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The Wife and I are trying to buy a house. Have been, actually, for the better part of six months. This act, I suppose, more than any other, defines the suburbanite. I mean, isn’t it the very definition? You can have the wife and the kids anywhere, but the house with the white picket fence… that’s the ‘burbs. It’s not the same if you’re renting, either. Makes you feel like a poser (I refuse to add the “u” to that word. Makes me feel like a poser). You literally haven’t “bought in” yet. There’s no fear, no pride, no sense of ownership.
What with the mortgage crisis and all, there is a popular belief that it is a buyer’s market right now. Nothing could be further from the truth. The lenders have been taking such a beating in the last year that they have decided that the only solution is to pass that beating onto any potential borrowers. To borrow from the channel 9 overdubbed version of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, they are clenched so tight that “if you stuck a piece of coal [IN THEIR HAND] in two weeks you’d have a diamond.”
Anyway, for the last month or so we have been frantically trying to put all of the pieces together to purchase our own little chunk of paradise. We have had the definitive “yes” and “no” from the bank a couple of times over now, but supposedly tomorrow we will know for sure. Here’s hopin’.
I do love me some John Cougar Mellencamp. I’m not being ironic either. I love everything he does, up to and including “R.O.C.K. in the USA”. I eat it up with a spoon. I suppose that should have been the first sign that I was born to live in the ‘burbs.
The Wife and I went to the OB/GYN today, and came home with the first picture of our new baby, due the first week of March, 2009. Hooray!
Littledoo is on board for having a younger sibling. When pressed on suggestions for a name, he suggested “Sam 2″, “Kermit” (after his favorite frog), and our favorite, “Papers”
Needless to say, we are referring to the new baby as Papers until further notice.
Hooray! Baby Papers!
It is a trip getting to see pictures of the baby for the first time. I mean, we’ve known The Wife was pregnant for weeks, but it takes on a whole new level of reality to see the little booger in there moving around. It is also kind of a relief – not twins, all the basic body parts are there, that sort of thing. It hits kind of hard when you realize that there is a whole new human being in there. It is extremely cool.
In the early and pre-dawn hours, there is a a kind of ephemeral subculture that exists among working men in search of fuel for themselves and their trucks. Gas stations and donut shops -no Starbucks for us – have a lot of these guys every day. Most frequent the same spots every time. You start to recognize some of the faces, some of the pickup trucks and panel vans, but never the names.
There is almost no conversation- there isn’t any need. We all know what we’re here for. Occasionally there’s a bit of polite banter with the clerk at the counter selling the Marlboros and coffee – sometimes its the kid earnestly reading the Bible in spanish between customers, sometimes its the other kid who has the security monitor spliced into his PS2 so he can play Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Neither has much to say. A few of the younger dudes will buy Monster Energy Drinks, but by and large the drink of choice is regular coffee, in the largest vessel available. The coffee is rarely good, but it always hot. Most guys just buy a new disposable cup every day – it’s too much hassle to clean out one of those travel mugs that girls like. The only exception to this are the giant 32oz or 44oz insulated monsters that hold a whole pot to themselves.
The trucks fall pretty much into two categories: late model full-sized American trucks (Ford F-150s and Chevy Silverados), or beater Japanese compacts, with mid-90’s Toyota Tacomas being by far the most prevalent. Sometimes the trucks look all shiny and waxed- a good rule of thumb is that the bigger the truck is, the less likely that it is used for actual work. Generally speaking, however, the vehicles are in some advanced state of degeneration, often correlating directly with the brokenness of their drivers. Painter’s trucks are the worst, edging out even the landscapers.
There is a roughly even split of white guys and Hispanic dudes, with very little interaction between the two groups. White dudes wear shorts, the Hispanic dudes always wear long pants. Other than that, there isn’t much difference at this hour.
Donut shops have a somewhat different vibe, because they are so often populated with groups of old retired guys that don’t have anyplace to be, but have been getting up so early for so long that they don’t know what else to do with themselves. They all know each other, but don’t talk much. They read the paper, and nurse small cups of coffee for as long as they can. I don’t think I have ever actually seen any of them arrive or leave, although they are all gone by 8:00. The exception to this is the guy I call The King of the Donut Shop. There is one at every donut shop. Usually a little younger than the rest of the codger regulars, the King commands the room. Everyone sits as close as they can to him without making it too obvious what they are up to, as if his vitality can some how rub off on them. No one speaks unless the King does first, and then it is usually a twitter of agreement with whatever pearls of wisdom have been dropped. The King at my local donut shop is a particularly fearsome one. He’s tall, about 6′3″, and has longish curly gray hair. He weighs about 220, and usually sports a flannel shirt and gray sweatpants. He looks too young to be a retiree, and the wild look in his pale blue eyes makes you wonder if he is on some sort of disability leave for a non-physical reason. When he enters the shop, the old dudes all but stand at attention, and nobody breathes until he settles in, commanding a large table all to himself, making it look like a grown man sitting at an elementary school desk. He sits so that he can watch the front door, alternately glowering at or approving anyone who dares to enter his domain. I am not ashamed to admit that I am terrified of the guy, and I always hurry out of there before he decides to quit holding court with the coots long enough to address me. I have no idea what he might say, and I don’t want to find out.
This whole scene lasts only about 45 minutes every weekday (plus Saturdays), and then is gone. By the time the sun has come up all the way, everyone has been on the freeway for a while, and is well on the way to the jobsite, wherever it may be. Nobody gets up that early unless they have to drive.
This is a great book. The Littledoo loves all things Halloween, and we are both fans of this one.
No Zombies Allowed, by Matt Novak
From Publishers Weekly
Novak (The Pillow War) turns the habits of zombies, witches, werewolves and other creatures from haunting to hilarious in this tale of an annual monster bash. As wart-nosed and pop-eyed witches Wizzle and Woddle prepare to host the party, they discover photos from last year’s soiree that make them reconsider the guest list. “Those zombies kept dropping their eyes into the punch bowl,” they recall, and “the skeletons kept calling everyone Fatso.” The pair posts one sign after another (“No zombies allowed”). Whimsically patterned spreads reminiscent of Tedd Arnold’s work depict enlarged snapshots of their friends’ shenanigans against backgrounds of Pepto-Bismol pink and scaly green. Two cartoon-like zombies-one holding his eyeball and the other with only a tattered sleeve where an arm should be-mug for the camera in one; in another, swamp creatures party in the toilet and tub. But when the witches recognize each other as the culprits in a pair of pranks, the guest list grows once again, and a fun punchline offers a clever coda. Novak skillfully balances the gruesome factor with a spoof on spookiness while delivering a message about acceptance and tolerance with a very light touch. Ages 3-6.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Okay, this is pretty cool. This guy found my image on the web and used it on his album cover.
Shift - Creation and Space
Not much I can say about this. Wow.
In Case Of Zombies...
Went to Las Vegas a couple of months ago. (Originally this said “weeks”, but I forgot to finish the post) I had only really been once before, on a misguided trip that included a teething 8-month-old Littledoo (not a good idea, in case any of you were considering something along those lines).
So anyway, the wife and I went on a proper adult minibreak to check it out properly. Had a good time, although I am not really a Vegas type of guy. I am much too boring. The highlight of the trip was a meal at Mon Ami Gabi, at the Paris Hotel and Casino.
I consider myself pretty good on the restaurant recommendations, and this is as good of a meal as I can remember having. Go, have the Steak Dijon with a glass of red wine, and thank me later. While you’re at it, sit on the patio and play the “That’s your boyfriend” game with the passersby, which was my other favorite thing about Vegas.
I can’t imagine that anybody who might be reading this hasn’t heard already, but big things are afoot at my place. The Wife and I are expecting another baby in March or so, tentatively referred to as “Boo Two”. Also, we are buying a house, thus consummating the ultimate act of suburban existance.
I’m thinking that there has got to be good blogging material in this. Plus, I have escrow paperwork I need to fill out, so of course blogging seems pretty attractive right now.
So maybe, just maybe, I will write some stuff. Thanks to the always invaluable help of Redteam, my laptop is fixed. Turns out that my RAM went bad. Lots of panic, ultimately simple fix.
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