Year of writing 135.

5/15/12

Today I found out that Isla was not accepted to the preschool we really liked when we got here.  We were waitlisted, and it really kinda sucked.  The art teacher there is an old family friend, and her cousin Zia will be in the same class (she was already accepted earlier).  This got me thinking about education in general. 

Things I must remember:  No matter what, the family dynamic plays a huge part in a kid's educational success.

The worst possible school here is maybe one step down from the best school in Oakland.

Isla loves to learn.  She will continue to do so as long as learning is available to her.

School is not the only place learning happens.

Wherever she goes, if I am involved, I'll know if it is right. 

I had no idea that preschool applications could be as mind crushing as college applications were for me 16 years ago.  That feels wrong.  I can only imagine what it is like, in a place like Oakland, for a parent who only sees one decent option for their child dissolve away through bureaucracy or some other bullshit.  I am leagues away from that situation, and need to consider myself lucky.  That's still not going to stop me from hounding these MF'ers until my baby gets into her #1.

Chea.

Year of Writing 134. It's official

5/14/12

As of today, I am officially a stay at home dad.  Tegan went to her brand new job at Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara today for the first time, leaving me armed with my trusty list of things to do in Ojai and a reciprocated "good luck." 

Truth be told, this is a good gig.  It is not easy by any stretch of the imagination - but it is good.  The only complaint I have had (besides the political stuff like pay and respect and management and curriculum) about the actual job of teaching was that I was missing my daughter's milestones, and because children change like quicksilver, I was missing things that I would never get to see again.  That makes me feel supremely grateful for the opportunity I have right now to do just that, to slow down a little and just be with my kids, for better or for worse, and hear their imaginations work, watch first steps happen, second steps, and all the other ones after.  Just today I witnessed my daughter make a friend on the playground, giving me a surreptitious wink and a thumbs up while chasing her around, I helped my son get the movements for crawling under control, worked my way through a couple mini-tantrums, ate breakfast and lunch with my kids, read three books, deconstructed an episode of Strawberry Shortcake, changed 5 diapers, played the part of  Harry Potter, Darth Vader, Bellatrix's dad, Papa Smurf, and Rapunzel, and took the whole family out to celebrate my wife's first day of work. 

Again, this is a good gig.  I'll take it.

Year of Writing 133. The Money Pit.

 

5/13/12

    Anybody remember this movie? I am living this movie as we speak.  I apologize for the rant like nature of my posts recently, but I'd be lying if I tried to come off in any other manner.  I feel like ranting.  

All I really wanted to do today was cook my mom and my mother in law a nice brunch with huevos rancheros and mimosas.  I got to do that, so I guess I can't complain too much - but in the meantime, we needed some hot water up in here, so I called the gas company to turn on our gas.  We had fixed the deadly leak that probably would have blown up our whole block, then got this technician to come out yesterday to turn on our gas.  This fu**in' guy.  He must have just graduated from the gas academy last week, because he showed up in spiffy new coveralls, wearing kneepads, elbow pads, a freaking helmet, and some kind of body armor like robocop.  He walked through the house with a checklist making suggestions about our windows and the dampers for the fireplace, and then stood there watching me fix them, saying that he would have to charge us 50 bucks for each of these inane fixes if I didn't do them right then and there.  I normally wouldn't submit myself to this kind of ridicule, but my baby needed a hot shower, so I grit my teeth and fixed shit.  THEN, this man goes out to the box at the street, and proceeds to tell us he can't turn the gas on because the line on our side, WHICH WAS PUT IN THAT DAY, was not made of the regulation material, and we'd have to call out the plumber again, to put it in today.  I almost punched him in the neck, but thought better of it, since the priority was getting hot water.  

This brings us to today.  The plumber, a family friend came out on Mother's Day to fix the line.  He did it exactly to specification. Sweet.  I called the gas company. "Please turn on the gas," I said, "My baby's sick and we need to boil his sheets."  The lady said no. I refused to accept this answer and ranted and raved until the supervisor at the gas company relented. "You're sure you did everything to specifications?"  she asked.  "You sure I won't reach through the phone and rip out your larynx?" I replied.  (or something slightly less murderous).  "We'll have a guy out there today."  "Yes you will."

The guy comes.  He's a stand up guy.  He turns on the gas, apologetically.  Then, checks the water heater - check.  The gas dryer - check.  He comes inside, where there is NO GAS TO ANY OF OUR APPLIANCES.   Wait... what?  

Yeah, apparently we cut a line that was spliced into the gas main, so we only get gas to the outside of the house.  Sweet.  Start over.  Oh, and when I started cleaning the dishes from the Mother's day brunch, I was super stoked to try out the dishwasher, which promptly leaked a river into the living room.  

You have won this battle, house.  And the war will be long and costly, but mark my words, demon dwelling, I will prevail.  Oh yes, I will prevail.  After my wife's paycheck, that is.

 

Year of writing 132.

5/12/12

Here is the theme song for today: 

Not because I'm feeling a little sappy and reminiscent for my emo high school years, but because I hurt.  I haven't hurt like this in a long time.  My hands hurt from the sledgehammer, shovels, and sawzall. My legs hurt from standing and doing shit every day for 2 weeks now.  Even my fingernails hurt from abuse.  Poets are not cut out for this type of shit.  On the bright side, things are getting done around here like gangbusters.  However, now I'm deathly afraid of starting any new project, since I always seem to open up 76 other cans of worms in the process. 

Year of writing 131. When what can go wrong does.

5/11/12

Here's how it goes.

try to fix toilet - find out that the entire bathroom needs to be remodeled and tiled because of mold damage.

try to get ice from refrigerator - find out that the water lines to every faucet are frozen with sediment and hard water residue, need to replace every faucet and valve in the house.

try to install gas dryer instead of electric - find out that there's a gas leak outside the house that's been at dangerous levels for probably the last three to five years.

try to figure out when sprinklers come on - find out that the system has leaks throughout, need to break out concrete sidewalk and replace valves.

It's not like I wasn't a homeowner before, I just wasn't a homeowner of a place that needed maintenance.  I have a problem with maintenance.  We ain't cool.

Year of writing 130. Lyrical girl.

5/10/12

   Today I noticed a new trend for Isla.  She likes to take the lyrics to some song we've been singing, and incorporate it into whatever she's doing.  Basically, she's sampling already - and I think it's pretty rad.  The first one I noticed was this morning when she was running around the rocks on our front lawn. She was singing the chorus to "Leroy Brown" by Jim Croce, only she thinks it is "Amigo Brown," and that ranks a 14 on a scale of cuteness, so I've never corrected her.  As she ran around, this is what she sang: "I'm bad, bad Amigo brown, I run around, I run around. These are my rocks, they don't fight, they just sit on the grass because I'm Amigo Brown." 

   The second iteration of this new phenomenon happened while she was in her room playing with all of her little animal figurines. We've been listening a lot to Chad Van Gaalen's "Willow Tree," and she reimagined the lyrics thusly: " I sleep all day, I'm a tiger by the doggy.  / I hang my clothes, actually I don't have clothes./ When I die, I hide my head inside the jungle trees / when I'm dead that's when I'll be hungry."

   Finally, at dinner, while pretending to be Harry Potter, she took the classic Death Cab For Cutie track, "I'll follow you into the dark" and did this:  "Hermione, I'll follow you into the dark for dinner."  All in tune.  I really hope this continues - she could bring back "Who's line is it anyway,"  and give Wayne Brady a run for his money.

Year of writing 129. Community

5/9/12

I came back to Ojai leery of the douchebags that occupied my high school experience here, and if you have spoken to me recently about the move back here, it was probably very high on my grumble list.  However, one thing that I neglected to allow into my thinking was how many awesome people are here also. While the chumbuckets are still here, as witnessed by the last few posts, I have been made acutely aware of the sense of community that a small town offers, and it's pretty amazing.  There has not been a day so far where some friend from the past has stopped by to lend a hand in this ridiculous process of renovating a house, or to bring dinner, or food from their farm, or a case of beer, or a book I lent them in the 9th grade.  I used to be afraid, and thought I would hate being in a place where you know everyone, but now I realize how special that really is, when the people are so cool.  Here's to knowing your neighbors, getting deals at the neighborhood store, walking to EVERYTHING, and a big healthy dose of family.

Year of writing 128. Wub Wub

5/8/12

Finally all caught up!  Last night after I ran into the bro from the last post, I was walking back to the car with a friend and we saw a car roll by filled to the brim with teenagers.  Actually it was a truck, this is important because there were five people in the cab, and the dude in the passenger seat nearest us as the truck turned the corner while we passed in the crosswalk was literally hanging out the window.  This particular truck and these particular teenagers were engaged in listening to Dubstep music at high volume.  This, being a middle school teacher is not such a hard thing to get my mind around, I even like a little dubstep every now and again.  Like this:


So I get it, dubstep is catchy, it makes me want to clean my room hella good, and whatever, it's fun to listen to.  But, the thing is, this dude hanging out of the truck was SINGING ALONG to the song.  This song has no vocals.  It is an electronica song.  So, basically he was saying "Wub Wub Wubba Wubba Wub"  over and over again.  No, not saying it, like screaming it, like screaming it as if he was a 13 year old girl at a Bieber concert.  That is what makes no sense to me.  How the hell do you know the lyrics to a song with no lyrics?  The only possible explanation is that dubstep is actually a new language developed by teenagers to fuck with me.  That's the only explanation at all.

Year of writing 127. The bros.

5/7/12

So today I ran into the Ojai version of a gangster.  Let me describe this bro.  He is probably 5'10", yoked, shirtless at 10 PM while I'm leaving the cheap showing of "The Avengers," chilling by the post office, with a bicep wrap, shoulder piece, and tramp stamp all tribal.  He is red in places you shouldn't be red, and walks with his arms held out from his body like he's afraid that if they touch him he might turn gay.  He's probably gay, but says he hates fags.  This dude failed high school in a place where the graduation rate is above 90%, he works at his stepfather's septic tank business, and he brings a twelver of Natty Ice wherever he goes.  He is the reason I dislike southern California.  However, this time, as opposed to when I've been around bros like him as a teenager living here, I held my head high, kept talking about Dungeons and Dragons with the other nerds I was with, except maybe a little louder, and smirked the shit out of dude.  What's he gonna do anyway? I'm from Oakland motherfu**er.

Year of Writing 126. The family cookout.

5/6/12

This Sunday we were invited to my Mom and Dad's house for a barbecue. Tri tip, salmon, grilled fresh garlic, grilled romaine with bleu cheese and balsamic, potato salad and green salad, all but the beef either caught or farmed by a member of the family.  It's days like this that remind me how OK it is to have moved here.

Year of writing 125. Autocorrect.

Ok. Typing on my phone is maddening. This entry I will leave every word exactly as my phone says. Startybf now.

I don't really know what day this is supposed to be for anymore. Instead I just kinda hope its for the 5th of may. A Saturday.  We are stuck setting in to ur house, its a slow peicvess for sure. I guess I'm learning a lot about how to take orders from a verbose foreman; my stepfather, and I.definitely can pyr files on a bathroom floor, seal them and all hat. I doubt that the work will end around here until next year. I wrote out a list of shit hat seeded to be done and ur wad nearly five pages long.

Ok. Enough of this crap. Do you see why I need the overstated -_- internet back? Tuesday. I promise.

Year of writing 124

5/4/12

These will be short until Tuesday when the internet gets installed here. The way I can best describe my new house is that it is a compound. A compound which needs a lot of work, but a compound nonetheless. If any federales try and get me, they got their work cut out for them. Unfortunately, the infrastructures here are running a little ragged, and every project I start unearths 47 new ones along the way. Oh well.

Year of writing 123. Reality.

5/3/12

Now a day behind my post, and trying to type on my phone's janky keyboard, I realize how difficult this is really going to be for the next few days.  The biggest thing about forming a new habit (at least a good one) is routine...and that's exactly what I don't have right now. Update is as follows: movers came with 9100 lbs of crap, we tiled the bathroom floor, fixed the lights in the kitchen, and are finna go to a storytelling festival downtown. Not bad for the first full day here.

Takeaway 1 from all this is how incredibly quiet small towns are. Especially after living 12 feet from a freeway, and a mile from the iron triangle in Richmond, with its gunshot serenades.

Year of Writing 122. To Ojai

5/2/12

Today I arose at 4:30 AM to do a final cleanup and emptying of our house.  As I walked through the echoing rooms I was hit by all the memories created in this house.  This is where both of our children were born, where they fell, laughed and cried. I got a little throat-lumpy, but held it together as I crammed everything into our little car, including two trash cans, a clay bust of Michaelangelo's "David," Litter box, Vacuum cleaner, mop, broom, three suitcases, an art portfolio, cleaning supplies, and two cats.

Yeah.  Cat's in the car.  This is what happened for six hours: 














Other than that, the car ride was pretty uneventful, the cats just kinda competed with the audiobook I was trying to listen to, the new Dark Tower novel by Stephen King.  I have no idea what happened in that book. 

When we arrived in Ojai, I went straight to the new house where my dad has been working feverishly for the last 2+ weeks to get it ready for movers, who are coming tomorrow.  It needed some last minute work, so we got to it.  This would have been cool if I had actually eaten anything that day.  I hadn't.  So, by 5 PM I sort of felt like Thor was beating my head with his beautiful, horrible hammer, and everything looked kind of swimmy.  Oh well.  Nothing a few hours of sleep and some Thai food won't fix.  Tomorrow I will rate a Ruben's burrito.  This will happen.

Year of writing 121. Moving day.

5/1/12

may first , I've been thinking about this day for a long time. It makes me think about so many things: the friends and community we're leaving in the bay, the family we will be rejoining down south, the complete change it will be to stay at home with my kids, but most of all it makes me realize that I have A LOT OF SHIT! Like tons, literally. Today I watched the movers shake their heads at our mountain of stuff, and this is AFTER renting a huge dumpster and donating 18 boxes to Goodwill. I feel pretty ridiculous about 7000 lbs. worth of whatever Tegan and I have amassed over the 16 some odd years we've been together, but damn if we didn't whittle it down to what we thought were the basics.  We possibly might need an intervention. Ok, I might need an intervention...case in point: