Episode 80: Blogger's notebook- Or the one where I essentially vomit the details of my mundane life on to a computer screen. Again.

I think I just had a small mental breakdown while writing this. I may have even momentarily blacked out. Once again, for posterity, and because I just wasted an hour and a half of nap time doing it, I'll just post it and apologize for the nonsensical jumble of useless information that you are about to read. I will say that momentary blackouts and stream of consciousness rambling are two of the unfortunate side effects of being a writer. Office dwellers, score one for yourselves on this one. Your minds take much less abuse.

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From the moment that I found out that Monica was going to be having a girl, I pretty much knew that my life was going to make little to no sense for the next 20 years. I even thought about taking a few psychology classes just to try and keep up with the overwhelming amount of female insanity, but then I remember that psychology is pretty much just a made up field founded mostly by crazy people. In retrospect, maybe I should have gone in to that. It is the ultimate bullshit profession.

Anyway, my point is that sometimes I forget that Av is a girl- not like I think she is a boy, more like I just disassociate her from gender, kind of like I do the cats. That is until she starts to act irrational and crazy, something that I have found to be an inherited trait in every single woman I have ever met. Ever.

For example, situations that in the past would spark nothing more than subtle whimpering have more recently been inspiring dramatic episodes of weeping. Like when she is told she cannot have something, or when she slips and falls on to her knees tears begin to well up in her eyes, her face slowly droops to a frown and, after a deep breath, she unloads an ear-piercing scream followed by hysterical crying. This isn't just regular kid crying, we are talking 'I just saw my dog get eaten by a bald eagle' sadness. Makes absolutely no sense. It was really starting to get on my nerves the other day and in a fit of irritation I fired off a text message to Monica at work.

"What is up with your kid? (It is always your kid when she is pissing me off. Like her real father is in jail and I swooped in to 'watch over' mom until he got out). All she does is throw these epic, dramatic, unnecessary crying fits?"

Her answer was quite simple: " She is a girl. And she is 1."

Yeah. I am pretty much screwed for the next two decades. At least now it is just about not getting the kind of juice she wanted or seeing someone she doesn't like. In ten years she is going to be slamming doors in my face for not letting her hang out at the park with some skateboarding boy from down the street. Unless she is a lesbian. Which I am totally pulling for.

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Along with the fits, Av has also become extremely defiant, doing things she knows she isn't supposed to do on an hourly basis. For example, this morning while I was changing her morning diaper, which was filled with night-poop, she reached down between her legs, grabbed a hand full of her own poop and squeezed it. Imagine the disastrous mess that followed as I tried to 1. Stop her from putting that poop anywhere near her face. 2. Stop her from grabbing more poop. 3. Grab some wipes so that I could clean the poop off of her hands before she touched anything else. 4. Get her clothes off so we could take a bath- preferably without smearing poop all over them, and 5. Finish getting the damn diaper off. All the while she is laughing at me and trying to twist on to her poop-covered stomach so that she can stand up and presumably drop small dumplings of poop all over everything in her room. Not a good start to the day.

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This story really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but it needs to be told, so I am going to tell it here.
We found ourselves at a local restaurant last night because Monica's uncles came up to Salem to visit and our apartment is a bit to small for entertainment. The five of us made reservations at a downtown seafood place, where we have eaten before but have not been to recently. From the moment that the waiter opened his mouth to the moment we walked out the door, the events can only be described as frighteningly bizarre, in a bad made for TV horror movie kind of way.

Our waiter's name was Derick, and he was one of three, very tall, 20-something males that were working on the floor. Bar tending was a short, hobbit-like 20-something female. There was one manager and a hostess, both of them female. It appears as though the owners of the restaurant trained the staff based on somewhat of a script- which is not uncommon in restaurants, it is always good to give employees a guide as to how the conversation should go at the table based on the restaurant and menu. The problem here was that the entire staff was so completely socially awkward that they did not understand that the script is a suggestion as to how you should speak to guests and, in most cases, you will have to defer from the exact words and actually have somewhat of a conversation with the customer. Worse, Derick and his counterparts all featured very monotone voices, personalities and physical movements, creating a zombie-like scene. Everyone walked around with glazed-over eyes, moved very slowly and deliberately and failed to include any inflection or personality in to their voices. I felt exactly like a horror movie. Like at some point during the meal all of the doors and windows would be locked and we would become zombie lunch, or be sedated and forced in to a life of medical experimentation in the restaurant basement. I was almost afraid to eat in the chance that I, too, would be brainwashed by whatever evil force was ruling that place.

At first I thought I was just being a snob because I do the job for a living, but when I brought it up at the table everyone agreed. At one point someone at the table had asked for a different beer, explaining that the one he had received tasted flat, as if it may have been at the end of a keg. He instead ordered a Sam Adams. The manager returned with the new beer and, again with no facial expression or emotion, said the following.

"You are right. The Pilsner is flat. Unfortunately, we cannot fix the Pilsner. Instead I have brought you a Sam Adams. I apologize," and slowly walked away.

Later, after the meals were dropped off, she returned and, again with no expression, said "Has the chef prepared everything to your liking this evening? Very well." Like a horror movie. Like she returned to the Master's chambers and said something like "They are enjoying their food, sir. It won't be long now. Shall I prepare the instruments for surgery?"

Maybe I am not making any sense, I have tried to explain this to people verbally as well and haven't really been able to get the point across, but I had to try. It wasn't even as though the service was bad, it was just so, so, so weird. So weird, in fact, that I think I left my hat there last night, but I am kind of afraid to go back and ask for it.

"Why yes, sir. Why don't you follow me to the back and we'll get it together."

...

Things I Saw at the Park

The dynamic of the Salem Old Man Tiny Dog Club Presented by Chrystler is starting to take shape, as a portion of the group was out and about again this morning. Today there were three men, again all driving Dodge Caravans, but only three dogs. It appears as though only one of the old men has multiple pets. I think that the oldest of the group, a very dapper-looking man, always dressed in a yacht-club-looking suit, is the delirious old father of another one of the dog-walkers. I think this because when they were leaving the older man couldn't find his dog (who was right behind him) and the supposed son went to help him with an irritated "I'm always showing this crazy old man where things are" kind of tone. In a bizarre twist, a woman arrived to join the group today, and was welcomed in by name. She did not have a Caravan, rather, a larger Dodge conversion van, and was toting a poodle, which makes me think that it is probably just the Salem Old Person Tiny Dog Club- Presented by Chrystler.

Today was also lawn mowing day again, it appears that they do it every Monday in the summer, which, combined with the Tiny Dog Club meeting raised an important question in my mind. What would happen if one of those tiny dogs ran in front of the lawn mower? Those guys don't keep them on leashes, they are always dogging around the park, crapping on stuff and barking at each other, it is extremely plausible. Sure, lawn mower guy has to be aware, but at the same time, there is only so much you can do. Again, I am not sure what any of this has to do with anything. I feel like I'm making little to no sense today, and essentially vomiting the mundane details of my useless life on to a computer screen, so I am going to call it quits now. It looks like today is another 2-10 shooting day for me.