Gale Force Salsa

The little garden in our back yard yielded a fair number of small tomatoes and some peppers. I reaped our bounty and made four batches of salsa. Each batch got progressively hotter. The bowl of salsa that is now in the fridge hurts when you eat it. For me, it takes two small bites and the resulting endorphins begin to ooze out my ears.

Last night, before Allie's tumbling class, I ate some of the salsa. There's nothing better than fresh salsa straight from the garden. It tasted great. Unfortunately, the burn provoked a sneezing fit. The sneezing forced the salsa through my nose. I could do nothing to stop the flow of hot lava out of my nostrils. I ran for the tissues but it was too late. I launched two streams of snot and salsa that made perfect circles on our kitchen linoleum. Not only was I in pain, but my shirt, my pants, my hands, my countertops were all in need of serious attention from a haz-mat crew.

Finally the sneezing stopped and I managed to get myself (and the majority of the hot zone) cleaned up before I packed the girls up for tumbling. As we got ready to go I put away a container of trail mix from which Allie had been snacking. I grabbed a handful of nuts, raisins and sunflower seeds before I sealed the bowl. That's when the sneezing started again.

This time small chunks of wet, partially ground-up nuts, raisins and sunflower seeds were sprayed all over the downstairs bathroom. The toilet seat looked like an aerial photo of a craggy, polar landscape.

You're asking yourself, "Why don't you just cover your nose and mouth?"

That's a fair question. I do cover my mouth and nose with my hand and try to catch most of what comes out. The thing is, these sneezing fits are very violent, grand mal seizure, "How did I wind up in my neighbor's garage" kind of stuff. This means I sometimes forget to protect my surroundings from the spray.

I'm just reporting that everything is okay. The house has been properly wiped down. I didn't even ruin my shirt. But I am throwing out the rest of the salsa this evening just in case.

One last thing. It's an observation I made during this evening's activities:

You look at your children and behind their eyes you see the wisdom of the ages. It's staggering how much of the time you spend in absolute awe of the vast potential you know your child holds within.

Then she shits in the bathtub and you realize all bets are off.

Get over it. . .

Last night, at dinner, Allie mentioned that a girl at daycare said something about me.

"Here comes somebody ugly," is what Allie told me the little girl said.

Then Allie described how the little girl went on and on about how somebody ugly had arrived to take Allie home.

Initially, Allie's report from daycare hurt my feelings. I didn't say anything, though. I just kept eating my spaghetti contemplating how to react. I was mainly concerned about how this might taint my daughter's perception of me. After all, nobody wants an ugly daddy. Gleaming teeth, a strong chin and a build that looks appropriate in superhero tights; that's what four-year-olds are looking for when they shop for a daddy.

I've been told I have nice teeth. . .

Anyway, my thoughts turned to the little girl who wants the world (or at least my daughter) to know she thinks I'm ugly. What's a 38-year-old man supposed to do when a five-year-old wounds his ego?

Nothing. That's what.

So this evening when I arrive to pick up my kids I have to suck it up. I'll forget my plan to buy gifts for everyone at the daycare except for the little girl who thinks I'm ugly. I'll put aside thoughts of letting the air out of her bicycle tires or hiding one of her Barbies or something equally passive aggressive and inappropriate.

I am amazed, though, that those thoughts entered my head for a short while. It may have something to do with the fact that this is just another in a series of recent events that have made me feel inadequate, ineffectual, unattractive and just bad in general. However, before this turns into an invitation to a pity party I will say this: I bet I can type faster than the little girl who thinks I'm ugly.

Victory!

Ahhh. . .

Back in the basement.

It's warm down here and this chair Debbie commandeered from her old office seven years ago isn't the most comfortable, but it feels like home.

Yesterday we said goodbye to Glenn and Judy after commandeering them for two whole weeks. As much as we know they love their grandchildren and us they were ready to get the hell out of here. Two weeks is a long time to be away from home regardless of your temporary surroundings. That's why Deb and I are so grateful they're always willing to help us out during this very busy time in our lives.

Yesterday a guy I know flipped the President of the United States the bird. We were standing outside watching him (George W.) fly by in his tour bus. The President stood in the doorway of the bus with a microphone and shouted at us, "Thanks for saying, 'Hi'!" The guy who flipped him off was certain the President was speaking directly to him.

This incident led to a somewhat disjointed but interesting political discussion that forced me to define the reasons I plan to vote for John Kerry this November.

I always stop reading other people's blogs when the topic switches to politics. I feel guilty when I do this. After all, another person's opinions can be incredibly helpful when you're trying to refine your own. But I'd much rather read about Lilek's trips to Target for My Little Pony gear than his explanation of why the North Koreans would love Kerry to win the election.

That's why I'm not going to tell you why you should vote for John Kerry. I'm just going to ask you to vote. And when you do, vote for Kerry/Edwards.

Last night Pig puked right in the center of our comforter. This is the second time in two weeks the cat has decided to barf in our bed. It may have something to do with Judy feeding leftovers to our cat. But without conclusive proof we won't be pointing any fingers. After all, if you've read this blog for any length of time you know that if our cat isn't sleeping, eating or shitting then it's vomiting.

The changing of our sheets was an invitation for the girls to frolic on our bed. I watched Allie jump up and down on our mattress and it became very clear that we need a new mattress. I think I'll try to prod Debbie into a trip to our local Sealy Posterpedic dealer today.

Allie just got out of bed and is standing next to me telling me about a scratch she got on her thigh that kept her awake. She also has a mosquito bite that is causing her some discomfort. "I can't walk because I've been sleeping and my bones are too tired," she tells me. "I need to have Mommy put something on my bite. You keep writing and I'll be back down."

Okay.

Post Apocalyptic Ennui

Hello from the 13th floor.

I've dispensed with the bitching about not being able to get out of here. Not that I've done all that much moaning. After all, I've seen the news and the footage of the devastation on the Alabama coast. I should be walking around with at least a smooth forehead and an easy grin. But, just like you, I've got things that need to get done and I feel like I'm not able to take care of things from here.

Yesterday we got out of the hotel and walked down Bourbon Street. I think it was the first time I've had a good look at it during the day. I'm usually on the street at night when the dark, the neon and the crowds of people make the street look a little more glamorous. Yesterday, the bright sun exposed a lot of decay. The plywood covering the windows didn't help matters much either.

This morning I'll pack my bag and lay out my traveling clothes. That will help me feel as if I'm getting something accomplished, at least for the 15 minutes it takes me to get that done.

Last night I tried to get drunk at the bar. After four drinks I knew those little magnetic pouring devices they have on all the bottles here wouldn't allow me to get more than a sheet and a half to the wind without pushing my $60 bar tab to the $100 mark. I wasn't willing to work that hard for a buzz I knew I'd regret this morning. So we all gathered in one room and ordered Chinese take out and watched Survivor. Of course I was more interested in my eggroll than the show.

I miss you Debbie. I almost feel guilty about saying that here because it makes it sound as if I've been away for months. It's been a week. And I know there are soldiers who aren't sleeping at the Hilton who have been away from their families for more than a year. But comparing those situations to mine is ridiculous. And having those thoughts doesn't mean I can't remind you how much I'm looking forward to just being in the same room with you again.

I'm hoping my next post will be from the basement.

Update

11:34 p.m. and the building is groaning.

It doesn't seem to be any more windy than it was before. However it's eerily quiet here in my room. I'm sure the groaning has been happening since I've been here, I just didn't notice it.

I feel like I'm on the freakin' Bounty. Creeeeaaaak. I can't believe I didn't notice it before. Maybe it wasn't around before and the winds really are much stronger. It doesn't matter. I'm sure the hotel isn't going to collapse.

We're all very tired of being here. Unfortunately the only flight we could get is scheduled for Saturday. Reminding ourselves that it's Wednesday is like catching a knuckle on a cheese grater.

I'm thirsty. I'll go get a bucket of ice and then go to sleep and dream about work. I'll dream about how much I love what I do for a living.

Sam Adams: $4.00 - Pina Colada: $7.50 - Ivan: Priceless

Ivan is starting to feel like a non-event for us. We're here locked in our hotel waiting for something to happen.

Television and the hotel bulletins they're slipping beneath our doors tell us that things will get bad around midnight to 3:00 a.m. What bad means I'm not sure. I do know it won't be anything like the storm Alabama is experiencing right now, as I type this at 6:36 p.m. central time.

They're keeping us inside. I thought it was for our safety but it's more an issue with maintaining a certain pressure within the building. However we did make our way out of the building via the loading dock. That's where they're telling people to take their pets to poop. We almost made it to the Riverwalk when the Harbor Police stopped us and made us go back to the dog run.

Right now people's central preoccupation is with food. Confinement, cable and stale conversation has made eating the only thing people can look forward to. The lines at the two buffets the hotel has provided are long. Our group is going to try to eat in about 20 minutes. Although between a huge buffet breakfast this morning, some chips and two beers I'm pretty much jake. But eating will kill some time so I'll be in line with the rest of the refugees.

Lots of kids, pets and old people wandering around this building right now. People standing in the lobbies smoking, watching other people stand around and smoke. Allie would point to them all and tell me they're disgusting. Considering the level of patience people have waiting for this storm to happen I'll tell you I'm glad Allie's not here with me. Although I'm sure she'd like the flashlights.

A few hours ago hotel staff handed out flashlights to everyone in the building. Unfortunately I wasn't in my room when they came to my door. That means I missed out on a free flashlight. If you think I'm joking when I tell you that I am genuinely disappointed give Debbie a call. She will tell you that I'm probably doing whatever I can to get my hands on a free flashlight (they are cool, by the way; glow in the dark switches and everything).

Dwayne called to see if I was treading water. Basically he told me to be safe and hope that matters don't deteriorate to the point where the other three people in my party are forced to eat me to survive. Always good to hear a reassuring voice in a crisis. Which this isn't. Really. I mean, I suppose anytime you're not able to be where you want to be and do what you want to do you could call it a crisis. But in this case you wouldn't.

I might change my tune at midnight. But for now I'm just thinking about what's on the buffet line.

Ivan to go Home

Here I am in New Orleans waiting for Ivan to show. Right now I'm looking out the window at blue skies and puffy clouds. I know full well the weather will drastically change by tomorrow morning. Otherwise I'd be able to get a flight or a rental car or something out of Louisiana.

They closed down my show and now I'm here in my hotel room waiting.

I'm bored.

It's my birthday.

I'm celebrating my birthday with Ivan. I spoke with Allie and she said that she hopes that I'll be safe from the hurricane. I reassured her. I'm not worried about the hurricane. I'm just tired of being away from home. You see, Ivan didn't make me a birthday card. Allie and her Grandma did.

Not that I'd be home for my birthday even if a hurricane hadn't closed down the city. But because of this damn storm I don't know when I'll make it home and that has a significant impact on my outlook.

I'll write more later. See, I think I'll be spending a great deal of time sitting one of the two full sized beds here in my room.

This evening Julia walked around with a hunk of tissues in her hand gently dabbing at her nose. It looked as if she was doing a Truman Copote impression except for a hissing noise she'd make with her mouth trying to duplicate a proper nose blowing.

She finally settled down next to me to watch TV. As we watched, Julia would reach over and pat me on the head. It was sweet. After the fourth pat I reached up to touch her hand and return the pat.

That's when I noticed she was still holding the hunk of tissues.

That's when I noticed the huge globs of snot in my hair.

Apparently those hissing noises weren't coming from her mouth.

Looks like we can throw out the nasal aspirator.

Upward Trend

August 19 Status Report:

Wife: Supremely stressed and overworked.
Kid #1: Emotionally fragile.
Kid #2: Covered in hives.
Cat: Neglected and confused.
Plants: Neglected and confused.
Website: Neglected and confused.


August 21 Status Report:

Wife: Situation improving.
Kid #1: Emtionally stable (happy?).
Kid #2: Clear skinned and bubbly.
Cat: Petted. Fed.
Plants: Neglected and confused.
Website: FINALLY! All new photos of the girls and a new movie called "Water Balloons" in the multimedia section. It's a big file, but worth the wait. Just head over to the gallery and use your password. No password? Just send me an email.

Hello Muddah. Hello Faddah.

Here I am at . . .

Camp Allie?

Yes, beautiful Camp Allie. A place where a human can come to free him or herself of the suffocating layers of stress and anxiety that build up after toiling each day in our synthetic, pre-packaged, homogenized world.

In other words, we bought a tent and put it up in the backyard.

Allie, her mother and I gathered everything we'd need to survive. Here's Allie's list:

Ranger Debbie delivered most of supplies including ice cream with chocolate sauce (an essential element of any successful wilderness exploration; ask Lewis and Clark).

I honestly didn't think Allie would make it through the night. However, after we collected every blanket in the house and piled them on top of the inflatable pool lounges Debbie bought for us, sleeping in the tent wasn't too far a departure from her bed.

It was cold. In the morning I diagnosed myself with arthritis in a few areas of my body that weren't under a comforter. Allie didn't have this problem and said she slept well.

Later in the day the whole family ate McDonald's in the tent. Then Allie and I napped in the tent until late in the afternoon.

Looking back, I'm proud of what we accomplished. The family pulled together so that Allie and I could gently caress the cheek of Mother Nature. No matter what the obstacle, we found a way to survive.

Has this experience changed me? Changed Allie? Yes. Yes, indeed. In ways that are too profound to express with words. So please indulge me as I try to capture the essence of our encounter with nature in song. Simply click here.

Most of you Were There. . .

Julia didn't eat her cake. She looked at it and cried. I tried stuffing a piece of it in her mouth and she resisted. That made her cry more.

I'm not sure if that was before or after the police arrived.

Nobody went to jail. There were no official reprimands or even stern looks. Claudette waved to the officer in order to invite him to a naked water balloon fight. He saw her and stopped to investigate.

There was a cat in a pet carrier in the back seat of the squad car. The officer was looking for the owner. The cat was wearing rabies tags so I'm sure they'll find the owner. But the animal does have a record now and that's never a good thing for any one.

We did invite the officer to the naked water balloon fight. He said we should wait until after dark.

We didn't wait until after dark and there was no nudity. Although after being soaked by several water balloons my shirt was clinging to my body in a very sensual way. I noticed one of our neighbors gazing at me from his bedroom window. I felt like a piece of meat but in a good way.

No one reported symptoms of food poisoning. It's been about a week since the party so I'm pretty sure we're in the clear.

So we've kept Julia alive for an entire year. Even with her enormous head. Dr. Tom says her head is bigger than 95% of other babies her age. We didn't notice. It hasn't been an issue. Although I do notice that sometimes when I pull a T-Shirt over her head it can be a bit of a struggle.

Janet's Nice and Dry Now

Mr. Rogers was a hell of a lot bigger than I thought he was. I saw his sweater at the Smithsonian last night. It was a big sweater. I was standing next to a guy and I said, "You know, his mother made all of his sweaters." The guy just looked at me as if to say, "I no longer want to stand next to you."

The coolest part about the Smithsonian was an exact reproduction of Julia Child's kitchen. They brought in all of her pots, pans, blenders, wisks, rolling pins, etc. and completely recreated her kitchen. Most of you know how much Deb and I enjoy cooking shows and there I was, just a foot away from the sauce pan of the matriarch of all cooking shows. The half-inch of plexi between me and the sauce pan didn't diminish the experience.

We ventured into the musical instruments collection on display. My co-worker, Dennis, and I stopped to look at a set of Stradivarious violins and cellos. We were alone in the room with these priceless instruments that are housed in a wooden armoire. I leaned against the armoire and Dennis suddenly looked alarmed. I was puzzled by his reaction. Then I looked at the violins and cellos. They were shaking and moving inside the armoire. In fact, I promise you, if I had used that armoire to brace myself against a sneeze I would knocked those suckers right off their pedestals.

On the walk back I asked Dennis, "Would I be exaggerating if I said I almost knocked over a bunch of Stradivarious violins?" Dennis said I wouldn't be exaggerating. So I thought about what I would tell my cellmate after I went to prison if I had sneezed. "What're you in for?," he'd ask. "I scratched up a violin," I'd tell him. Then he'd sell me for a pack of Camels.

It hasn't all been tourism. I have been working. My job means I spend most of my day talking with strangers. Some of them are strange strangers. One guy told me he has every window and door in his house wired to a security system. He has steel framed security doors at every entrance. He has a trained dog that barks at every little, odd sound. Then he told me he sleeps with a .357 under his pillow and his wife has a shotgun under the bed.

I'm not exaggerations his description. In fact, I think I left some stuff out. So I had to ask him if he had a lot of break ins.

He said his car was stolen once.

Now I'm watching Janet Reno in the audience at the Democratic National Convention. Looks like she's having a lot of fun. She just happy she lives in Florida now instead of Washington. I'm sure she'd tell you it's too freakin' humid in D.C.

Drippy

Washington D.C. is not only our nation's capital but it is a giant sauna of a city. The humidity here is oppressive to say the least, life-threatening to say just a little bit more.

Okay, it's not that bad. But I spent the afternoon walking around in the hot sun. My shirt was clinging to me uncomfortably and anything clinging to my form is a bad thing.

I got into the city a little before noon. My co-worker and I hopped in the cab of a disgruntled criminilogist from Afghanistan. He was telling us about how corrupt the poorly educated D.C. policemen are. "State troopers. Now they're alright. They are educated men. But city cops only have a ninth grade education." The driver went on to tell us about a ten dollar bribe a local copy took from him to tear up a parking ticket. When he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted from us he shifted his tone.

"I know it's a hard job. I know. I'm a ciminologist. I was trained in Germany and was an instructor in my home, Afghanistan. But these sonsabitches. . ."

He went on to tell us that because congress isn't in session all the lobbyists aren't in town and he's basically starving. "Congress leaves and nobody eats," he said. He also told us about how most foreign cab drivers buy their licenses for about $10,000 from a corrupt company run by Hindus.

Huh?

Okay, just get me to my hotel. Not enough singles? Fine. Fine. Just keep the change. It's freakin' humid I haven't eaten today and the clock is ticking on how much time I have to get to my job.

After work we wandered around the sauna trying to get a sense of the city.

I stopped by the White House. They wouldn't let me in. Turns out you need to write your congressman to get permission before you can get inside and that's if you pass the background check.

Now I'm in my hotel room watching the Democratic convention. The air conditioning has taken a lot of the moisture out of the air and that means I'm feeling a little better.

A little.

The Uniform

This is an asshole shirt.

I call this an asshole shirt because whenever I see a guy wearing this shirt I think to myself, There's a guy wearing an asshole shirt. That guy is an asshole.

It's not a matter of style. These men aren't assholes because they have poor taste. The shirt is merely a uniform that assholes subconsciously issue to themselves as soon as they've established themselves as assholes.

I'm certainly guilty of judging books by their covers but for me there has never been an exception to the rule. I've met these men. I've worked with them. I've overheard their conversations at restaurants (they're usually pretty loud when they boast about sleeping around).

You don't see too many of these shirts around these days. Although I did see one on the beltline the other day. The shirt was on a guy with slicked backed hair driving a Porsche talking on a cell phone. There were even leather suspenders to complete the ensemble. I thought I'd pulled up next to Gordon Gecko.

Do I own one of these shirts?

Back when I was forced to wear a tie everyday I thought about buying one of the shirts. Being an asshole myself I was instinctively drawn to the shirt. But I fought the urge.

I am an undercover asshole.

Many of us have gone undercover and we're not so easy to spot in a crowd. These days you'll need to speak to us one-on-one. However it doesn't take much time for us to reveal our asshole stripes. It's just a matter of classification after that.

I see myself as the David Brent type asshole these days. Only I'm not anyone's boss and I can't really pull off the goatee.