I believe I have some Jedi powers. Nothing really cool, mind you, like mind control (”These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”), or the ability to build and wield a lightsaber.

I do have some control over objects, particularly green lights. I can keep a light from going yellow with just a wave of my fingers. I also have some precognitive powers.

For example, when the beloved told me last night that the doctor said he would induce at 7:30 a.m. on Friday morning, I just KNEW that meant that I will be shaken awake five hours prior to that by a panicked wife saying “It’s time, right NOW.”

Just because the universe probably doesn’t think I deserve a full night’s sleep.

Change the pool from days to hours, and watch this space.

For sooth, I say, beware the buy
of the house you dearly crave
for your wallet will burn and the house you own
will transform you into a slave
for your walls need color, and curtains, and frames;
bed: sheets, books: shelves, tub: grout;
and just when you think you’ve paid it all off…
the fucking fridge craps out.

T-minus 5:00:00

“Mission Control, this is Launch, seeking clearance for takeoff.”

“What’s your status, Launch?”

“Mission Control, we have suspected amniotic fluid.”

“Suspected, Launch?”

“10-4, Mission Control. Suspected.”

“Are you seeing contractions?”

“That’s a negative, Mission Control. No contractions.”

“Launch, you are denied for takeoff. Repeat, denied for takeoff. Proceed immediately to Culver’s Zone for dinner.”

“Roger, Mission Control.”

T-minus 3:00:00

“Mission Control, this is Launch. We are now reporting contractions.”

“Launch, what’s your frequency?”

“Every five minutes. Intensity is minor. Repeat, minor.”

“Launch, this is Mission Control. You have clearance for takeoff on Runway 42 upon completion of Laundry.”

“10-4. Thank you, Mission Control.”

T-minus 00:01:00

“Launch and Mission Control, please come in. This is Central Command. Cancel takeoff immediately. You do not have contractions or broken water at this time. Stand down. Repeat, stand down.”

Doctor says it could be today, or it could be next week. Watch this space.

An open letter to Chris and anyone else who believes Small Town = Bad.

Dear friends:

Step out of your prejudices for one afternoon and let me show you what’s good about where I live.

I won’t try to compare Sheboygan County with Chicago - I’ll lose in the categories of Restaurant Variety, Shopping, and Musuems/Culture. The Diversity score will be lower, the Style/Fashion rating will be pathetic, and the Things To Do After Midnight category is non-existent.

I also won’t harp on about Small-Town Values and Morals - people are fucked up everywhere.

This isn’t about Friendliness of Locals, even though I suspect I would win that category.

It’s all much more complex and yet much simpler than that. Here, it’s quieter. Calmer. Greener. People work hard and then go out for beers and bowling. Businesses here care about being here, and aren’t looking to send their factories and money to China (and put their employees out of work) at the earliest opportunity.

A big city is like a poltergeist - exciting, unpredictable, but noisy and destructive. My small town has a peaceful spirit. You can smell it in the air, you can hear it in the quiet hum of factories, you can just FEEL it.

To those who doubt, or who would claim that my idyll is their nightmare, I ask you to be honest with yourself. Don’t trumpet Chicago as the best and only place to live, and please don’t malign my town with epithets like “bumfuck.” It merely demonstrates ignorance and prejudice on your part.

I love Chicago. I’ve spent a lot of time in Chicago, and in Milwaukee. I like the excitement of a big city. I like sushi. I like baseball games and music festivals and food I’ve never heard of.

But in the end, I’d rather live here in restful peace.

Sincerely,

Big

The beloved and I are buying a house. It’s a HUGE old rambling Queen Anne/Folk Victorian/farmhouse. It sits on four acres of lawn and meadow, with dozens of mature trees. Next door is the “Field of Dreams,” a city park with soccer fields and baseball diamonds. Yesterday she and I went to gaze upon it again, and heard the sounds of a family volleyball game from the park, the cheerful noise of kids playing in the street, and the distant electronic tinkling of the ice-cream man.

In short, suburban paradise.

I know a lot of you city dwellers are recoiling at the very thought of blissful, quiet suburbia. Some of you responsible urban parents are horrified at the notion of children playing in the street. But I’m looking forward to mowing my lawn and painting my daughter’s nursery.

That is, if the house doesn’t become some kind of Tom Hanks and Shelley Long disaster.

Depending on who you ask, the roof either needs to be partially replaced or totally replaced, at a cost of $15,000 to $30,000.

There is asbestos in the basement. Cost: $2100.

There is masonry work that needs to be done on the foundation. Cost: $1000.

The wiring is not all up to code and there’s no main shutoff. Cost: $2200.

There are mice in the basement and bats in the attic. Cost: Unknown.

On top of all those things that NEED to be done, there are many things that the beloved and I WANT to do, including:

Remove tacky 50’s paneling and re-paint/re-panel.

Strip away approximately 75 layers of lead paint to try to find original woodwork.

Renovate the kitchen. (Oh. My. God.)

Re-paint the exterior.

Re-roof the shed.

Replace dated and crumbling wrought iron porch supports.

Fix up the pantry/summer kitchen.

Seal up the basement against further rodent invasion.

Properly insulate the attic.

Replace 4′X3′X2′ heat registers with baseboard units.

Re-carpet.

Renovate two out of three bathrooms.

Minor to moderate landscaping.

Transform the attic into livable space.

And on…

And on…

And on.

I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. But I’ll tell you, it feels awful good.

My day started with the sound of a three-year-old boy mimicking a three-year-old cat growling at a two-year-old cat. To the cats, this was a turf war, but to the boy, this was the Best Morning Game Ever. It’s one of a myriad of signals that I have learned to distinguish from the regular alley-noise as “dammit, Ickle’s up already“.

Not that there’s any problem with Ickle. He’s your typical, quirky three-going-on-four-year-old. In short, he wakes up exactly 45 minutes before any adult in the house is prepared to wake up, has more energy than Three Mile Island, more questions than the GRE and LSAT combined, and an uncanny ability to fight off the eating of healthy food yet pack away junk food.

A typical conversation at dinnertime goes like this:

Me: “Eat your carrots, little man.”
Ickle: “But I don’t want ice cream.”

It’s as if his brain is a part of some pure-logic collective mind which has deduced already that the intervening conversation (in which he says he doesn’t want carrots and I respond that he won’t be getting dessert without eating his carrots) is useless. He goes straight to the indignant retort, for The Collective has deduced that this battle has been lost. The Collective knows that the casualties are minor, and with the right High-Cuteness Comeback, at least something with chocolate might still be achieved in the Pre-Bedtime Era.

Speaking of The Collective, it has decreed that I must assist in the Scrabble Piece Census of June 2005. Hopefully, it will allow me to return and continue my report soon…

Just a couple of things in the name of compliance.

My boss’ last day was yesterday. She and I butted heads a lot. She was my dad’s right hand woman for 18 years, and then I came along. She felt threatened, I think, and felt like she had lost her role as my dad’s most trusted confidant. Which is stupid, because she still was my father’s Number One. Her perception that I was supplanting her was totally without merit. I think she also felt like she couldn’t really be my boss when I was her boss’ son. On the other hand, she was incredibly bright and pretty insightful. I learned a lot from her. I’m really upset to see her go, because I think there was a lot more I could have learned from her. It’s a blow to me, it’s a blow to my dad, and it’s a blow to the company.

I got a raise. That makes me happy, especially with a baby on the way and a house closing on July 15th.

The big project I’ve been working on is finally coming to fruition. We were awarded some business by one of the biggest companies in the world, and it’s fairly respectable sales for our struggling division. I’ve been project manager, kind of, handling sales discussions and a lot of the engineering and operational issues. Prior to this, I don’t know what I did with my time, because now I hardly have any “down time” at work. (This project is one of the reasons my OTHER blog never got updated.) Yesterday, when we were finally able to manufacture good-looking product for the first time, I felt dizzy and short of breath - I realized I was elated. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt truly, dizzily ELATED about work, and it was very good. I want that feeling more, and I know I can have it if I just go after it.

Baby update: We are either two or three weeks out, depending on which due date you believe - the ultrasound tech’s or the doctor’s. The beloved is READY for it to be over. I just can’t wait to see my daughter. I’ll let you know.

When they say there’s “no free lunch”, they’re shitting you. I eat lunch at no cost to myself every day I go into the office, because it’s catered for everyone who’s working there.

Now, I don’t mean to bite the hand that feeds me, but I feel that today’s menu requires some mention:

• Pad Thai with Tofu
• Chicken Pot Stickers
• Jasmine Rice
• Vegetable Egg Rolls (mini)
• Crab Rangoon
• Spicy Basil Chicken
• Green Curry Beef

I *love* Thai food, so I was thrilled to see all of these items on the menu. Unfortunately, the menu was misprinted; the items did not taste as advertised. So I’m submitting the following revised menu:

• Overcooked Fettucine Noodles with Undercooked Tofu and Lime Glaze
• The Objects Formerly Known As Pot Stickers (until the heat lamps got to them)
• The White Stuff That Smells Like Old Tea
• Unrecognizable Vegetable Paste Egg Rolls (mini)
• Mucus Rangoon
• Bland, Dry, Chicken-like Substance in Basil Broth
• This Looks So Awful You Won’t Try it

So, there’s *definitely* a free lunch. You’ll just go to Potbelly’s anyway.

This morning, I had big things going at work, big, exciting, important things. The kind of things that inspire a bout of “get-up-early.”

The alarm goes off at 5:30, and my wife, without actually opening her eyes, starts jabbing me in the side, a loving gesture that means, “Get up, dammit.”

Like a domesticated ninja, I slink down the stairs, feed the dog with as much stealth as possible, and have a few quality moments in the private library. (I swear, if I didn’t have to poo, I’d never know what’s going on the in world at large. But because I do, I have time to read Newsweek.)

I come back upstairs, where the beloved is now almost completely half-awake. I help her and her massive (but sexy) pregnant belly out of bed, and hop in the shower. Wash, shave, shampoo, rinse, don’t repeat. Brush teeth, make the armpits smell like extreme mountain breeze or something, slap a little gel in my hair.

Get dressed, pack my lunch, out the door at 5 after 7. I’m gonna be early! Yes!

But as I’m driving down the road, I realize it’s fairly bright. I mean, I knew the sun was up, but it felt like mid-afternoon. I felt strangely disappointed. It should be darkish. Sunrise-y. In winter, when 7 a.m. is black like cast iron, I feel proud, like I’m the only one who was brave enough to poke my head out of my snug little burrow and tackle the day. But as much as I love the endless light of late June, it felt crowded this morning. Too much hustle and bustle, in my mind, for 7 a.m. on a country highway.

Truth be told, 7:30 is early-to-work no matter what. And to paraphrase the Marines, I got more done by 10 a.m. then most people get done all day. But that sense of brave solitude was missing this morning.

I feel crazy just saying it, but I miss winter a little.

Just a little, though.

When the threshold is crossed between platform and train, the ears must adjust themselves to the new hum of air-conditioned, people-filled public transit.

Most people don’t think much about it; they accept it as a part of their daily commute, like they accept the faint urine smell in the station or the people who have cell-phone social hour at high volume on the train.

I think about it.

I think about what it might be like if it were silent on the train: a library-like commute, with the Train Librarians shushing silence-breakers (instead of giving them dour glances).

Or what if the urban decay that the CTA struggles against were instead openly embraced, with piss-corners and ‘go-ahead-and-scratch-your-name-into-this’ glass, and maybe bouncers in the corners…a little graffiti area, perhaps?

Instead, it’s my normal, balanced commute. The CTA working mostly semi-efficiently, the chick next to me proudly gossiping on her cell phone, and me punching in pointless blog posts on my Treo.

Welcome.