Functional relationships are cool!

For whatever reason, it seems that it has taken being in a healthy, functional relationship for the first time in my life to really realize how profoundly messed up all the others were. Sure, they were varying degrees of messed up (with my actual marriage being the most messed up by a landslide), but none of them have been what you'd call "functional" or even "stable" until now. So yes, this blog is going to consist of me getting a little more mushy than usual on the subject of the Old Curmudgeon, as he is known in the blogosphere. Deal with it.

As you may or may not have gathered, the Old Curmudgeon and I were friends in elementary school. I would go so far as to say he was my best friend, though I'm not sure that was mutual at the time. I'll forgive him for that. I think this is actually a key factor in our functionality. Not only are we friends now, but we were friends when we were 10. And 9. And 8. We have history. History going back to September of 1990. And I think we work now in part because we worked then. Also in part because neither of us has changed all that much since July of 1993, which was the last time we saw each other prior to June of 2012. We still both giggle at fart jokes and explosions. We both would still rather watch a show with some educational content in it as opposed to, say, Jersey Shore. We're still both nerdier than standard on the subject of geography. And yes, we have our differences. Some of them are pretty major. Yet, from what I've seen so far, our differences seem to balance each other out for the most part. We are able to use our different strengths and work together for a common goal, be it something relatively minor like cleaning the house from top to bottom in under two hours (which we did Sunday) or something bigger like planning and executing a three day trip to attend someone's wedding (which we did in August when we were still fairly new at this).

I think another very good thing in our relationship is mutual respect. I read his resume not long after we started hanging out again because he asked me to edit it for him. I was totally blown away by what he had accomplished in the 19 or so years since I last saw him. To me, his competence is not in question, which I guess is kind of a big deal because I question everyone's competence. My resume doesn't look as good as his (not even close, really), but it seems he can respect my accomplishments in other areas besides work. So on those occasions when we do not agree (and believe me, it happens), thus far we have been able to discuss logically, and so far these discussions have ended with one person or the other conceding that the other is correct. Yes, we can both admit when we've been wrong. And we both have been wrong on occasion.

Another cool thing (and maybe the best thing) is that I feel supported by a partner for the first time in ever. I don't have to do absolutely everything anymore. If I get off work late for reasons beyond my control, the Old Curmudgeon is totally okay with taking the Chamaco to karate class. Sometimes  dinner is already cooking when I get home from work. Sometimes we do stuff together, all three of us, and it feels like a family. That may actually be the coolest thing... Some guys I've dated in the last decade have not wanted anything to do with the Chamaco. Needless to say, those dates were isolated one-time occurrences. The Old Curmudgeon, however, has bravely stepped into a parenting role that nothing in his experience prepared him for. He has no children of his own and didn't have what you'd call a fantastic relationship with his own father, but he's giving it a go anyway. And sometimes I think he stresses way more about parenting than I do, but he's new... he'll relax into it. I just appreciate that he's willing to do it. Without me even asking. That's a real man right there... I once read a quote to the effect of, "Any idiot male can make a baby, but it takes a MAN to be a father." Yeah, that's it.

The bottom line, really, is this: at this time last year I didn't know if he was even still alive or remembered me at all. Now I can't imagine a day without him.

KITTEN!!!

That was the first word out of my son's mouth when I picked him up from school on Monday. The conversation went like this.

ME: Hey you. How was school?
HIM: KITTEN!!!! (pause) Oh, yeah, hi mom.... KITTEN!!!!

See what he's on about is the fact that Sunday afternoon we finally brought home the kitten we've been planning to adopt pretty much since she was born in late November. The Chamaco was utterly thrilled to finally, finally have a cat again after 3 years of living in a no pets allowed apartment and then another seven months or so of me not wanting to get one because we didn't really have enough space. Moving to Milwaukie fixed that last problem, and then it just happened that a cat belonging to one of my coworkers produced exactly one kitten. Even before kitten was born we were discussing the possibility getting one of the kittens. Then it turned out there was only one to get, so we sort of got dibs.

This is Squeak when we first met her. We went over to visit her a day or two after she figured out the walking thing. It's always good to meet potential pets before you bring them home... you know, to make sure you don't hate them or vice versa. Though you just can't hate a month old kitten, really. Squeak, by the way, is so named because she doesn't really meow in the traditional sense (at least not yet). She makes more of a squeaking noise. Particularly at 4:15 AM, which she seems to think is a great time to wake up and jump on faces.

Anyway, as I said, we brought Squeak home on Sunday afternoon (or, more accurately, we had her delivered to our house). She spent most of Sunday afternoon hiding in small spaces, which I thought was a pretty natural reaction for a tiny kitten used to a small apartment with a few other cats who has suddenly become the only cat in a rather large apartment. She seemed to favor the top of my scanner under the computer desk (which, incidentally, is where she is now). Oh, and by the way, she's a little bigger now.

It's been kind of fun to watch her adjust. She spent Sunday night in bed with me, which is how I learned that she likes to wake up at 4:15 AM and chew on fingers and attack faces. Monday night the Chamaco begged to have Squeak sleep in his room. I said fine, but he had to leave the door open so she could get out if she wanted, and if she left he couldn't go get her and bring her back. She didn't leave. And she woke up at 4:15 AM and wanted to chew on his fingers and attack his face. He told me after I got up that morning that he thought maybe he didn't want her sleeping in his room anymore for a while. But Squeak doesn't like to be alone much, you see, so Tuesday night she was back in bed with me. At least when I went to sleep. When I woke up at 6:45 she was gone. I figured she couldn't have gone too far, though, so I got up and got dressed and went about my business. And when I went in to get the Chamaco up for school I found her. On his pillow. Curled up peacefully and not chewing on his face. I thought that was progress, but the Chamaco said last night that he still didn't want her in his room while he was sleeping, so I told him he was going to have to actually close the door if he didn't want her in there. He didn't love that idea... he has never, ever slept with the door closed in his entire life. I think, though, that he saw the inescapability of my logic and he let me close the door.

I took Squeak with me when I went to bed last night. She fell asleep on my head, and I had a vague recollection that at some point during the night she had been purring (which I hadn't yet been able to get her to do), but I thought maybe I dreamed that part. I guess, however, that during the night she also wandered over to visit the Old Curmudgeon, and he reported to me this morning that he also had her purring, so it seems maybe I didn't dream that part. I guess she's just decided she likes sleeping on our heads. And she didn't start chewing on my fingers and attacking my face until about 6 today, so she's adjusting.

Really I've missed having a cat. I had forgotten how much having a kitten is like having a toddler, though, in the sense that they wake up really early and want to play, and they sometimes get so wrapped up in play that they don't realize they have to pee until it's too late to make it to the potty. Oh, and the whole needing constant attention thing. 

Oh, and Squeak has a Hitler mustache. I'll try to get a decent pic of her face one of these days.

Song o' the Day: "Kitty" by The Presidents of the United States of America

Dumber than advertised...

And with that title, I am of course referring to... myself.

Every now and then, life has a way of teaching you that you're not as smart as you thought you were.

We got a new stackable washer/dryer unit in December (after our last one croaked on day 31 of the 30 day warranty). After examining it extensively, the Old Curmudgeon and I came to the conclusion that new dryer did not have a lint trap. It seemed odd to both of us... don't they have to have those? But no, we (two former TAG kids, mind you) could not find it, thus it did not have one.

Over the last few weeks of steadily decreasing dryer performance, today I resolved to look up the user guide on the internet. Sure enough, there's a lint trap. Right there in the back of the dryer. Old Curmudgeon and I had looked right at it and passed over it, not realizing that those two little holes there were intended to stick fingers in for the purpose of removing said lint trap from the rest of the dryer. I guess we thought they were just vent holes.

Anyway, I cleaned out the trap and this is what I turned up:

The larger chunk of lint on the left, by the way, is almost two inches thick, about nine inches long, four inches wide and fairly solid. That's what was in the trap itself. The rest I cleaned off of around where the trap is supposed to go. It is an absolute miracle that we morons have not burned the place down around ourselves in the last month of not cleaning out the lint trap because we didn't believe it existed.

I submit this experience as proof that something you don't think exists can still affect you. Or even kill you.

Oh, and for those that care, we're slowly feeling better. I made it through a whole two hours at work yesterday... gonna shoot for three today. ;-)

Song o' the Day: "Rain Over Me" - Pitbull featuring Marc Anthony. Why, you ask? Because Zumba class has gotten it stuck in my head, that's why.

UPDATE, 11:50 AM 1/31/13: The next load of clothes I put in the dryer after cleaning the lint trap got dry on the first go. The dryer wasn't malfunctioning after all... we're just morons.

Mongolian Death Flu...

My household has been suffering the Mongolian Death Flu for almost two weeks now. (Please note, "Mongolian Death Flu" is just a name I made up and is not the name of an actual epidemic as far as I am aware. Please do not panic and/or call the CDC.) We're being a good family and taking turns with it, but at least one of us has been sick at all times since January 18th. It's a lovely virus that starts with fever/chills and lack of appetite/energy and then transitions seamlessly into coughing up various internal organs while not being able to breathe or speak. It's also a deceptive little virus, as we've recently learned, because just when we thought we were shaking it off, we all relapsed back to square one (fever/chills, etc.).

I'm planning on going to work today for the first time this week, and honestly I have no idea how good of an idea that is. I'm feeling about 60% of normal capacity today, which is the highest I've been since Friday evening (today is Wednesday, by the way). Sunday I was at about 10-15%. What that means is that I slept all night Saturday night, slept almost all of the day Sunday (I was awake maybe 5-6 hours total, but not all at once... my longest stretch of consciousness was 3 hours between 8 and 11 PM), and then slept all night Sunday night. I texted the Old Curmudgeon this morning to see how he's doing, and he told me he had given up on work today and was going home. Already. At 8:30 AM. Not encouraging.

So if anyone has been wondering why you haven't seen us out and about for the last couple of weeks, this is why. We're all over here trying not to die, with varying degrees of success. The Chamaco has been going to school, albeit with a bad cough, and he's doing the best so far. I'm going to leave and have a go at the going to work thing in about ten minutes here, so wish me luck...

Song o' the Day: "Sick" by Evanescence (relevant in title only, given that it's not actually about disease)

Panda Epiphany....

I had an epiphany last night. At the Panda Express on McLoughlin. And yes, it was slightly painful. But let me explain first how I wound up at Panda having epiphanies in the first place.

See, Friday night is usually date night for me and the Old Curmudgeon (which is my new blog name for my significant other... he'd get a kick out of that, trust me. Also "Mr. Cranky-Pants", which is what I usually call him to his face, is harder to type for some reason). The reason date night is on Friday is that the Chamaco generally spends Friday nights at my mom's house, and it's cheaper to eat out when there are only two of us as opposed to three. Yes, we are jerks like that, thank you.

Anyway, the Old Curmudgeon had a burning desire to go to Panda. Something about Shanghai steak. Me, I can take or leave steak, and I was sort of "meh" about the idea of going to Panda, but I didn't have a strong inclination to go much of anywhere else either so I figured I'd humor him and went along. This is called "keeping the peace", and I don't think I had much of a knack for that a decade or so ago when I was last in a serious relationship. Of course, I was 19/20 then as opposed to 29/30 too.

So anyway, back to Panda with a minimum of side trips now. (Hopefully.) I got the 2 entree platter, and I had fried rice, mandarin chicken, and honey-walnut shrimp. Anyone who has been to Panda ever can now probably picture exactly what was on my plate. On a whim, I got 3 potstickers as well. (Usually I get the chow mein instead of the fried rice, but I was feeling a little weird last night anyway, which maybe should have been a warning about the epiphany.) We filled up our drinks, sat down at a table, and started eating.

I compartmentalize, and tend to eat one food at a time for some reason. So I polished off the mandarin chicken and was probably about halfway through the honey-walnut shrimp when I had the epiphany. I felt a slight nudging in my cerebral cortex (or somewhere in my brain anyway) and looked around to see what was going on. My digestive system timidly raised its hand and cleared its throat. "Excuse me, Lord Brain," it said hesitantly. "We're... we're all full down here. We actually sort of don't need to eat the rest of that."

I paused in my eating to listen in on the conversation as my brain sputtered about in surprise for a moment, took a quick peep out through the eyeballs to survey the contents of the plate, then bellowed, "Nonsense! The shrimp isn't gone yet! That stuff costs an extra dollar, you know!"

"But... but... there's... no more room in the stomach!" my digestive system stammered. Clearly it was terrified of incurring my brain's wrath but for once had decided to stand up for itself.

"We haven't even touched the potstickers yet! And the shrimp's not gone!" the brain said firmly. And it ruthlessly shoved my digestive system's voice back to wherever it had come from. And just to spite the little upstart for daring to speak out of turn,we finished the shrimp. And the potstickers. And the fried rice. Because we are a fat slob, that's why. And no, we didn't feel too great about it afterward.

I bet you're wondering where the epiphany was in that. Well, I don't know if conversation was just sparse since the Old Curmudgeon was busy filling his face with Shanghai steak or what, but this was the first time I'd actually heard that conversation take place between my brain and my digestive system. And yes, I dramatized it, but that's what they would have been saying had they been speaking with words. I assume this conversation happens pretty much every time I eat a meal and I never do hear that voice, which is why I'm as big as I am. It wasn't until I was lying in bed last night reviewing the day's events in my mind that I thought, "You know, if I paid more attention to that voice, I might not be as fat as I am." (This was ephiphany #2.) And I resolved to start trying to listen for that voice.

So this morning after I climbed out of bed around 10:00 (hey, it's Saturday and I don't have to work until 1, so there), I took a bath (again, Saturday, don't judge) and wandered out into the kitchen to find foodstuffs. I am not real fond of breakfast foods in general, and I tend to have either fruit or something more lunchy for breakfast. Today it was the latter, as I settled upon a can of Campbells vegetable soup. Maybe you will all think I'm a disgusting fatso after reading this, but I generally have no trouble putting away an entire can by myself. With cheese and crackers. Today I heated up the soup, put some crackers in it (decided to skip cheese) and headed for the table.

I was eating in rather contemplative silence (Chamaco is at my mom's, remember?) and sure enough, just about halfway through the bowl of soup I get a weird sensation in my stomach and a little nudge in my brain again. "Hey... we're done down here. No more!"

I took one more bite, which I chewed very thoughtfully for longer than was probably necessary, and looked down into the bowl and contemplated the soup. No, I decided, it actually didn't look as appetizing as it had ten minutes ago. And if I really thought about it, it didn't quite taste as good either. I have read before that these are both signs that you're done with the eating thing, so I put the bowl off to the side and reached for my laptop.

And this is where I sit right now. At my kitchen table, half-eaten bowl of soup to my left, laptop directly in front, and glass of water to my right. (Glass of water, by the way, was refilled 3 times during the course of eating half a bowl of soup, for some reason. Am I dehydrated as well?) And I don't quite know what to do with said half-bowl of soup. No one else is around to offer it to. Throwing it out seems kind of wasteful, but I know that if I cover it and put it in the fridge, it will probably just grow mold and no one will eat it, and then I will throw it away. (The Chamaco, for whatever reason, does not like to eat leftover anything.) However, I do not really want to eat it just so it doesn't go to waste, because my stomach told me pretty clearly that it didn't want anything else. (Traitor.)

So maybe I've stumbled upon a breakthrough in my lifelong (and by "lifelong" I mean, "since I was about six") struggle with food and weight. Maybe I've just got to listen for the little voice that tells me, "Hey! No more of that, jerkface!"

The Old Curmudgeon and I have been spending some evenings lately watching a British TV show called Supersize vs. Superskinny. Basically the premise of the show is that they get one hugely obese person (usually close to 400 lbs. if we calculate out how many stone that is, because they do weight funny in Britain) and one underweight person (usually 110 lbs or less... lowest I've seen so far was 85), and they put them in a house together for five days. During those five days, the fat person can only eat everything the underweight person would normally eat (which is sometimes nothing at all for some meals), and the underweight person has to eat everything that the fat person normally eats at every meal (or give it their best go, anyway). It's sort of a mutual learning thing... usually by the end of the 5 days the fat person has learned that they can get hungry and they don't actually die, and they have learned by watching the skinny person attempt to choke down their meals that they have been eating WAY too much. The skinny person, meanwhile, usually learns to try new foods (the skinnies tend to have extremely limited diets like only fruit, or even in one case only chocolate... generally there is at least one food group they've eliminated completely) and eat somewhat larger portions. It's sort of weirdly fascinating, even though having watched most of two seasons now I'm sort of getting to the point where I want to see someone fail... come back after the 12 weeks of following the doctor's eating plan and not be fatter/skinnier than they were before and glowing with good health. Of course, I'm a jerk like that.

I'm also doing karate classes with my son on Tuesday nights and have finally found a Zumba class that mostly works within my schedule (I have to go there directly from work, but I can do it). I've already got the exercise piece falling into place nicely, so maybe if I can figure out the stupid food part, I might start seeing some changes. Who knows?

Song o' the Day: "End of Time" by Lacuna Coil. The video for which (viewable by clicking on the song title over there) was cleverly released right before December 21st, 2012. Not on the 21st, of course, because if the world had actually ended nobody would have seen it. Can't take that chance! This is a slower song for Lacuna, and definitely not their most exciting video, but I still like the song.