself awake, hours later, missing my beautiful fiance and my unborn baby girl. With a slight grin on my face, I slowly turned to kiss Maja on the cheek, and to my surprise, she was waiting to give me a kiss on the cheek as well...

... With her fist.

Although screaming, "Why!?" could never justify the deep hurt that I felt, Maja just simply rolled back into her pillow and told me to "man up."

Okay, okay. So maybe that's not exactly how it all went, but the point remains! "But Adam," you'd say, "it was probably just a mistake. She was probably just dreaming of past memories of you doing and/or saying stupid things." And you may be right, if this had been the first time she punched me. Oh no, no, no - says my stomach, who took a deliberate blow when she used a pretend context to actually punch me.

And THAT, my friends, is the mother of my awesome, cute, grunting, pooping, drooling little girl.


















That's her discovering that her hand can hold things. A couple weeks ago she first discovered her hands, then a couple days ago in the bathtub/sink she discovered her toes. Right now it's a battle for attention between my face and her hand. They're both pretty impressive, but I think her hand is winning. So that's now two hands that have beat me, one through cuteness and curiousity, and the other through spousal abuse at 3am.

Luci's starting to mumble a lot, and not like daddy mumble, it's actually loud and directed at someone. Mommy's slowly forgetting how to finish sentences; while Luci talks precisely to Mommy before and after feedings, Mommy responds vaguely with jarbled sentences.

I kid, I kid. Maja had to call her mom today to get the punchline to a joke she just had to tell me, but couldn't remember halfway through. All jokes aside... she's been absolutely wonderful, and I still don't know how she does it. Luci falls asleep next to Maja at night, and I can't even keep her sleeping while Maja gets ready for bed. I feel kind of selfish, because while Maja gets to entertain Luci all day, through happy and mad, I get to come home and be goofy dad. People say having a baby is hard, but I feel as though I don't know half of how hard it really is. Either way, I wish I could take pictures of Luci cuddling Maja every morning, but most of the time she has her hands wrapped around Maja's chestal area.

Maja starts school in less than a month, she has a few prerequisits to finish before her post-grad in the fall. I'm still planning on doing Creative Writing, but still leaving Law up in the air. I have a feeling I'm going to like Creative Writing enough to pursue a post grad in it, or even do some editorial stuff. I dunno, I guess lately I've had a lot of time to think about it, as my motivation to get away from sales is still strong. I guess I'd just like to get through school by the time I'm 30, but we'll see.

I think that sums up some of the things going on. I work for Sprint now... at least for the next 6 months, 'til school starts. Luci's getting tired, so I better wrap this up so that Maja can read it and be satisfied and surprised that I actually finished it.

Sha-bam!