Wanderlust

Busy as a bee

I've been strangely absent from the website because I've been really busy. I just finished my second 50+ hour work week, and I'm not even working today (it's Friday). With the new house distractions, the moving in and unpacking, and the crazy ammount of work to do at work, the website has been one of my last priorities. But it should be changing soon because I feel like I am catching up slightly, at work and at home.

I can tell you this, it is cool to have a drill to do all sorts of home projects. I've installed some bathroom shelves and bathroom hardware. I built some shelves, I fixed one of the fences gates. I've also installed a new thermostat. We've also built some cheap build-it-yourself desks and I used the drill there too. It's been great and with my drill, I now feel like I am almost ready to be a father. How can you be a father without a drill? It wouldn't seem right. A friend said to me once, you're not a real man until you have a garage and a chain saw. Well, I'm working on the chain saw, but at least I got a drill.

I've hooked up the webcam so you can have some view into surburbia hell. Sometimes I fell like I sold me soul in exchange for surburbia hell. I don't think I got a good deal (we did however, get a good deal on the house). But this is all temporary and it is a great time to buy a starter house and stop paying rent. Then we can trade up later!

I'll leave you with this last little tidbit. I was talking to a friend the other day and asked him sarcastically about his fiance', "So is she smarter than you?" He respond by saying this, "Yeah, I'm an idiot." And unfortunately for him, I believe him.

It's a Tumor!

About two or three months ago I notched a small bump on the inside of Timber's right ear. It looked almost like a bug bite and I didn't think much of it. But a few weeks later, I noticed it had grown a little in size. Then, about a month ago, the bump became scabbed and Timber came in one day with blood all over his head after playing outside with Miles. After frantically inspecting him for missing limbs and the discarded pieces of unborn babies, I concluded the raised scab had opened up again and decided to have the vet take a look at it when he went in for vaccinations.

Dr. Evans took one look and said,"That's a tumor."

Shit.

So it's most likely benign, although they won't know until after surgery when they send it off to the lab. If we get it taken care of quickly when it's still small, we won't have to cut off the tip of his ear, which George is dissapointed about because he thinks it will give him character. It is very unusual for a dog as young as Timber to have this sort of growth. But since the Tog is a mutt, it could be his breed, since we're not sure exactly what the hell he is. The pricetag for the surgery is a little more than inconvenient, but we can't wait for long because I'd hate for Timber to lose his ear (although a pirate dog with one ear does sound very appropriate). They'll put him under just like real surgery and the recovery period will be long. Dr. Evans said they use laser, but because it's a prominent place for Timber to scratch, he'll have to wear one of those stupid collar things he hates until it completely heals in 4-6 weeks. We've taken to calling Timber "Timber Tog, the cancer dog," but I try not to say it too much because I'd hate for it to be true.

So we've decided to launch Operation Save Timber's Ear, although I won't be putting Michael Brown in charge of it since his speciality is horses. If you'd like to give a donation to help fund our little Timber's ear-saving operation, simply click on the link below. If you'd rather not do credit card, checks via snail mail are always welcome. Thanks for any help you can give. He may be a Tog but we love him and we'd hate to have to permanently disfigure him so early in his young life. You know how cruel the other dogs can be.

** Editors Note **The quote from the doctor for the procedure including medicine and an e-collar was $500.

Awww... look who's starting to act like a president!

I was shocked but deeply gratified and proud when I pulled up this story off of BBC headlines yesterday. W has decided, in the face of a 38% approval rating, that taking responsibility for the failures at the government level (FEMA) in response to Hurrican Katrina is necessary. Taking responsibility like an adult! I think I'm going to cry. It's a big step in Bush's personal and political growth and I'm very proud and happy for him. His next goal- a real apology! The words "I'm sorry" coming from his lips... we might be waiting awhile on that one.

If I could get rid of just one word from the collective consciousness...

"UnAmerican."
Can we all just agree to NEVER use that word again? McCarthyism is dead. Let's leave it in the grave where it belongs.

Here's the proof...

If there was any doubt as to the certainty of the unbelievable fact that this thing I'm carrying around everyday actually has a penis, here it is. Undeniable footage taken three weeks ago. The angle is from below, as if he were sitting on your face. Our midwife kindly circled the offending member for us, all the while giggling at my consternation. Like the world needs another god damn dose of testosterone.

Seriously though, I am surprised but not upset. George has hinted that it serves me right for disliking women so much. I would like to clarify that I don't dislike all women. Just most. I like women better than men in theory and therefore expect more from them. And 99% of the time, they thoroughly dissapoint me. But this is besides the fact. Now I won't have all the pressure of making sure my daughter knows how to rebuild an engine and swears like a trucker. And if anything goes wrong, I can blame George. Bonus.

We went to the doctor again last night for my twenty week check up. Yes, I'm half done- thank god. And getting fatter by the minute. Our midwife spent alot of time poking around and getting our 14 ouncer to kick back so I could feel it. (So far I haven't been able to detect movement much, but mostly because I'm not paying attention). She got a great 3D image of his face, although he may look a bit blurry to you, at least he resembles a human. I keep trying to discern if he has the Weida nose or not, but I'm guessing we won't know for sure until the deed is done. Poor kid. Maybe he'll get my feet.

Names are still being debated. We'll thow a poll up there soon and let you have your say. In the meantime, I don't want to hear any crap about family tradition, popular names, or all the teasing he'll endure. He's our god damn kid and I'll name him Tree if I want to.

If you're wondering what the heck we've been up to the last two weeks and why all the eery silence on the blog, we're still moving. I unpack boxes everyday, but there is really no end in sight. We hope to reclaim the garage soon. For now we struggle with the bigger issues and try to figure out what the hell to do with all our crap. I'm still pushing for a bonfire. We'll keep you posted.

Getting tough in the Big Easy

I got sucked into news coverage this morning after several days of oblivious ignorance in the midst of “Hurricane Relocation” here in Utah. It reminded me of 9-11, when I turned on the TV before I took a shower and then hours later realized I’d forgotten to go to work. The war zone that was formally New Orleans sounds like a mass of troubled, seething humanity afloat in disaster and calamity. The impossible aftermath of destruction all along the gulf coast is hard to fathom, but I think what people are having the hardest time believing is the predatory and violent nature of what I am sure is a minute fraction of the New Orleans populace. Who are these monsters who play sniper in front of hospitals and have the police department besieged? And dear god, what have they done with Uncle Larry?

I went to New Orleans in 2000. I spent a week with a friend (okay, he was more than friend) who was teaching at a University there. He lived in the back section of a gorgeous mansion right off of St. Charles. I was entranced with the exotic mystery of New Orleans culture, with the intricate architecture of stately southern homes that seemed to bloom like hothouse flowers right out of the pavement, and with the raunchy, intoxicating freedom of Bourbon Street. Right up until I got lost (sort of) on the wrong side of town.

New Orleans has always been a city deeply divided against itself and those divisions have left long scars, mostly along racial lines. The tension is a tangible thing there and you can see it in every sidelong glance from the locals. When I wandered off track on foot, alone, in a bikini top and shorts, into the middle of the slums in New Orleans, I wasn’t even really scared. I was shocked. For blocks and blocks, I never saw another white person. The locals stared at me as though I was some strange, exotic species of peacock that had wandered into oncoming traffic. This was the worst, the dirtiest, the poorest place I had ever seen and the defeated faces I saw regarding me with such hostility bore testament to a lifetime of struggle against an invisible foe. A security officer in an armored car, alarmed at my presence in such a neighborhood, actually stopped and offered me a ride. I made it home, but I never forgot what I experienced those feel hours of blistering summer heat and it tainted New Orleans for me.

Now that disastrous circumstances have forced the citizens of New Orleans to come together regardless of class and race and placed them together, equal in helplessness in the face of Mother Nature, I am not surprised by the lack of cooperation and neighborly feeling. Decades of angst stand between them as palpable as a brick wall. But I am embarrassed by a city so rich in culture and history and so poor in kindness and humanity. Hurricane Katrina has done nothing thus far to change that.

This is not to say that most of the New Orleans folk have not acted courageously and practiced their own brand of everyday heroism. As I'm sure our own Uncle Larry will attest to when he finally resurfaces.

Burn, baby, burn!

Now that the moving chaos has somewhat abated I find myself with a small window of time large enough to squeeze out an update to our loyal webfans and pseudo devotees. Moving is hell on earth. I’ve had a couple of days to reflect on this and to soothe my feelings of self inflicted torture and I don’t think I’m exaggerating. I used to speculate that people were boring pods of comfort, unwilling to move beyond their own geographical sphere without intense, psychotic withdrawal. But now I’ve come to realize it’s very simple. No one wants to put themselves through the racking, torturous pain of moving if it’s not absolutely necessary.

It didn’t used to be so difficult to move. Seven years ago, freshly graduated from collegiate endeavors, I packed everything I owned into my mini Hyundai Accent GT and moved several states down the Atlantic seaboard with only a week’s notice and a minimum of fuss. When I foolishly threw my singlehood out the window five years ago to move in with George from New Hampshire to State College, I rented the SMALL truck and there was enough space left over for George to put his entire Kawasaki Vulcan 750 motorcycle inside. But when you begin to co-habitate, and god forbid marry, your stuff becomes “our stuff,” which is lots of stuff.

And even when we moved the first two times, to our house with Ken on North Oak and then out to Utah, it wasn’t that bad. Not an experience to cherish, but certainly not the stuff of nightmares. We managed, after a profitable yard sale, to fit all of our belongings and random junk into one of the LARGE trucks before we ventured across country. This time, we were meandering across town and it took TWO trips in the very LARGEST truck Uhaul provides and even then we still had to make trips to pick up miscellaneous items the following day.

So where did all this shit come from? Damned if I know. But while standing in the middle of our new garage, surrounded by a sea of boxes and furniture, I have been seized with a sudden yearning to see it all go up in flames. A secret, burning desire to see all of my useless belongings that seem to own me disappear in smoke. Ahhh… nothing to unpack, sell or store. And I wonder how much of it I would really miss. If I came home tomorrow to a pile of burned timber and ashy appliances, I’d be pretty upset. But underneath it all, a small spark of relief and the feeling of finally being free.