As is my absolutely delightful and not at all ever tiring wont, I quizzed The Bean as to the artist.
She concentrated. "Do I know this?"
I explained that I didn't think she'd ever heard the song before, but knew several others by the same artist. However, they didn't share a whole lot, stylistically, with the tracks she did know, so I didn't think it was likely she'd be able to guess.
Which is when The Golden Weasel piped up.
"Purple Möllusk Religion," she said.
I was confused for a moment...until it hit me. She really is her mother's daughter.
It's such a strange thing. Thanks to FB—one of the few things that truly evil entity does which is not, as far as I can tell, actively attempting to institute fascism—I know that I have at least six friends who all have birthdays on December 17th: three colleagues from the world of comics, one from homeschooling circles, one of my best friend's little brothers, and, oh, yes, my good lady wife. Not to mention post-punk musicians Bob Stinson and Mike Mills. As well as Bill Pullman, Eugene Levy, Pope Frankie, Sarah Paulson and, of course, Bob Guccione.
All of which leads one to wonder: what the hell is in the air/water every year nine months earlier?
And then I did the math. And I realized that what all those parents clearly had in common was an absolute refusal to beware the Ides of March. (Either that or a rather satyric carpe diem attitude.)
Interviewer: You've been happily married for 26 years. How do you keep the romance alive?
Me: We forward political tweets to each other all day long
— Melissa Wiley's NERVIEST GIRL has hit the shelves (@melissawiley) November 6, 2020
Me and @melissawiley trying to figure out what to watch next. ME: Well, we've been meaning to try...uh...what's it called...Mr...Mr... HER: Oh, right! Ted Lasso! ME: Yes! [...] ME: How did you get that? HER: I have no idea.
I could be wrong, but I feel like she's trying to tell me something.
Look, if you sneeze and every single person in your quite populous household isn't aware of it, did you even sneeze? And if you didn't, do you even exist?
She's just finished breakfast, a typically light affair. Which means despite having just consumed a whopping 150 entire calories, she's somehow not sated. Especially since by now it's noon.
"I could make you an everything bagel with cream cheese and ham," I suggest.
She demurs.
"How about an everything bagel with salami and provolone?"
She again passes.
"Carrots and hummus?"
She sighs.
And then the truth comes out.
"These are all such good ideas," she admits. "But none of them are Nutter Butters and milk."
So yesterday morning I check the air quality index for Portland and I see that it's in the 40s. Lower would be better, but hey, anything under 50 is in the green and considered Good.
Yesterday evening I check and we're up now in the yellow and up to the 70s, which is considered Moderate. Like 3.6 Roentgen: not great, not terrible.
This morning I check and it's now in the orange and is up to 130, which is considered Unhealthy. Hm.
A few hours later I check and it's now in the red and is pegged at 170. Um.
Well, maybe it'll get better, right? So a few hours later, after I have checked for the third time to see what's burning on the stove (SPOILERS: nothing), I hit refresh on the website and I get:
...so THAT's a thing. A thing I didn't even realize was possible. Or at least didn't realize was possible without, you know, your lungs turning to flame instantly.
And lest you think Oregon's reputation for being a bit weird is overstated, here's the graphic on an official website on how to be prepared to evacuate:
That's right, they use Bigfoot as a stand-in for your average Oregonian.
The writers of 2020 still seem to be a bit too on the nose this season.
***
[UPDATE SEPTEMBER 12, 2020] Turns out, it's possible to be wistful for an AQI of "merely" almost 400:
Think of the AQI as a yardstick that runs from 0 to 500. The higher the AQI value, the greater the level of air pollution and the greater the health concern. For example, an AQI value of 50 or below represents good air quality, while an AQI value over 300 represents hazardous air quality.
For each pollutant an AQI value of 100 generally corresponds to an ambient air concentration that equals the level of the short-term national ambient air quality standard for protection of public health. AQI values at or below 100 are generally thought of as satisfactory. When AQI values are above 100, air quality is unhealthy: at first for certain sensitive groups of people, then for everyone as AQI values get higher.
The AQI is divided into six categories. Each category corresponds to a different level of health concern. Each category also has a specific color. The color makes it easy for people to quickly determine whether air quality is reaching unhealthy levels in their communities.
AQI Basics for Ozone and Particle Pollution
Daily AQI Color
Levels of Concern
Values of Index
Description of Air Quality
Green
Good
0 to 50
Air quality is satisfactory, and air pollution poses little or no risk.
Yellow
Moderate
51 to 100
Air quality is acceptable. However, there may be a risk for some people, particularly those who are unusually sensitive to air pollution.
Orange
Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups
101 to 150
Members of sensitive groups may experience health effects. The general public is less likely to be affected.
Red
Unhealthy
151 to 200
Some members of the general public may experience health effects; members of sensitive groups may experience more serious health effects.
Purple
Very Unhealthy
201 to 300
Health alert: The risk of health effects is increased for everyone.
Maroon
Hazardous
301 and higher
Health warning of emergency conditions: everyone is more likely to be affected.
I am not a smart man. But even I, after nearly 50 years with the same person, learn a thing or two. Such as the insanely vital importance of never ever keeping secrets from your significant other.
Unless the secret in question is what you discovered, as you went to grab a beer sometime after midnight so you could get to work on the script you're writing, crawling up the wall next to the stairs, is your good lady wife's second-least favorite thing in the entire known universe.
So when I went freelance, one of my trusted colleagues—himself a long-time freelance writer— warned me that transitioning into being home all the time would likely be extremely difficult at first, that it was nobody's fault, it was just a fact that too much proximity to another adult would be difficult, especially since we were living in a small New York City apartment, and the other adult in question (Top Management) was used to having said apartment all to herself.
We never found that to be the case. We were delighted to have an extra 50 hours a week together and, if anything, hated having to stop talking to each other so one could leave the room to go work. And 22 or so years later, that's still the case. When it's time for me to leave Lissa's studio to go make dinner or watch Doctor Who with the kids or whatever, my good lady wife will often break into an awesomely accurate Veruca Salt impersonation, expressing her displeasure with my impending departure.
Fortunately, I have finally, after all these years, found a solution: I begin an interpretive dance which aims to illustrate how I personally feel about leaving her, the anguish I'm experiencing, the deep love I have for her and the conflicting emotion of paternal responsibility. Occasionally I'll throw in a small aside about current events or perhaps a recap of a recent television episode, just for contrast.
I say I begin an interpretive dance, because I rarely get more than three seconds in before she says, "Okay, you can go now."
Sure, she sounds eager for me to leave. But she's crying on the inside. I can tell.
It's late. Well, it's not really—it's only a bit after 11pm. But Top Management likes to get up around 6 in the damn morning so she can write before The Brawn gets up—for some reason, even after 25 years of practice, she apparently finds it difficult to write creatively once a small dervish begins whirling around in close proximity. (Yeah, he's still at the age—or perhaps just One of Those—who wakes up early and is immediately Ready and a-Rarin' to Go.)
I notice she's on her phone, so I do as I've been repeatedly instructed by her, and I point out the time. "Get off Twitter," I say, gently, lovingly, sweetly, with only her best intentions in my heart, as always.
She puts her phone down with a literal hmph and picks up her Kindle.
"I can’t believe how many hot takes I’m missing right now," she grumbles.
The 21-year-old comes downstairs at the crack of 10:15am and scratches my back. "Am...am I old enough that...I can just make myself cinnamon toast? Even though I'm not sick?"
I am not a good father. You know those fathers you see on TV—or even in real life!—who are great about teaching their kids how to change their oil and take them to all their hockey practices while it's still dark and go on cross-country vacations to camp in the Grand Canyon and do their homework with them and make sure they're not eaten by rabid badgers and all that? Yeah, that ain't me.
But there is precisely one thing I do really well as a father, and that's make cinnamon toast. Generally, yes, I only do it for each kid a few times a year, when they don't feel well, but since I have 4732879 children, that still means I end up making quite a bit, even if it doesn't seem that way to, say, Kid #7397 (what, like I can remember all their names).
I try to glare at her but my heart is too shattered. The one and only fatherly thing at which I'm even moderately proficient and she wants to rip that single thing away from me.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she says. "You can make it if you want! I just didn't want to be a hassle."
I get up in a snit (a very manly snit) and go make what is not my finest cinnamon toast ever but is still probably in the top 10% of all cinnamon toasts I've ever created. I keep it in the toaster the exact right amount of time, down to the millisecond. I pretend to hand it to her baby sister, which outrages and horrifies the 21-year-old, before she snatches the plate away, chirps "thank you, Daddy!" and goes into the dining room to eat it.
I sulk down to my office and sit down and that's when it hits me how thoroughly I had just been played.
So I've been showing the two youngest—the Golden Weasel and the Brawn—an episode or two of M*A*S*H most weekdays. We started with the very first episode and have watched all but a few episodes per season—there are over 250 episodes, so skipping a few of the relatively weaker or more purely prurient or those which have not aged terribly well (and hoo boy do some of even the finest episodes have bits that have not aged well) doesn't seem like too great a crime. In this way, they're getting quite an education: they're learning some history (about the Korean War, which they'd never heard), and basic concepts such as triage, and military rank, and even some basic medical terminology. (Who knew that this was where I became familiar with the term "plasma"?)
They're also learning—or have now learned—how to watch a long-form episodic series which, to the surprise of me and Top Management, is actually something one learns to do, and is not necessarily innate; we grew up watching sitcoms from the time we were aware, pretty much, and perhaps even the occasional soap opera, so learned without realizing it. (The only time I ever watched soaps was when I was home sick from school, with the result that the sight or sound or even mention of a soap opera will sometimes make me feel slightly ill—yes, really.)
That this is a learned thing is something we'd discovered with our oldest kids, but it was really driven home just how powerful long-form narratives can be—not exactly a revelation to either of us—when we watched the end of the third season, which as all should know, features one of the most shocking deaths in television history. We expected it to take them by surprise. We were not prepared for the fact that they were absolutely devastated. The Brawn was nearly inconsolable—"how could they do that?!" he said. "He was a main character!"—while the Weasel just went up to her room and laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling without speaking for half an hour.
So we recently began the fifth season, a two-parter that has the unit bugging out. Colonel Potter finds what he believes is a suitable new location—there's only one small problem, and that's the house of ill repute which is smack dab in the middle, packed to the gills with ladies of the night and a madam who runs the place.
"And that," I said to Top Management, as soon as it was over, "is how your two youngest became acquainted with the term and concept of a brothel."
She just looked at me for a moment, then nodded. "You're really doing a great job with this homeschooling thing," she said.
So I'm talking to Top Management about something, who knows what, but undoubtedly vitally important. What we were going to watch that night, perhaps, or the relative merits of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs v their regular Cups. Anyhow, it was something imperative like that, something utterly central to the health of our relationship, and when it was clear we were at an impasse, we recognized that our marriage was, apparently over. (Yet again—it tends to end every few days; fortunately, it hasn't been permanent so far.)
"Well," I said. "I guess that's that. It's been a good run."
"Has it?" Top Management replied. "Has it, though? I mean...it's been a run."
Idée fixe, (French: “fixed idea”) in music and literature, a recurring theme or character trait that serves as the structural foundation of a work. The term was later used in psychology to refer to an irrational obsession that so dominates an individual’s thoughts as to determine his or her actions. An outgrowth of Romanticism, the concept enjoyed its widest circulation during the 19th and the early 20th century.
I am the world's worst photographer. By every measure, I am simply terrible. Technically, I screw up the lighting, the composition, the focus, even with a self-focusing camera. I can't adjust the color later in a way that's aesthetically pleasing, and my cropping is haphazard at best.
And yet there's one subject I'm drawn to again and again and which somehow gives me decent results, despite my complete ineptitude in all other areas.
So I'm making coffee and feeling unusually chipper. Not just for the time of day—I am not and never have been a morning person—but in general. Even Top Management seems to notice, when she takes a breath between choruses of "Good Morning," her frequent song of choice in the A.M. (She is, in fact, a morning person, to the surprise of no one.)
And then I realize: that $75,000 check I'd just received? Yeah, that wasn't real. It was simply from a dream I had just before waking up.
I feel like this true story sums up the yin-yang of our dynamic fairly succinctly.
Me: I think I'm going to hang a TODAY IS GOING TO BE AWESOME sign where it's the first thing we'll see every day @petersonscott: Funny you should say that. I set a daily Slack reminder that says REMEMBER YOU'RE GOING TO DIE
So I'm drinking my first morning cuppa, chatting with the Bean and the Golden Weasel, the morning playlist brightening up another rainy winter day here in the Pacific Northwest.
"For Once in My Life," by the impossibly great Stevie Wonder comes on, and I realize that whenever someone asks me what my favorite song is—something that, I recently realized, doesn't happen nearly as often once you're out of school—this masterpiece never occurs to me, and yet when it's playing, it just may be my all-time fave.
(I mean. Right?)
A few minutes later, I mention this revelation to Top Management. She gets a look on her face. I mean, she's always got a look on her face, but this one...this one's different.
"What?" I ask. "I've told you that before? I've told you that before, probably, haven't I?"
She starts laughing. "Since 1989," she says slowly, "That's the song I've been planning to play at your memorial."
It's a slightly unusual day. The Boy is home on a weekday, on account of a school holiday, which alters the day's rhythm for his two younger siblings, as well as his parents. I was up until after 3 a.m., finishing up a script, and since I didn't need to get up before dawn to make The Boy's lunch, I slept in. A bit after 9:30 I pinged Top Management, who's been up for hours, to let her know I was awake.
She comes in and flops down next to me. "Ah, bed," she sighs. "Bed is so good. My back likes bed."
She looks at her phone. "All right. I have so much I have to get done today. I'm going to be so productive. Let's see: it's 9:45. I'm going to play Minecraft until 10."
There's a pause. Then she adds, through gritted teeth, "Thirty."
So we've had a pair of sci-fi projects going on recently. Over the past month or two, I've been showing the youngest three selected episodes of Star Trek: The Original Series. We're closing in on the end of the second season now, and we'll probably watch at least films 2-4, and maybe the fifth, which I've never seen, but my imaginary friend Chris says is quite good. Or maybe that was the sixth. I'll probably stick with 2-4. After that, we'll move on to The Next Generation, which I've never really watched, but the oldest three and I watched the first two episodes last year and they were quite good, so we'll probably all delve into that.
But we've also been making our way through Star Wars, in preparation for the new and theoretically final film, which has been out for a few weeks. So I showed them the first one, Episode IV: A New Hope, for at least The Golden Weasel's fourth time (and maybe more) and at least The Brawn's third (and maybe more—I've shown each kid the first film at least two or three times before moving on to The Empire Strikes Back, to ensure the big reveal really hits the way it should). We then watched Episodes V and VI, before moving back and starting the prequels (which the older three and I discovered are both not nearly as bad as their reputation/I remembered, and yet even worse in some ways). After we watch Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, The Brawn seems to believe we'll be done, apparently not knowing of the existence of the "new" concluding trilogy? And clearly not anticipating that I'll then be taking him to see his first (and last?) Star Wars film in the theater.
(And, yes, at some point we'll watch the spinoffs and animated serieses and such.)
The other night, our viewing didn't start until a bit on the late side, so we went with an episode of Star Trek, rather than a Star Wars film. Which led The Brawn to ask the question which has plagued the entire speculative fiction community for decades now: which is better, Star Trek or Star Wars?
He weighed in with his own opinion, immediately, unbidden: Star Wars for him. Which he didn't even need to explain. He clearly at least likes and maybe loves Star Trek—I was very gratified how immediately he took to it, since live-action isn't really his jam, normally, and for the first episode he didn't really react; I later realized it's because he was so gripped that he actually shut up for once. (I may have strong feelings about the way my otherwise absolutely perfect spawn chatter while watching stuff.) But Star Wars has far more action, far more and much longer fight scenes, and although he doesn't seem to have really noticed how understandably primitive the Star Trek special effects are, obviously Star Wars has that in a walk.
The Golden Weasel, on the other hand, said quite firmly that Star Trek was the clear winner. This part did surprise me a bit. But I was more than surprised, I was blown away, when she explained her reasoning. "Star Wars doesn't have Spock," she said. Which...a fair pony, and an inarguable one at that.
"Besides," she added, "Star Trek isn't all about how you have to bury your emotions."
I was staggered. She'd never said anything like that previously. What's more, that was something which had really only occurred to me a few nights before, watching my fifth Star Wars film of the week, most for at least the fourth time, and some for at least the 15th. Because even though I've made my living creating and analyzing stories for decades, when it comes to Star Wars, I simply can't be objective; part of me is always and forever that 8-year-old boy sitting in the theatre, not knowing a thing about the movie that's about to start, and having his mind utterly blown by the first spaceship passing overhead onscreen, the biggest damn thing I'd ever seen in my entire life, so big I was hardly able to comprehend it...a ship which is then followed by the far, far, far larger Imperial Star Destroyer. My tiny little brains leaked out my ears at that point and for the next two hours I was barely able to follow what was going on even as I was beyond enthralled and captivated.
So. After I recovered from my shock over just how astute and incisive her analysis was, I realized she must have heard one of the three oldest say something like that. Turns out, nope: they were just as blown away by her take on the matter as I.
So now it all came down to The Boy. He was the tiebreaker. Which would it be for him, Star Trek or Star Wars?
"Star Trek," he said. "Because it's less than an hour, and Star Wars is more than two."
And there 'tis. At long last, we have discovered the one true objective way of deciding which franchise is better: which one is more convenient. SETTLED.
(I see we're all too late and it's already been definitively decided)
(Also, we're about to start watching Star Trek: The Next Generation, which none of us have ever really seen before. But before that? We're going to watch the Star Trekfilms. Which, of course, are roughly two hours long each. How will that affect the entire equation?!)
File this one under: an old story I'd never heard before.
Some years back, Top Management and a young Rose were washing dishes together. This is because for at least a few years, our dishwasher was broken, so the two of them would wash the breakfast and lunch dishes (and then, if I remember correctly, I'd wash the dinner dishes). On the particular night in question, apparently Top Management filled a cup all the way up with soapy water and, deep in conversation and without thinking about it, plunged her hand, holding a sponge, into said cup in order to scrub it. Naturally, soapy water squirted out everywhere.
Conversation stopped.
The Rose stared at Top Management.
Top Management stared at the water which had gone everywhere.
Then she looked at the Rose and said, "and that's called displacement."
Even when the glass is almost entirely empty, it's half-full with her.
So Top Management is telling me this story about a guy who bought a spite cow. That's right: a spite cow. Which, in addition to being the name of my new Donny and Marie cover band, is a great tale of why it's rarely a good idea to get really petty with your next-door neighbor. That it would almost never turn out well for the initial instigator, and almost certainly worse.
"I would be so good at that," Top Management says softly.
A pause, and then she repeats. "I would be so good at that."
A longer pause, and then a whispered, "I would."
I suspect up and down our block, our (very nice!) neighbors felt a chill run up their spines.
so naturally I text the Bean and request that, if possible, the necessary fruit be brought home for our good luck in the coming decade.
An hour later, I receive the following text in return:
I Have Acquired the Lemon
and any issues I might ever have had with her entire generation's dependence upon screens vanish when weighed against the majesty of that one sentence.
May your new year be filled with equally noble and loving gestures.
So it's early on Christmas morn. And while the "early" part might go without saying, given the "Christmas morn" part, the youngest is now old enough—10.9 years old, in fact—that he's able to wait until 7am to rush downstairs and start the brouhaha. He's not happy about waiting that long, but he can.
(Actually, the biggest change this year is that Max has to get up by 6:30am for her job, which means it's exponentially easier to wake her up at such an inhumane time, whereas in previous years, sandblasting was required. The Rose, meanwhile—also far from an earlier riser by nature—nobly claims she's willing to get up early on this one day for her baby brother because she's so selfless. It's true that she's quite the excellent big sister...but I vividly remember many years past when she was the one waking up her younger siblings on Christmas and suspect there's still more than a little of that lurking in her makeup. To which I can only silent cheer, and with far less of my sarcasm than at almost any other time.)
Anyhoo. After the first round of presents have been torn into, Top Management issues her standard instructions about the wrapping paper.
(Sidenote: by the end of my teenage years, what had occasionally been an amusing Christmas sideline—how neatly my dad could unwrap presents—had become A Thing, so that the opening of presents began to take hours, as people would ever so gently lift of each piece of tape, and try to keep the wrapping paper as pristine as possible, to the point where some pieces of paper were used, I exaggerate not, a half dozen years in a row. We may have had issues, now that I think back on it.)
But back to Portland 2019. Top Management's orders are, as usual, that wrapping paper which isn't to be saved—and in our case, that depends upon the state of the paper post-opening and/or how pretty/special it is—is to be balled up and tossed into the corner by the front door, where it'll be out of the way, and actual gifts are less likely to be lost amidst the clutter and accidentally thrown away with the discarded wrapping paper. She advises them that it should be done in a satisfactory manner and that uncrumpled paper shouldn't just be thrown in the general vicinity of the door, where it might simply end up cover the sofa. It's vaguely possible there's a distinct reason she has to issue this proclamation.
Naturally, this turns into a secondary but still important part of the event. The paper is wadded up and tossed over the back of the couch and, generally, towards the door. Except that I'm located in the very general area, so certain members of the family find it more enjoyable to try to hit dad. I do not find this entirely objectionable. I do, however, take the opportunity rate their efforts: "Nice throw!" "Ooh, perfect!" "Not even close." "Seriously?" Like that. [I am the nurturing parent.]
Top Management opens a gift from her husband, a present which is staggeringly thoughtful and remarkably imaginative (I have no idea what it was, but I'm sure those descriptions are accurate). She wads up the wrapping paper in a shockingly haphazard manner and sorta kinda lets it fall in what could perhaps, if one squinted, be thought of as the roughest of efforts at going in a Wrapping Paper Corner direction.
I look at her, stunned.
"That was not an adequate shot."
She picks up her mug, sips her hot cocoa, and gazing at me through the steam, says evenly, "It doesn’t have to be. It’s me."
I was informed that our new family motto is "no more." Apparently, this is important from a cartoon the youngest five recently watched.
Ignoring the fact that we perhaps would have been considerably better served had we adopted this slogan somewhere between 11 and 23 years earlier, I quickly grabbed an image that will be the basis of our new family crest.
It's a lazy Sunday morning. I'm out in the dining room, drinking coffee, while the Golden Weasel and the Brawn eat breakfast, and the Boy makes sure everything is just so: plants waters, silverware put away, the absolute necessities of proper living.
I pour another cup of coffee and am about to head downstairs when I make a brief stop in what the kids refer to as "Mom's Bedroom" — yes, for the record, it's also where I sleep, but that's just a detail. They know what's what.
Naturally, the Brawn shadows me, because at age almost 11, he still hasn't come close to growing out of his mother worship yet. (For that matter, neither have any of his older siblings.) As we stand at the foot of the bed, Top Management looks up from her reading, an eyebrow raised in a way that's simultaneously imperious and fetching, with just a soupçon of amusement.
"Only one of us can be in here," I say, glancing down at the enormous head of tousled yellow hair next to me. "Which one of us do you choose?"
Top Management and the Brawn both laugh.
She then smiles and snuggles down into the covers just a tiny bit more. "Me," she says.
The Brawn is holding a device up to the wall. It beeps rapidly when placed in certain spots.
"Hey," I say as I pass by. "You found me."
"What is that?" Max asks, trying hard not to sound annoyed as the objectively annoying sounds emanating from the device.
"Seriously," the Bean agrees, not trying quite so hard.
"A stud finder," the Brawn says.
As I head down to the basement, I turn to see Max realize what I'd said, and the look of horrified amusement as she begins to laugh silently, followed by the Bean saying, "oh my GOD." The sound of Top Management howling from her studio was just icing on the burger.
So Top Management found out a few of her favorite creators are in town for a thing. Naturally, she got in touch to see if they wanted to recreate a mini-version of their annual SDCC tradition of Kid Lit Drinks Night and naturally they did. Since I'm friendly with two of the people, and a few of the others are comic book peeps, she very kindly asked if I'd like to join them, knowing I would, in fact, not. Still, she made the effort, and it's appreciated.
We discussed whether she'd take a Lyft home or if I'd come pick her up, and decided it was open-ended; we'd see where the night went. "Maybe," she suggested, "you could come in and hang out for just a bit if you come pick me up?" I laughed and said, sure, maybe. We'd see.
So it's Saturday night. Which for the past several years has meant the boys go to bed at more or less the regular time, the Golden Weasel sneaks into Top Management's studio for art night — which often means them trying out some new painting technique together...but has occasionally also meant they cuddle up and watch knitting videos or something equally horrific — and whichever of the oldest three are home and I watch...something. Sometimes it's a film (or the first half of one) and sometimes it's the installment of a television show: Arrow or E.R. or something like that. In years past it's been The West Wing or Firefly or The Wire. (No, not really The Wire.) One of our defaults is Law & Order, because it's vital for a young citizen to learn that in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate but equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders, and these are their stories. [dun dun]
We watch the opening and, as usual, discuss how cold and jaded Lenny's bot mot is, until the theme song starts playing.
As usual, The Rose begins to shimmy to Mike Post's theme. But, unusually, earlier in the day, she'd gotten a flu shot, so she's not laying down on the couch. She's sitting up. Which somehow inhibits her dancing style.
"I can’t sit down so my wiggles are different," she says.
I look at her.
"Wiggles are very dependent upon positioning," she explains.
"If you were ten years younger, that would be a Thicklebit," I point out.
As anyone who's glanced at Top Management's Instagram account knows, one of her favorite things to do is to take excellent photos of gorgeous flora.
One of my favorite things to do is to take terrible photos of gorgeous Top Management...especially when she's taking excellent photos of gorgeous flora.
So I'm putting stuff in the recycling. "I know," Top Management grumbles, as I pick up a Coke can. "I just wanted one, okay? I hadn't had one in a while."
She gets a look on her face, as we both think more or less the same thing.
"I mean, except for the one I had yesterday."
I bury my face in her neck, overcome with adoration. "What are the odds?" I murmur.
She doesn't have to ask "of what," because we both know I mean what are the odds that her first college would be sold to the Japanese and that we would meet half a continent away shortly after our 20th birthdays in a play in which she was amazing and I mostly knew my lines and what are the odds we'd still be together 30 years later and more in love than ever?
"Slim," she replies matter-of-factly, then recalculates using her characteristic method of estimating something, anything. "Seven or eight miles, maybe."
"Hey, Dad—what are we supposed to do with Cicero?"
"...Cicero?"
"Oh, we were cleaning the kitchen and that's what we named the chicken bones left on the counter. Bean wanted to name them Bartholomew and I thought they should be called Caesar so we compromised."
So Top Management and I have a standing date on Tuesdays to grab a quick and cheap lunch at the little taco shop two blocks away. "Have a nice time!" the Rose calls as we're walking down the front steps.
"You're not the boss of me!" I snarl, which doesn't make my good lady wife laugh, as I'd foolishly hoped, but does make her smile, which is more than it deserves.
"Actually, I am—I got put in charge last week," the Rose replies, which does make Top Management laugh, and justifiably so.
"I need a raise, then," I say. "I don't get paid nearly enough."
We have a delightful lunch and upon returning back home 20 minutes later, I see this:
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