Normalcy Returns (or Long, Rambly Post About Not Much at All)

Things finally returned to a semblance of normalcy over the weekend. After all the planning, prepping and celebrating, we discovered that the inside of the house was one mountain of crap piled upon others, and the outside looked as if the prairie was threatening to reclaim the land.

Now I've long loathed yard work, so much that I've considered buying a goat. However, since I can barely handle taking care of a dog, I'm not sure I could do much better with a goat. Besides they smell funny and they scare me (I once watched one attack my brother; true story - he was posing for a picture, and the goat looked up with hate and malice in his eyes, lowered his head and butted my brother right into the ground. Then the goat kicked sand in his face and laughed at him . . . or something like that. My memory gets a little rusty at times).

In any case, the yard needed some major therapy, so I woke up bright and early Saturday, dug out the lawn mower and got to work. Afterwards, I discovered that using a weed eater that's falling apart can be a painful experience (those little cords hurt! And the rocks and crap it kicks up? Not fun at all).

Finally, I broke out the tree trimmer and started working on the tree in front of the house. For several months, I've watched pedestrians duck as the low-hanging branches threaten to take off their heads, and while I found it funny for awhile, I realized that standing on the front porch while laughing and pointing at them wasn't a good idea. Plus, I recalled that things like that annoyed the hell out of me in my dog walking days, so the branches had to go.

In short, I remembered again why lawn work tries my soul.

However, it wasn't all drudgery over the weekend. I also broke out the new toy - some friends bought us a deep fryer for a wedding present. Now, I realize that this might seem like a Bad Idea. I love fried foods. I also have a marked tendency to burn the bejeesus out of myself while in the kitchen, and I'm not above setting off a grease fire here or there. However, I'm happy to report that the inaugural fried chicken did not cause me or the kitchen to light up like a bonfire - and it was cooked through! Now I just have to remember not to cook everything in it. One of my life goals is NOT to have a heart attack before I turn 40, and a deep fryer in the kitchen probably won't help that too much.

Basically, it was a pleasant, mundane weekend; something that's been missed around here for quite some time. Can't wait to have a few more.

Red in the Face

Last night marked the return of softball.

I may not be the most athletic person in the world, nor am I the most coordinated. I'm slow as a turtle in the outfield and have no arm to speak of; however, I can do one thing well, and that's hit the ball.

So needless to say, as I swung and missed at the second pitch I faced, I wasn't remotely concerned. Even though I started thinking about it. The sight of my bat hitting empty air mere inches away from the ball as it floated back to earth on the downward side of its gentle arc must have rattled me more than I thought.

Because I did the same damn thing next swing. I struck out. At slow pitch recreational softball.

Slow.

Pitch.

Softball.

Egad.

I'm not sure what was worse - the desire to go beat myself over the head with my bat, or listen to the snickering from my own bench . . . and believe me, I deserved it. That pitch had a wicked - and I mean wicked - twelve-foot arc. From the time the pitcher released it to it reaching the plate, I could have walked over to the drinking fountain, sipped some water and returned.

Fortunately, I'm not a professional . . . because, let's face it, if I was, I'd starve.

The beauty of recreational league sports is that all is forgotten - usually by the next inning. The problem is that I won't forget. Maybe they have batting cages in Jamaica . . . I'll have to check into that . . .

TEMBLOR!

Some would take earthquakes the morning you were leaving for your bachelor party as an omen. I didn't, mainly because I slept right through the first one. The first indication that something was amiss was when Darcy asked me if I felt the quake in the middle of the night.

I flipped on the TV to see what was up, and I was instantly sorry.

Our local Fox station had completely given in to their worst impulses, so I opened my morning watching the anchors interview a producer who was at the station during the quake. The anchors were trying to get her to talk about the fear, the panic, the sheer terror of standing around as the earth rocked itself apart. Apparently, all they did was stood around looking at each other. The only fear came in when they saw the light fixtures were shaking a lot. So they moved.

Fortunately, they were able to cut away to the scene of a house fire in North St. Louis. The reporter opened by saying the fire started, ironically right around the time of the earthquake. Now, I'm no expert, but I don't think there was anything ironic about that - coincidental, perhaps, but ironic, not so much.

The reporter moved on to talk about how seated behind her was the woman who risked her own life to save her seven children trapped in the house. Now that's heroic, and I'm pretty sure it's also news; however, we never got to hear from her, because the reporter was talking to a firefighter. Here's the gist of the exchange:

Reporter: "Was the fire caused by a gas line that ruptured in the earthquake?"

Firefighter: "No. We think it was faulty wiring in the basement."

Reporter: "Could the quake have caused the wires to break open and start the fire."

Firefighter: "No. That's very unlikely. It would be impossible to prove."

Reporter: "Are you sure the earthquake didn't cause the fire?"

Firefighter: "Yes."

At this point, rather than recover what was left of her dignity and professional pride and either leave or talk to the woman who saved her family, the reporter went on to a charming story of how they heard meowing as they arrived and after looking around, they found THIS - as the camera swung up to show a cat lounging in a window.

Having seen enough, I changed the channel. I could see that the local CBS affiliate meant business - Larry Conners was in studio sans tie - and with his top two buttons undone. He must have breathlessly raced into the studio to make it for the broadcast, and he was waxing poetic about earthquakes in history. Why bother with a geologist when you can find a professional news anchor?

I moved on to breakfast.

After running a few errands, I was goofing off in the sunroom addition to my house. That's when the aftershock hit. At first, I thought it was wind. Then I realized that it was another quake. Then I realized that the sunroom on the back of my house has the structural integrity of a box of kleenex, and perhaps I should get out.

So yes, I survived Quake 2008 and moved on to more important things, like a bachelor party weekend in Chicago.

Out of Registration

"Where are you going with that?" Darcy's voice rang out behind me as I slinked away from the dinnerware set aisle carrying the registry scanner. We were registering for wedding gifts one fine Saturday not long ago.

"I just wanted to check something out," I said, smiling (I hoped) convincingly.

"Towards the snack aisle!"

Damn. I'd been made. Time to retreat. I returned the scanner to the cart, foiled again.

You see, I had a plan. All I wanted to do was inject a little life, a little levity into the whole gift registration process. Anyone could register for plates, cookware or tablecloths. After working at Target for years, and seeing couples register for the same things every time, I wanted to stand out. I wanted to be different.

I thought registering for 200 bags of Doritos would do the trick.

Unfortunately, I might have let this plan slip out at a less opportune moment, and by that I mean when Darcy was around. She didn't seem to find it nearly as entertaining as I did.

"If you do that, your friends will buy 200 bags of Doritos," she said.

"True," I said, thinking of salty, nacho cheesy goodness.

"Are you going to be able to return 200 bags of Doritos? Do you want to explain it to the store?"

Granted, it may be a hassle, but think of all the fun the store will have taking them back. Well, most of them -- It would be a shame to not open one, two, or ten bags.

Unfortunately, in the end, my genius was appreciated more by my male friends than the female ones, and I relented and agreed to no Doritos. Or dart guns. Or plasma televisions.

I said nothing about Fritos though. Time to hit the registry . . .

Random Musings

After much hand wringing, debating, and household disasters, we finally set a wedding date, so things are finally moving along on that front. In about six months, Darcy and I will get married on a sunny Jamaican beach. Unless it rains. Or a hurricane hits. But right now, I'm aiming for an optimistic outlook.

Other things I've been chewing on lately:

• After two weeks of trying, I'm giving up on Please Kill Me by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. Typically, I find the stories behind the underground or indie music scene to be fascinating. However, this book continues driving home a simple truth about many rock and music stars: they're narcissistic fuck-ups. And really, if I wanted to learn more about fascinating narcissistic fuck-up, I'd read (or update) this blog more often.
• I actually started watching more television this year (thanks DVR!). I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing, but interestingly, the shows with better pilot episodes (Chuck, Reaper) are falling flat on their faces, thanks to their paper-thin premises, while shows with so-so pilots (Bionic Woman) are slowly improving. The writing is still fairly clunky and cringeworthy, but the show is in serious danger of not taking itself too seriously. And really, any show that features Isiah Washington getting kicked square in the nuts isn't half bad.
  
• Watching DVDs of The Wire. This show makes me wish I'd ponied up for HBO. This is what Homicide could have been without all the "input" from NBC. Luther Mahoney was clearly a prototype for Avon Barksdale, and watching the case against Barksdale develop over the course of the season (I'm on season one) has been a hell of a ride. I'm dying for the next DVD to arrive courtesy of Netflix.
• Wanted: uses for apples. I think we're going apple picking tomorrow, meaning my kitchen will be overrun with approximately 20 lbs. of apples. I like apples. I like apple pie. Hell, I like applesauce, but I'm hoping there might be a few other options out there. Suggestions?

That's all for now. I need to get back to actually being productive. Enjoy the weekend!

Friendly Advice

Being a good citizen of the world, I thought I would share this little nugget with you: if you're planning a wedding, and your fiance goes to a bridal show, under no circumstances - and I mean NO CIRCUMSTANCES - let her fill out an information card for formalwear places.

As far as I'm concerned, she can fill out any other card she wants, but if the sound of your phone ringing at all hours with guys wanting to lease you the hippest formalwear and best deals around isn't your thing, beg her to hold off.

Unsinkable

The old standards flowed from the duet as the lights from the skyline filtered in through the window. Outside, the bitter cold kept all but the hardiest (or craziest) souls indoors.

I sat across the table from Darcy, smiling. Looking at her. Enjoying our time together as we traveled up the river. Around us, couples sat at their own tables, enjoying quiet conversation, dinner or dancing, celebrating Valentine's Day with a dinner cruise up the Mississippi.

BUMP.

The boat shuddered lightly.

THUD.

We glanced out the window to see an impressive chunk of ice spinning away from the side of the boat. I opened my mouth to speak.

SSSCCRRRUNCH.

More ice scraped the side of the boat. Looking out the window, I tried judging how far it was to swim to the nearest shore. They did warn us that the cruise may end up being dockside if ice on the river was too thick, but the captain seemed to think all was well, and who am I to argue with the captain. And we wanted to scope the boat out to see how appropriate it would be to hold our wedding there next year.

BOOM. More ice off the hull.

We continued talking, dancing, trying not to worry as a crewman carried an armload of life preservers across the dance floor to some hidden locker. I began to wonder if they'd renamed the Becky Thatcher to Titanic recently.

"Darcy, I love you. But if this boat goes down and we find a door or piece of flotsam for you to float on, I'm making you scoot over. I refuse to freeze to death when there's a perfectly good door nearby."

She laughed. And then I'm pretty sure she was judging how hard it would be to keep me in the water while she sat high and dry on the wreckage.

The riverboat turned around and eventually made its way back to the mooring, safe, sound and afloat. So while we spent the rest of the evening dockside, it was much easier to enjoy ourselves while not wondering if we'd have to swim for it.