The Exculpatory Journal

Today was a day of fail.

It started out simple enough. I planned on staying home today, since we don’t have a babysitter. I was going to play with Sean and maybe go to the supermarket (we’re low on milk). However, fate had a different plan.

The first fail of the day: I missed my 9:30AM phone call. The phone was upstairs. I was downstairs. It was my life insurance representative giving me an update on why I don’t have life insurance yet. On the message, she said that the insurance company can’t proceed because they never got my pathology report (which doesn’t exist) for my cancer (which I don’t have). Ulgh, more phone calls for tomorrow, I suppose.

After playing back voicemail, I decided that since I already had a phone in hand, I’d go ahead and make an appointment for my doctor. I’d been rubbing my eye lately and it was starting to bother me a little bit. I thought maybe something had gotten into my tear duct. I called up Kaiser and they found me a same-day appointment.

The appointment staffer asked “can you make 10:50?”

I said, “Yes, I think I can, but I’d prefer something a bit later in the day. It takes me a while to get going since I have baby and a wife with a broken leg.”

“Well, we can get you something tomorrow…”

“Never mind, I’ll take the 10:50″ I started upstairs to scrub the bed stink off my skin and to shed my daddy-is-staying-home-today outfit.

On my way up, my wife asked me for her other pants so she could be more comfortable looking after the baby on the floor. No problem. I ran upstairs, grabbed the pants, and headed back down. As a rounded the landing, I saw my son — who just started crawling Saturday — had managed to get his torso on to the first step. I was impressed. Such progress so quickly! I said, “Hey, look at our boy!” As I did, Sean looked up to see me, lost his balance and fell backward from the step smacked his head, hard, on the tile floor at the base of the stairs. Oh, how I hate the noise of bone on concrete.

After a bit of crying, Sean got over his fall and continued on playing as if nothing had happened. Of course, Mom and I were devastated. Fucking stairs. Once it was obvious that Sean was okay, I sulked back upstairs to rush through a shower and head off to my soon approaching 10:50 appointment (with a 10:30 check-in).

Fifteen miles of typical freeway shenanigans later, I’m at my medical office, waiting for my name to be called. Weight, temperature, BP: all normal. Martha, the RN, closes the door to my exam room and I wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. I read a bit of a six-month old AAA magazine and tried to ignore the wind-tunnel worthy fan trying to cool the PC across from me playing the “We love Kaiser” screen-saver. Finally, after what seems like forever, my doc comes in. The first thing out of his mouth: “excuse me if I get called out in the middle of this.” Immediately, he proceeds to jump on the the computer.

“Are you still smoking?”

WTF? “No. I had a cigar. Once. Two years ago.”

Then I wait as he clicks away with out saying a word. Seriously, he must have clicked on fifty things, about once every two or three seconds.

Finally, never looking away from the computer, he asks “So, what are we seeing you for today?”

“See this eye, it’s been bothering me off and on and the eyelid around the tear duct seems a little red.”

“Uh huh. Anything make it worse?” He’s still clicking away, not looking at me.

“Not really. Rubbing it, I suppose.”

“Uh huh. Any wateriness? Any discharge or mucus?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just a little itchy.” I pause. “Hey, if it’s nothing, that’s fine with me. I just thought I’d get it checked out since I had the opportunity today.”

Finally, after some more clicking, he turned to actually look at my eye. “Ah ha, it’s pink here with the sty. No wonder its itchy. I want you to take these eye drops four times a day.” He paused. “What kind of work do you do? Are you going to back to work today? It’s better if you don’t go in to work.”

“I do computer stuff and I sort of have the day off today. Why? Will these drops affect my vision?”

“Well, no. It’s just that you’re contagious.”

Oh shit, he didn’t say “pink here” he said “pink eye!” “I have pink eye? Like pink eye pink eye?”

“Yes.” And that finished off my morning.

---

I told my wife about the whole pink eye debacle and in response she wiped down all the common surfaces, threw away our toothbrushes, put all the towels and bedding through the wash, and told me to stay the hell away from her and the baby. I love her when she’s practical.

Stay the hell away lasted until Sean became daddy deprived and wouldn’t stop fussing. We compromised. I was allowed touch my family so long I became a hand wash fanatic and kept Sean away from my eyes. I lulled Sean into a nap, put him down in the crib, and settled in to do a bit of work from home. Oddly, the work at home bit was probably the high point of the day. Everything was straightforward, no drama.

After Sean woke up, Claire and I decided that we’d go to Lowe’s to pick up some baby gates as a knee-jerk to Sean’s fall. Lowe’s is about three miles away but it took us about 20 minutes to get there. Class at the university had just let out and we had the poor timing to join the mass exodus. Compounding the issue, the lane we were in, the one we needed to get to Lowe’s, is typically used by Type A personalities to get one car ahead in the mad queue to get on the freeway. I used to bitch about having to keep our huge son in a rear facing car seat, but after the crazy braking I did to avoid those aggressive types, I take it all back. I’m happy he was rear facing today. To make things worse, our left turn signal burnt out. Again. Eventually, though, we did made to Lowe’s. And they had baby gates!

We brought the gates home. Our purchase consisted of a $60 deluxe “high-traffic” gate and two $19 econo-gates. I placed the deluxe gate between the kitchen and living room. It went in like butter. It was something a drunk, one-armed caveman could install. We let Sean loose on the gate and it held him back to both Claire’s and my satisfaction. A+.

I gathered up some tools to install the econo-gate. The box advertised it to be “ideal for the top of the stairs.” Who was I to argue? I took the gate and tools upstairs. With daddy freshly out of view, Sean bawled, making it hard to concentrate. All I had to do was put four screws in a stud, but with that kid at full volume, I screwed up with massive amounts of fail.

I drilled four holes and mounted one hinge with two screws. When I went to get the screws for the second hinge and realized that I’d used the wrong screws for the first hinge. “Aw man.” I took the wrong screws out, put the right screws in, and mounted the second hinge. I then hung the gate on the hinges to discover that I’d mounted hinges on a stud that didn’t line up with the opposite wall. There was no where to mount the second set of hardware. “Damn it!”

I marked a new set of holes, unscrewed the misplaced hinges, and screwed them into the new holes. When I tried to rehang the gate, I saw that one of the hinges was upside-down. “Fuck!”

Sean was still screaming his bright red head off. “Exculp, you’d better get down here.”

Defeated, and still mid-project, I sulked downstairs. He instantly shut-up, the spoiled little punk. It’s flattering, true, but come on! We played and after a bit he was back to entertaining himself. I motioned to Claire “I’m going a back upstairs to finish my gate project” and she silently agreed to watch after Sean, despite her oncoming pain. Thanks Claire.

I went back up stairs, walking on eggshells, but Sean’s no dummy. He noticed my absence and started up the waterworks. In a counter-offensive, Claire intervened and managed to distract Sean with the “Count-n-Play” guitar. Go Mom!

I took the bottom hinge off the wall for the third time and set it in right-way up. I hung the gate, swung it up to the opposite wall, marked it, put up the drill template, and drilled four more holes. I took out the mount plate and tried to screw it to the wall, but the holes seemed too close together for this plate. “Aw, don’t tell me.”

I turned the drill template over. One side said “Hinge Template” the other said “Mount Plate Template”. “God damn it! Fuck!”

I drilled four more holes. I screwed in the mount plates and worked on adjusting the width of the gate. The gate catches a bit more than it is supposed to on the top plate and a bit less that it is supposed to on the bottom. Maybe the gate is screwed up. Maybe my walls are are not true. I don’t know, and I don’t the care. The fucking gate is fucking installed and the fucking kid can’t fucking fall through it. I’m done. The bottom of the stairs, the place where Sean fell in the first place, remains gateless.

On a positive note, my lab results got posted on-line not to long ago. You can all rest well knowing my liver function is normal and that I’m negative for chlamydia.

My wife, bless her heart, grew tired of Sean’s and my shenanigans, and ventured off to bed hours early this evening. Sean and I made the most of it. He watched me finish cooking the dinner I started for Claire and I and then he kept me company at the table as I ate. I introduced Sean to the fork and fed him a bit of my supper. We ate mashed potatoes, yams, and frozen vegetables. He made such a face. He told me in a way words never could that I made the worst dinner imaginable. And I can’t say that I disagree.

When I started getting the dishes ready for the dishwasher, I got a flashback to my bachelor days. I spent many nights cleaning up failed meals and this recent reminder left me feeling nostalgic. I got resurgence of the feelings of young independence and of unexplored freedom.

Sean got a big whiff of The Sandman’s sand soon after his mother. I put him to bed over two hours ago and since then, I’ve had the first story of the house to myself. Spending a quiet evening typing in front of a glowing box in what would otherwise be a dark room also brought back memories.

It is nice to remember back to my early adulthood. It is even nicer to realize that with in spite of emergency rooms, weekly hospital visits, a 92dB infant, lots of poopie, and lots more profanity, I wouldn’t go back. I love my wife and I love my son.

As the season of spring matures, our days grow longer and our nights get warmer.  Staying comfortable, we open our windows and let the evening breezes into our abode to draw out the accumulated heat of the day.  Typically, this is a pleasant ritual.  Lately, however, opening our windows incurs a drawback.

Our good buddy Karaoke Steve, also wishing to benefit from the nightly drop in temperature, opens all of his doors and widows every night.  Unfortunately, Steve also partakes of the fermented beverage every night.  Once fully sauced, he proceeds into criticizing his live-in lady friend.  At least, I assume it is criticism.  All Claire and I can make out is the lady friend’s name and the onslaught of profanity.

Trying not to let the whole evening go to waste.  I decided to take our young Sean out for a stroll.  In my heart of hearts, I hoped that Steve would continue on with his blue streak and ignore our passing by.  Wrong.  “Holy shit!  Damn it!  Here comes exculpatory!  Way to go [lady friend]!”  Ulugh, I put on a game face.

“Hello Steve.  Are you doin’ alright?”

“Ya, ya.  I’m doin’ okay. Howabuut you doin’?”  It is quite obvious he’d been drinking.

“I’m okay.  Just taking Sean out for a walk while the weather is nice.  Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“Ya its juss thaa [mumble something mumble], you know? Man-woman stuff.”  Too drunk to stand without swaying, Steve decided that he’d lean up against the gate for support and rest his chin on the top rail.  “You can prob-blee can hear… well, you can hear, ya?’”

“Yes, we can hear you.  Wait. I take that back.  We can’t hear you’re talking about.  All we can hear is the profanity.”  Steve continued mumbling inaudibly, so I leaned in to ask “Steve, have you been drinking?”

“Ya.  Ya, I’ve been drinking.”

“Ya, well, the thing is: I can’t understand anything you’re staying.  You’re slurring your words.”

“Well, I, it doesn’t matter that I’ve been drinking, see, because I’ve got the papers.  You know, the paperwork.”  He muttered on about a roof or faucet leak, and maybe something about another neighbor.  To be honest, though, I couldn’t make out what the hell he was saying.

“Look, Steve, I really can’t understand you.  I’m just going to take Sean out for a walk while there is still some light left.  You just calm down, relax, and we’ll talk when you’ve sobered up some, okay?”

After some more boasting about “the paperwork” to my back he finally went inside.

---

There are a lot of advantages to living where we live.  We’re close to family.  We’ve made friends. I’m damn close to work.  People here are not caught up in fads or fashions.  Generally, we’re comfortable.  However, there is a price to pay.

While shopping today, I saw one of the high executives from work.  Naturally, he wouldn’t recognize me as the “inner party” does not often deal with the “outer party.”  Like myself, he was out shopping with “the proles” and he dressed the part.  Typically, this man is immaculate.  Three piece suit, lapel button, the little handkerchief-in-the-pocket thing, the works.  He commands all the respect he’s earned and deserves simply with the look of his presence.  Today, however, he was wearing clothes that I wouldn’t consider good enough to wear for painting.  As I passed by, I said “Hello,” and he said “Hi.”  Oddly, when he responded, it was as though he was a little embarrassed.  Perhaps he did recognize me.

That’s the price.  He needs to dress down to live here.  I need to tolerate crazy neighbors.  Still, we both chose to be here.  The benefits outweigh the costs.  I mean, everybody has these problems everywhere, right?

---

Steve just told his lady friend to “Shut the fuck up!”  I guess the calm of our little talk wore off.

For the first time, in a long time, I feel relaxed.

I’m up way past my bedtime and this is unfortunate.  However, I’m not bothered.  Sleep is becoming, in a small way, more of a daily chore than a desperate escape.  Routine is settling in.  I either wake silently or with a simple “Oh, already?  Okay.”  Compare this to a month or two ago when I’d shout profanity at the morning light and baby’s cry.

With new and growing expenses for the babysitter and baby’s needs, I’m tracking our money with much more scrutiny than I’ve ever had to before.  For the first time, I’ve had to wait until my paycheck posted to pay bills.  It is not to say that our situation is becoming dire.  We’re far from going hungry and we still have our meager savings with our continuing (automatic) deposits. However, our extended family emergency is taking a toll and prudence requires tight management of the situation to keep it from snowballing out of control.  The check posted last night and I paid off our bills today, closing off the month of March and contributing to my notably relaxed state.

Similarly, I finished up our taxes tonight.  Now, I admit that a Schedule A typically is more aggravating than a relaxing.  And, from time to time during my adventure through income tax, I did get frustrated with its nonsensical convolution.  Having finished with two decent refunds due help put me a good mood and future promise of economic stimulus rebates eased me into relaxation.  I’m kind of irked that the IRS held on to so much of our money interest free, but I’ll get over it

Perhaps the most influential power inflicting my relaxation is the confidence of my wife.  Claire is improving. She had some time today to take full responsibility of the house and our son and she handled it well — and proudly.  Seeing that chin up, chest out smile did wonders.  My cold logical mind has known that things will turn out okay for a while now.  My emotional side just got the message.

It is no where near as fast as I’d like or expect, but things are moving in the right direction.

After Sean called me out of bed this morning, he and I went downstairs. An awful sight filled my blurry eyes.  During the night, one drip at a time, our kitchen faucet leaked water all over our kitchen counter, spilling into puddles on the ground.

Sigh.  Well, at least I get to go to Lowe’s this weekend.

Having no other writing motivation at the moment, here is a list of things I’d love to have (if I also had ∞ time and ∞ dollars, etc.). In no particular order:

• A nice house
  By nice, I mean: temperate climate, at least 1/4 mile between neighbors, a groundskeeper, a maid, and a chef.  On the other hand, maybe we could just live in a hotel penthouse.
• Noise-canceling headphones
  I hardly ever listen to music or travel on airplanes, but the technology intrigues me and I think it would be neat to have a pair.
• A good plug-in electric car
  I think it would be neat to have super-efficient omni-present photovoltiacs mated with super-sized capacitors and/or super-efficient batteries.  I’d love to have (basically) free electricity.
• Guilt-free air conditioning
  See above
• Fool-proof lasik
  Not so much for vanity.  I’d like to be able to play basketball and see to the end of the court.  I suppose I could get contact lenses, but I’m to cheap to subscribe to vision.
• A good understanding of the tax code
  There is no way things need to be this complicated
• A black belt
  When I say no, I want to know I can back it up with an ass-kicking.
• Half-Life 2
  I loved playing the original and I hear good things about this (now several years old) sequel
• An Alaska vacation
  or perhaps a train ride through Canada
• A PhD
  I’d love to be paid to think up new things and to lock up grad students in a laboratory
• An end to all food-related problems
  I’d love for food to be a non-issue.  Somehow, make it so no one is starving and no one is overweight.
• An end to all sleep-related problems
  Either eliminate the need for sleep, or hook me up with an on-off switch.  I never again want to lay in bed wishing I could fall asleep or be rudely awakened by an alarm clock.
• A dry clean only wardrobe
  I’d look slick everyday and my maid would take care of the maintenance

I found this behind the garage this afternoon while taking out the trash.

Karaoke Steve is more of a 32oz Budweiser man, thus my curiosity is raised. Who is getting blitzed on bargain-basement booze behind my garage?

I have not been taking particularly good care of myself lately. For example, starting back in September when I spent my nights downstairs sleeping on the couch, I periodically have some trouble with my left ear. Every few days, it really starts to bother me. So, I use a few drops of ear wax medicine and I will feel better for a two or three (or maybe five) days. Last night I decided to go to the doctor (for reals this time). We just got back an hour ago with a whole bag of prescription goodies. Apparently, my whole upper respiratory tract is screwed up.

I swallowed and sniffed my first does of pharmaceutical goodness and, shockingly enough, I feel better. Obviously I’ll need several days to see if these medications have any long lasting effect. For now, it feels nice to be able to breathe comfortably. O₂ is a good thing.

I spent thee days last week back in the office and even managed to squeeze in a game of basketball with the guys.   These things helped me gain a little bit of motivation back.  Everything isn’t perfect, but I’m not nearly as despondent as compared to last week. The house is still a mess and Sean still knows how to wail, but the shower works great and our bedroom is more or less in order.

It is nice to know that at least one room in the house is tidy (although it could use a vacuuming).  During my recent brief spats of motivation, I tackle the most prominent display of clutter as I come across it.  The Christmas tree, for example, is now stowed safely in the overhead shelving of the garage.  The nutcracker has also returned to suspended animation.   I loathe that winter troll.  I’m glad it is gone.

I’m trying to keep myself in check, though.  I’ve only accomplished a little bit and I’m already getting ideas of grandeur.  I want to remove the door between the upstairs bathroom and the closet of the master bedroom and replace it with a wall.  This way, the bathroom becomes much more private for guests to use and our sub-par closet/hallway becomes a proper walk-in closet with 1/3 more shelf space.  We’ve been meaning to remodel that bathroom since the day after we moved in.  Carpet in a damp room with wet feet? Icky!  I’m a little intimidated, though. Remodeling the downstairs bathroom took a lot (!) of work and I didn’t exactly do a fantastic job fixing the drywall in Sean’s room.  Still, that floor needs to go and the best opportunity to add a wall without a lot of extra work is with the subfloor already exposed..

On a smaller scale, I’m also thinking about spitting our cable feed so that the entertainment center could live at the far end of the living room, just in front of the staircase.  This project isn’t quite as ambitious as the upstairs bathroom remodel.  It’s just a few holes no one will notice, a new outlet box, and maybe $20 of coaxial cable.  I don’t even have to fish cabling through the walls as I have a path from the service point the garage through the hollow cavity under the stairs.  That bit of unused space intrigues me the way a big cardboard box intrigues a six-year-old boy.  Up to this point, I’ve fought very hard against the urge to crawl under the stairs to see what it is like under there.  However, now I have a legitimate, adult excuse to play in the forbidden space.

Of course, I need to give myself a reality check.  There is plenty to do in this house that doesn’t require demolition.  (There’s always laundry, for example.)  Also, I barely have enough energy and sanity to keep up with Sean — and all he does is eat and sleep (and cry).  My wife, ever since we started dating, has said to me “you live like you swim.”  This of course, makes no since unless you’ve seen me swim.

I took swim lessons at the community pool every summer until high school.  I passed every Red Cross certification except lifeguard.  I had all the techniques and strength for the certification, but the Red Cross requires that lifeguards be at least 15 years old.  Now, over a decade later, I still think I can swim like that 14 year-old who spent everyday in the pool.  I jump in and go through all my strokes at full speed… and wear myself out in four laps.   My wife likes to says to me “you live like you swim.”  That is, I take on a big task, and give it my whole heart of effort, only to burn myself out.  I then have to drag myself to finish the endeavor, kicking myself the whole time thinking “I should be stronger than this.”

Rather than ignore my wife (as I sometimes do) I think I’ll listen to what she has to say.  Instead of wasting all my energy in one big blast, I think I’ll be conservative and take the slow and steady path.  I want that carpet out of the bathroom.  I want my walk-in closet.  I want my television at the far end of the room.  However, I do not want to be burnt out when my son to see me burnt needs me.  So, I believe I’ll have to plan my projects out one at a time and then break the projects up into small, digestible bits.  I can do that (maybe).

It is nice to be motivated again, even if it comes in small doses.

I fixed the shower.

I look forward to tomorrow morning when I get to try out my extended shower arm. Ohhh, I wonder what will it be like to take a shower without having to bend over or crouch to get under the water.

Update 2008-01-20 00:18:  I also fixed the furnace, well actually the thermostat.  Nearly all the connections had worked loose.  Now the baby won’t freeze