G 'n' T

"Hey Scotty...Yeah...What's it gonna be?
A gin & tonic sounds might mighty good to me."
-Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

I don't like mixed drinks. That's almost entirely true.

Not that I'm much of a drinker. Although I've developed a reputation among some peers for my love of beer, I really can't in good faith claim to be anywhere near the drinker that some of my friends are, nor can I claim the drinking power I displayed back in college.

But, from time to time, I like a drink or two. Usually, this takes the form of Coors Light, or whatever other beer has manifested its presence in my fridge.

As my wife and I have resorted to shift work to cover our baby at night, I find myself with several wakeful hours with a sleeping baby and nothing to do. As idle hands are the devil's playthings, I find myself watching too much TV (or Tivo, I should say) and finding things to drink.

Tonight, I had settled on wine. I thought we had a bottle of 2-Buck Chuck around here somewhere, and had every intent of denting it substantially. But I was astounded to find that it was gone, no doubt imbibed by me a few months ago when my wife had gone to bed early and I was, as I am now, at least somewhat bored.

I looked in the fridge and saw that we had a Coors Light and a Fat Tire. I don't dare touch either, as my wife has laid claim to both. This is a problem I have with my wife. She lays claim to these things, but then lets them sit there for weeks, only deciding she wants them at the very moment that I've decided they've hit the end of their shelf life and, um, disposed of them.

So I had to look elsewhere for satisfaction. I mean, God forbid I should actually just make some iced tea or something.

Then I remembered the Beefeater. My friend JLowe bought me a bottle of Beefeater gin while he was in London a while back, and although it wasn't the gift I expected, it certainly wasn't a disappointment. Over the last month or so, I've found that an occasional gin and tonic is an excellent way to pass the time.

I don't know why gin and tonic passes muster where most mix drinks don't with my palate. Although I have a certain affinity for drinks that end with "and Coke" (i.e. Jack or Rum and Coke), everything else tastes pretty poor to me. But a G'n'T never disappoints, always refreshes, and usually leaves me happy.

So I looked in the cabinet to see if Beefeater was still a viable option. I found 4 ounces left, along with an unopened bottle of tonic water.

By the way, what is it about tonic water that makes it so good with gin? A couple of weeks ago, finding that I was out of tonic, I tried gin and lime sparkling water. Simply awful. Is it the quinine that makes tonic blend so well with the juice of the juniper? I wonder...

Anyway, I decided that Beefeater had lived long enough. Though there was no "born-on date" on the bottle, and (as far as I know) booze doesn't really ever die, I decided that the shelf life had come to an abrupt end as I was peering into the cabinet.

JLowe, the bane of my existence (at times), also bought me a set of 1-liter steins a couple of years back. I pulled one down from the top shelf, poured my gin into it, added a bunch of ice, then squeezed a hefty dose of lime juice in and finished the job with about 16 ounces of tonic.

The result? Heavenly. I'm half done now, and a mild buzz is around the corner.

Right now, the baby is sleeping and War of the Worlds, which I still haven't watched, beckons. I imagine I'll fall asleep about 10 minutes in, to be awakened either by my crying baby or my wife as she pumps milk. Either way, I'll have finished the night off in style, and will wake up tomorrow with a mild headache to remind me of why I don't often buy my own liquor.

Snow on the way?

According to weather.com, we may be getting snow on December 1st. Of course, what do the weathermen know?

At my house, we're anxiously awaiting snow. Why? Hmm. Why not?

This year, we got a new truck to suit our new daughter. Really, we were just trying to bring down our monthly payments.

Fact is, we got our last vehicle (a Mitsubishi Montero Sport) a little after I got my graduate degree, and due to various financial circumstances (my bad credit history, my wife's student status, etc.) we were able to get one of those 0 down, 0 interest, 0 payment deals (the only way we could spring a new car, but absolutely necessary given how the old one kept breaking down every month or so), but only after agreeing to heinous financial terms.

As baby approached, we traded in our $8,000 of negative equity and our 60k miles of maintenance-needing SUV for a lease on a Toyota Tundra (I wanted a Tacoma, but my wife consistently gets talked into the next best thing whenever I take her car shopping). Despite the considerable upgrade, we ended up paying $200 less per month.

The Montero's 4WD was busted. Had been for at least a year. Luckily, I was never asked about that at trade-in, and they never checked it. Now we have a fully-functional 4WD, and I'm looking forward to using it once the ice hits. I was very afraid of driving in last winter's freeze. Although I still fear winter driving to some extent in this town due to how Portlanders generally react to winter roads (the annual video on the news of cars spinning out of control and hitting everything in sight pops into mind), I shant let such things deter me from a quick spin once the snow starts falling.

Baby update:
Getting huge. She eats like a freakin' cow. I suppose, literally, that is correct, as she draws milk from an udder-like device (either the natural one, or one attached to a bottle), although she doesn't do the whole cud-chewing bit.

She also poops like a hero. I mean, as the book says, Everyone Poops. But not everyone does it with such explosive force, or with such uber-regularity. Truly, I doubt I could ever have been so bad (though both my wife's mom and my own both insist that our baby is entirely normal).

Christmas is coming!
Can't believe it. Where does the year go? Question: if my child is only two months old at Christmas-time, should I really worry about getting her a present? I've discussed this with my best friend, JLowe, who agreed with me that there was no such need, as my baby would be too young to realize I was shorting her, wouldn't appreciate whatever gift she received, and would be getting plenty of stuff from all of her relatives. Are we right, or are we tacky?

Let me know. I'm truly troubled by the entire issue.

War of the Worlds is now out on video. As hideous as Tom Cruise has been in the press this year, I still felt the need to rent the movie. So, since I still have 3 more hours left in tonight's shift, off I go to enjoy!

Happy Turkey Day?

[stolen from my old blog...]

Anyone said this to you lately? I’ve heard it a lot, and frankly it bugs the crap out of me.

That’s not to say anything bad about my friends who’ve made this statement in the last couple of days. I’ll let it slide, if only because I genuinely like them.

This morning, listening to my usual sports talk radio at the gym, it was “Happy Turkey Eve!”. In an e-mail at work, it was “have a great Turkey Day.” My mom and her significant other are even in on it, when during our early Thanksgiving dinner on Monday (mom works on the holiday) I was told to have a good Turkey Day.

What gives? Why are we so fixated on avoiding the correct reference?

According to dictionary.com, “thanksgiving” has several definitions. Two can be applied to the normal holiday for which so many of us get a day off.

1: fourth Thursday in November in the United States; second Monday in October in Canada; commemorates a feast held in 1621 by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag [syn: Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day] (from the Princeton University Wordnet 2.0);

2. A public acknowledgment or celebration of divine goodness; also, a day set apart for religious services, specially to acknowledge the goodness of God, either in any remarkable deliverance from calamities or danger, or in the ordinary dispensation of his bounties.

Note: In the United States it is now customary for the President by proclamation to appoint annually a day (usually the last Thursday in November) of thanksgiving and praise to God for the mercies of the past year. This is an extension of the custom long prevailing in several States in which an annual Thanksgiving day has been appointed by proclamation of the governor. (from the Websters Revised Unabridged Dictionary)

Now, the first definition seems to identify exactly what the secular society of the United States means when they say “Happy Thanksgiving”. Generally speaking, it is understood by most people, thanks to the benefits of our public school educations, that our country was founded by Pilgrims from Europe who sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to escape the religious oppression of the British Crown (sorry, JLowe, I cannot join you in your monarchophilia). After settling near what’s now known as Plymouth Rock, the Pilgrims had a tough winter, reducing their numbers drastically. After the winter passed, the local natives befriended the Pilgrims and offered them assistance. As the year progressed, the Pilgrims prospered, and at the end of the year the colonists’ governor organized a feast to thank God for His provision through the year. The colonists and their Indian friends joined together and had a wonderful time. And that was the first Thanksgiving. (you can get more info here).

As time went on, the meaning of Thanksgiving changed. It was, at times, a celebration of the Pilgrims’ victory over the “heathen natives,” a celebration of the colonists’ victory over the British, and finally was ordained by Congress in 1941 as a national holiday (go here for more info). Today, our children are taught that Thanksgiving is a holiday set aside to recognize what we have, appreciate the fact that we have it, and (often) to consider how we might help others.

Now, I can see that some may have objections to the origins of Thanksgiving. Certainly, the treatment of American Indians throughout history by the people who stole their land and their heritage has been (to put it politely) objectionable. Further, people differ on religious viewpoints, and some are so violently areligous that they will go out of their way to deny the existence of holidays that have any basis in religion.

But I am of the opinion that Thanksgiving needs to be embraced. Different people with different viewpoints can look at whence their blessings came in different ways, but the fact is that everyone in America is blessed to some degree, whether it be with opportunities to achieve their dreams, or whether their dreams have, in fact, been actualized. I believe that I’ve been blessed by God, but others may just believe that they’ve taken advantage of a set of contingencies that rewards hard work. Either way, the fact is that any of us could be in a worse position than we are, and we need to take time to acknowledge that and to appreciate it and, if we believe it is appropriate, to thank God for it (never mind the fact that in many countries, the last option is no option at all). That’s what Thanksgiving is: a time to count our blessings, to not take things for granted, and to ponder the great gifts that life in America affords us. And, perhaps, to count the costs that got us here.

As a corollary, I was listening to Colin Cowherd today on ESPN Radio talking about how the NBA is drifting away from its fan-base. As an example, he cited Latrell Sprewell, who apparently told someone that the $14,000,000 he gets paid simply to dribble a ball around and shoot it into a hole wasn’t enough. And it made me consider the fact that so many people take prosperity so much for granted that we feel entitled to it, and don’t appreciate what goes right for us (instead focusing solely on how we’re getting screwed by someone, somewhere, for some reason).

Thanksgiving is essential. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to call it Turkey Day.

I mean, half the time I end up eating ham, anyway.

So, on this Thanksgiving, take a minute to acknowledge how great your life is in comparison to how it could be. Consider your blessings, regardless of derivation. And, even if just quietly in your mind, to noone in particular, say a word of thanks for the life you have.

And, finally, Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

(Of course, maybe I’m just being a jerk… Just wait until “X-mas” rears its ugly head again…)

Thankful for...











Not in any particular order, by the way (except the first three or four...)

Happy Thanksgiving!

I won!

Finally. More on that later.

Today was a day of many firsts for Stella. Her first roadie, her first visit to the beach, her first shopping excursion, her first lunch at Mo's. A fine, fine day.

We'd heard that the weather at the beach was going to be nice this week, so we seized upon the opportunity to get while the gettin' was good. This morning, we woke up early (well, I did; my wife was finishing out her shift), hopped in the car, and scooted off to Lincoln City.

We had certain objectives:

• Go to the outlets for baby clothes;
• Buy crab for dinner tomorrow w/ family; and,
• Get out on the beach.

Objective One was a cinch. We arrived in Lincoln City right around the lunch hour, but opted to go shopping to work up an appetite.

As you can see, the results are impressive...

Objective Two got muddled when we decided that Mo's was a necessary stop to appreciate the beachiness of the whole day. We got there at about 2:30 and enjoyed clam chowder (of course!), various chickens-of-the-sea (including Cod, Clams, and Oysters), and marvelled at how quiet our baby was being in this, her first restaurant adventure. The baby, of course, was just lulling us into complacency...

This, of course, is my wife, marvelling and jubilant at how good our baby is...

This is our baby, scheming (with proof of Mo's attendance in the background).

Anyway, after lunch, we started to head north. We were going to stop at the first reputable crab shack we saw, with the goal of obtaining 5 choice sea-arachnids for consumption tomorrow night. As we drove north, neither of us noticed anything promising. We left Lincoln City utterly dissatisfied with the seafood selection, and decided to hit all of the little towns we passed to the north, hoping for better luck.

Neskowin: Nope.

Oretown: Nope.

Then we went on the "Three Capes Scenic Drive." Partly out of necessity (nature was calling for my wife), partly because I wanted to look for crab in Netarts and, also, to stop in Oceanside, where my family used to have a beach house.

In Netarts, we saw a store promising crab. I started to pull off to visit, but my wife reminded me that crab was much more pleasant to own when one hadn't been forced to wet their pants in its acquisition.

So, to Oceanside, where there is a nice public crappery and a lovely view

This lovely view, in fact. Sadly, this was the closest we got to the beach (this was from the parking lot), as shopping and Mo's had cut into our prospects at success for all other objectives.

After using the loo at Oceanside Beach Wayside, we headed back to the Netarts crab store, only to find out that we (like the people who had left just before us) had fallen victim to some of the most egregious false advertising in the land. When asked where I could locate some crab, the lady inside suggested Tillamook, where, if all else failed, I might still be able to catch the guy who sells crab from his van on the roadside.

Whatever. Short version: no crab. Not even on the roadside.

So, we headed home, semi-despondent due to our unobtained crab and our untouched sand.

As we neared home, Stella suddenly awoke with a fervor and began a hellatious round of crying that lasted for the bulk of the next 2 hours. This was no good, of course, because my wife wanted to go to bed. Figuring that Stella may be mid-growth spurt, my wife's solution to the crying was to continuously thrust milk into my daugther's piehole, which generally worked just long enough for her to swallow it and burp.

My wife finally decided to go to bed, as Stella appeared to be quieting down. False alarm. Or true alarm, false sense of security. Whatever. Stella again launched into a raucous tirade.

My wife made one last-ditch effort to feed Stella into complacency. Showing obvious fatigue and growing irritability, she latched Stella onto the milk factory and, 15 minutes later, took delight in Stella's unconciousness. My wife brought her over to her bed, set her down, and declared victory. She then headed off to bed.

Much like George Bush and his "Mission Accomplished" speech, my wife's proclamation of victory was ill-timed and mostly untrue. Although Stella feigned sleep just long enough for my wife to jump into bed and bury her head under 2 or 3 pillows, she woke up in order to stick it to dear old dad.

She decided to declare her severe disgruntlement for all things peaceful. I had trouble comprehending her argument, as it was composed of high-pitched, furious wailing and nonsense syllables that all rhymed with "Whaah!"

I tried to reason with her. My argument language is the bounce-rock-pat-pat. I bounce around in a faux-walk, rock slightly on my hips, and pat the behind of my adversary rhythmically. I often find that this disarms their illogic long enough for them to be stunned into sleepiness.

This actually worked, and Stella passed out long enough for me to start this post. Sensing my impending bragging, though, she started to cry again right when I was typing about Oceanside.

I took a page from the wife's playbook and fed her to sleep, however, and now the only remnant of her argument is the occasional quiet whimper of nigh-contentment.

Victory is sweet.

Now, back to my shift. Tivo has many delights for me tonight...

Paternity Leave

Although I can probably think of more fun ways to spend 8 weeks of my vacation and sick time, I can't really think of anything more fulfilling than what I've been doing for the last 3 weeks.

I mean, when you break my day up into little bits, when you catalog my activities, really my days don't seem to be much of anything. A diaper change here, a feeding there, a baby bath, walking the dog, rocking the baby to sleep in my arms, watching a movie while intently listening to my baby's breathing...

None of these things, in and of themselves, really sounds that great. In and of themselves, none of these things really is that great.

But the sum of these things is what makes me feel so good about the parts.

Four weeks ago, my typical day was wake up, go to work, while away the hours in my office, waiting for 5pm, go home, eat dinner, watch TV, and go to bed.

Three weeks ago, a miracle happened. My life took on a greater meaning.

Don't get me wrong. I've always known that my life was to be spent in more meaningful ways than wasting my time waiting for the next Must-See-TV event. I've just never really exercised that knowledge.

Of course, the introduction of a new person into the world, and into your life, forces some re-direction of energy and some re-evaluation of why one is here. I'm here, of course, because God wants me to be. My job, I believe, is mine because of some greater purpose that I am serving, or have yet to serve. My wife is my wife because I love her, but perhaps more importantly because she's the person God wants me to be with.

Whatever. You get the gist--I'm constantly dogged by the feeling that, despite the arrangements that God has made for me, I'm wasting my time.

Now I can't really waste time. I wake up and spend my whole day focussing on my kid, or focussing on my wife, or focussing on both, until its time to go to bed. I do some other stuff, but I find it being re-justified in the context of my new fatherhood.

I go to the gym. Before, when I went to the gym I focussed on building muscles. Now I focus on aerobics, and go not only because I want to lose weight (8 lbs. in the last 2 weeks!), but more importantly because I want to see my daughter graduate high school (something my dad wasn't able to accomplish with me, due to the family health issues).

I go to the store, but always end up walking through the baby section, looking for the next must-have item to improve our capacity for child-rearing.

I go to see my friends (on occasion), but am always conscious in my mind that I am not at home pulling my weight, and feeling a tug to get back there so that I am doing my part.

I was holding Stella today and thinking of how great parental leave is. How much would it suck to have to wake up every morning (after a spotty sleep) and leave for 9 hours, wondering through the day what quirky little faces or funny little sounds I was missing? Not knowing whether my wife was able to sneak in a nap? Realizing that, once home, it'd be a struggle to get some good time in before sleepiness took over?

I mean, I'm going to have to deal with that soon enough. I'm just glad I'm able to be here now, to spend some quality time and get some good bonding in...



Anyhoo, enough blathering. Stella's threatening to wake up here any second, so I have to get a bottle ready. More later...

Tired


Of course, for her, I suppose it's worth it.

Haven't checked in for quite awhile now. In fact, blogging has taken a back seat to most everything, as my life has been turned upside down by the cute little (currently) brown-eyed girl that's taken my house by storm.

Quick update for regular readers:
Stella's official stats (as of today): 20 3/4 inches long, 8 lbs 9 oz, 16 days old.

Alright, now that that's out of the way...

Man, having a kid is nothing like you could ever expect. I mean, you hear all the stuff your friends with kids say. "Sleep now, because once you have the kid you never will." "Say goodbye to your social life." "It's hard, but it's worth it." "Your life will never be the same."

All stock phrases; each was heard from multiple people. But, despite more-than-fair warning, I entered parenthood almost entirely unprepared. Which is not to say I'm bad at it. I dare say that, so far, I'm pretty good.

Looking back at the whole process of the pregnancy, I can see that the pregnant time can be used for good or evil. A poor use of the preparation is acting like nothing's different, and trying to live your life as close to normal as possible. Sure, normalcy has its place, but a good father-to-be needs to be learning the art of self-sacrifice from the beginning. To prepare for doing your fair share (supposing you care about such things), pregnancy is a great time to learn to think more as a "we" and not as an "I".

So, 10 months was spent in trying to do whatever I could to support my wife. Which is not to say I was perfect, but I put more effort into my marriage in the last 10 months than I had in the last 2 years before that. I spent more time trying to help my wife. I started picking up little things here and there that I knew she wanted (mostly chocolatey things). And I did what I could to reduce the load on my wife so that she could focus on keeping healthy through her pregnancy.

And, for the most part, things came along great. Got the room painted with a month to spare. Got all the furniture constructed. Got the dog to obedience classes to prepare her for a more disciplined existence.

As the moment approached, I started to feel less fearful and more excited to get on with fatherhood. My wife was exactly the opposite, having lost her excitement for the future months and years in the shadow of her fear of the hours of pain and effort of childbirth. She started to publicly hope that the kid would wait just a little bit longer, although she also was mindful of the fact that the longer the wait, the more baby there'd be to deliver.

That was a Catch 22, for sure.

The day came. My wife's labor started at 2am on 10/28/05 as a series of short, erratic, painful twinges in her gut. For the most part, she was able to sleep through them, aware that if she was actually in labor, the hospital part was hours away (most likely) and remembering that our birthing class had discussed the need to take it as easy as possible. She had a pre-scheduled doctor's appointment at 10am, so we went in and learned that, from the looks of things, it was likely we'd be back at the hospital the same night.

By 3pm, that prediction had come to fruition. My wife wasn't quite ready to go yet, but she was certainly close. When we got to the hospital, we spent an hour walking the halls trying to loosen things up. My wife's blood pressure started to elevate, which was just concerning enough to the medical staff that they decided that instead of sending us home, it was time to really encourage the kid to come out. The doctor broke my wife's water, which was still holding intact, and by 6pm the pitosin and the epidural were flowing. By 7, things were starting to happen.

Actual "hard" labor began at about midnight, and after two hours of pushing (and none of the typical TV-style crying, screaming, swearing, or even sweating), my wife delivered our little bundle of joy, Stella.

And, since then, all of my friends' predictions have come true. Sleep is a premium item for us now. My wife still can't sleep when noone is keeping vigil over our sleeping daughter, so for another week or so we are continuing shift work, to allow us more sleep than we'd probably get otherwise. Right now, I'm smack in the middle of my 9pm - 4am shift; my wife will assume her vigil at 4 and let me sleep until 10-ish.

All I can say is thank God for FMLA, and the Oregon equivalent. Thanks to Oregon law, both husbands and wives qualify to take up to 12 weeks of paid (if you've got the hours to cover it) leave from work to celebrate baby. And additional boon is my job, which offers excellent vacation and sick-time benefits, but also provides enough pressure that actually burning that time as it is accumulated is hard to do. Thanks to the way it all works out, I actually had 12 weeks of available sick and vacation time that I could burn (if I wanted), despite taking about 2 weeks of vacation already earlier this year.

Amazing.

So, I've elected to take 8 weeks off to enjoy my baby's first days, as well as to help out my wife with all the stuff to do at home, which gets a little overwhelming after all the sleeplessness compounded by all of the parental stuff that needs to be done.

My initial thoughts on parenthood: It's tough, but it's also fun. Baby's are interesting; when you first have them, you love them simply because you are related to them. You won't have any idea of their personality for weeks or months. You won't get any sort of feedback from them for quite awhile. But, somehow, your love for them grows despite the slave-driving demands that they place on you. Changing diapers is fun. Feeding them is a treat. Trying to get them to sleep is challenging, annoying, and yet fulfilling when you learn a new trick that konks them out faster.

I checked out about 7 library books, thinking I'd get through them during this time. I've started 2, but otherwise I just keep on renewing them, in the hopes that in the next couple of weeks Stella will start sleeping a little more and afford me more time to relax.

I've managed to take in a few movies on TV, though, as well as countless hours of old Seinfelds and other great shows gathered courtesy of Tivo. TV and feedings seem to go hand-in-hand.

Blogging, however, takes more effort than I generally have the energy to put forth. The only reason I'm writing this is a feeling of guilt, combined with a desire to get at least a little bit of info out about the male perspective on pregnancy and childbirth. I'm too tired to write anything really coherent; I suppose this ramble is, however, a fair and accurate representation of the fragmented way in which my mind is working these past couple of weeks.

Hmm. Losing my point. Three and a half more hours on baby duty, and I'm circling the drain. Luckily, I got her to sleep, so maybe I can get a little catnap in...

For all my blog-buddies out there, I'm still alive. Chances are I haven't read anything you've written lately, but I'm sure my Bloglines will prove to be a source of days of enjoyment once I have the time to put into catching up on it. Drop by from time to time; I'll try to be more entertaining next time I post, and I promise I'll stop the late-night tired ramblings...I'm even boring myself.

Thanks for all the great comments and well-wishes; things are great in the Rusty household, and we're all doing super...

Now, where's the couch?