na foine ting


Wednesday, August 31, 2005
 
I'm tired.

Desperately, deeply tired.

I can't function on this little sleep, and yet, here I am.



When I was in first grade, we played a variety of really interesting games during recess that involved most of the kids in the class, a high degree of imagination and a fair amount of cooperation.

For example, we would play Lord of the Rings, and a bunch of kids would be elves, and some other kids would be humans, and then we had a hobbit or two, and teeming thousands of orcs. And the periodic dragon. We had a big play yard, with lots of trees, grass, and sand. So all these various creatures and children pretending to be things fit in it.

We'd also play Wolf Pack, where everyone was a wolf and we charged around the playground in a group howling and barking and chasing imaginary prey. Sometimes we'd fight and scuffle amongst ourselves.

Frequently, we'd play World War II. Two of the kids, Bron Scott and Will Sherman, were really big on WWII history, and conveniently, they loathed each other. Bron was the US, and Will was England. Apparently in their version of the war, the Germans and Japanese just didn't figure in much.

But the Americans and English? Hard core, baby. Hard core.

I was kind of crushed out on Will, so of course I wound up in Bron Scott's camp. Bron was very knowledgeable and organized, so the whole war thing was a big complicated deal that involved a lot of behind the scenes work, forming things up, gathering supplies and weapons and drawing plans in the dirt. It was all very exciting. Even now, I imagine Bron over in Iraq somewhere, uncrossing his arms only to point gravely. "No, you can't put the smart bombs *there*. Over *there, by the toilet paper, you idiot.*"

We all scrambled and organized and toted and lifted and pretty soon, all our stuff was ready there under the trees in the US camp. Far away, behind the sand hill on the opposite side of the field, Will's side was ready too. Their preparation seemed to primarily involve Will losing his temper because everyone was arguing with him, and finding a lot of sticks to throw at Bron.

The battle itself had to be short because by the time Bron was done organizing his camp, it was almost time to go inside. But it was fantastic. Everyone -- or mostly everyone -- would line up on either side, and someone would yell 'charge' at random (rarely Will or Bron Scott), and both sides would race towards each other across the field.

There would be a lot of yelling and arguing. "You're dead!" "No I'm not!"

Bron Scott would get hit with sticks.

It was thrilling. That moment, right before someone called the charge and everyone bolted towards each other, utterly fantastic.

Of course, I wasn't allowed to actually do the charging. I stood back at the camp under the trees and watched.

Because in Bron Scott's notion of war, girls had one role: nursing.

The groups would charge at each other. Valiant first graders would come back missing an arm, or a leg, or with big holes blown in them. I would tend them with sand and leaves.

I knew my place.



I posted my resume on Monster.com recently, and have gotten an influx of interesting email as a result. Headhunters from all over the country have contacted me to offer me jobs I don't want, or jobs I do want in places I really don't want to live.

I've also gotten some mail from the government.

I got a really compelling email from the US Navy Reserve, saying that they'd seen my resume on Monster.com and they had exciting jobs for people with my qualifications, doing things like intelligence work and being a Master at Arms, whatever that is. It all sounded very exciting.

So I thought what the hell, and answered the email, which process included going to a website and entering information into a form.

I should have known right there, when none of my information fit the form, that I was making a mistake. After I filled in the form, a message page came up saying that a Real Live Navy Recruiter would be contacting me in 48 hours.

Four days later, I got an email.

I know, the Navy's busy. There's a war going on. Sticks to collect and smart bombs to stow in all the right places.

But there it was, more or less a form email from a recruiter saying that in order to enter their officer program, I had to have the following qualifications:

Be 35 or younger (does looking 25 count? On a good day with makeup?)
Have a BA
Be in good physical condition
No bankruptcy or criminal record.

That's it. That's what the email said. I wrote back and said I met all the criteria, but I was a year past the age eligibility. I sent my resume. I said I felt with my background living all over the world, my facility with languages and communications skills I was particularly suited for intelligence work.

(I mean intelligence in the sense of establishing ways to collect, collecting and analyzing information, before you all have a good laugh about intelligence and anything involving me *or* the armed forces.)

I get an email back from the recruiter, this time not a form letter, saying that he's looking for people with Master's degrees and prior service.

And he's referring me to another recruiter.

One who hires health care personnel. Enlisted. Because I had prior health care experience, he said.


I went and took a long look at my resume.

I guess EMT reads as health care.

But that's EMT between Firefighter 1, 2, Firefighter Instructor, Swiftwater Rescue, and SAR. That's EMT with two years of recruit command experience, firefiighter academy instruction. That's EMT in and around 15 years of administrative work.

Honestly, I think I might have been less insulted if he'd suggested I talk to someone about being a military secretary.


So, once again there's a war going on. Sticks are being thrown and casualties are mounting.

And Bron Scott's pointing me back to the camp, telling me I can make my contribution there under the trees with the neatly organized supplies.

Once again, company nurse.


**
Friday, August 26, 2005
 
So now Gavin's back in school (until we move, which looks like it's going to be in about a month), and the house is oddly quiet, almost eerily so, I can admit it: I love my kids. Adore my kids. I take a lot of joy and delight out of both of them and if I was forced to spend another week of staying home with them I'd be forced to eat them.


There.

Got that off my chest.


Somewhere, somehow, I've been working through the rewrite of the second half of the book and I'm around 15K from being done. This is close. And what's there suddenly seems coherent, reasonably solid, and most importantly, I still agree with most of what I said, even the bald lies.

Memoir contains a lot of fiction. I've come to that conclusion, finally, and now at the end have really embraced the idea. It's not about fabricating the past, or somehow misleading people in terms of what happened. It's about teasing a story out of events, making connections where there aren't any at first glance. Finding patterns and a plot out of stuff that's often, on the surface, pretty random.


Boston is a gorgeous town. Bec and I agreed it's like a weird hybrid of Berkeley and London, with weather along the lines of Bangkok.

I realize this changes in October, yes.

But we like it, and it's a good place to start our new adventure. Currently we're deciding between living in city somewhere like Jamaica Plain, or choosing a more suburban settling up the coast like Salem or Swampscott. Houses are, on average, about $100K less than houses here, which makes the difference for us between being able to afford one and not.


A lot of people have expressed dismay over our leaving, not just because they'll miss us (and we're really going to miss you too). I think most folks are used to living in one place for a long time, and the notion of just packing up and moving for no reason at all (although affording a house was high on our list) is a little odd.

But Bec and I moved, on average, once every two years for most of our young lives. In fact, most of our lives, period. We've lived in places like Accra, Apia, Iraklio. What's weird for us is living this long in one place. We were ready a while ago, fond of the area, fond of our friends, and enjoyed our life here, but this is a new page, a chance to do new things, meet new people, learn a new culture (and Boston for sure is one!), and enjoy a new place.


Plus... you have to taste the lobster. Really.


The new house will have a guest room, and we hope everyone will remember that JetBlue now flies direct to Boston, and you can watch South Park the WHOLE WAY.

And we already know where to find awesome Brazilian food.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
 
Some of you will remember the fart drum guy from Northern Faire, and of those who do, a handful -- or one or maybe just me -- will remember his smash hit, "The Rat's Got the Baby (Oh no!)."

I've updated "The Rat's Got the Baby" to sing to Lillian each night.

Yes, she likes it. Particularly the part with the rat panting.

This is a spoken piece. Think of it as early modern rap.

***

The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby,
Here we go.
(here we go!)

Ohhhhhhh
They're going to the market, oh, they're going to the market,
The baby's riding on the rat
"Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" says the baby
Haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah says the rat;
"Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" says the baby
Haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah says the rat.

Oh, they're coming to a hill
Oh, they're coming to the hill...
Ohhhhh noooooo they're falling down the hill
Oh
ratbabyrat rat rat ratbabybaby baby rat rat rat ratbaby babybaby rat rat
rat baaaaaaabbbbyyyyy...
baby raaaaattt.

The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby,
Here we go.
(here we go!)

Oh, they're comin' to the market,
Oh, they're comin' to the market,
Gonna buy some
rutabagas, rutabagas,
turnips, squash
'cause the rat likes squash,
oh the rat likes squash,
and the rat says
yum
yum
yum

And they get all the veggies
and they start back home,
And they baby says "Giddy-up! Giddy-up!"
Haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah says the rat.
And they baby says "Giddy-up! Giddy-up!"
Haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah-ah, haah says the rat.

Ohhh they're coming to the hill
gotta go up the hill
up the steep, steep hill
"Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" says the baby
[dramatic wheezing and other alarming sounds here] says the rat,
"Giddy-up! Giddy-up!" says the baby
[still more dramatic wheezing and other alarming sounds here] says the raaaaaat.

Ohhhhh the rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
You've got the pickles...
you've got the horseradish...
you've got the [ad lib here: "kumquats" "hershey's kisses," etc.]
But the rat's got the baby, oh no!

Well, they're coming to the house
yes they're coming to the house
gonna make some soup with the
rutabagas, rutabagas
turnips, squash
cause the rat likes squash;
they eat up all the soup
sayin' yum
yum
yum

And the bellies are full
yes the bellies are full
and it's time for sleep but
aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa
says the baby
oh, "shh shh shh shh shh"
says the rat,
aaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa
says the baby
oh, "shh shh shh shh shh"
says the rat.

And they're closing their eyes
And they're closing their eyes
and the baby says [snore]
and the rat says [snore]
good night
good night
good night

[whispered:]

The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, oh no!
(oh no!)
The rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby, the rat's got the baby,
ohhhhhhhhhhh
noooooooooooo.



**
Monday, August 01, 2005
 
Yeah. So what do I say?

I finished the book and I'm in revisions. Revisions suck.

No, we're not ready to move, no I don't have a job yet. No, the book won't be done in time for the move.

I've been staying home with the kids, which is fun. Most of the time.

I'm only just now back up to speed on the ice from the break, and don't have the money to actually play.

Dude.

You asked.

**

Oh yeah. And I don't know why my blog is doing this goddamn formatting weird thing, and no, I have no idea how to fix it.

**

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