So we're done watching our nightly television show and are just reading quietly. There's been silence for maybe a minute and a half when suddenly Top Management says, “What?!”
I laugh. "Sweetheart, no one said anything."
Without moving, she says, “The Rose said, ‘I’ll start with the good news: bed bugs’ — bed bugs is not good news." There's a very brief pause before she adds, "Dreams are weird. One part of your brain is telling another part of your brain stories and neither part knows about the other or that it's just a story and not real."
A few days ago, as I got up from the table to go downstairs to my office, I made a sound that slightly alarmed The Brawn. Top Management explained that the sound in question was one grownups make when they have to go to a meeting to which they didn’t wish to go. We said we could pretty much guarantee he’d make the same sound himself someday. He was, understandably skeptical, and suggested we check in with him in 10 or 20 years.
So I just sent email reminders to myself to do just that.
So. If gmail’s still a thing in 5, 10, 15 and 20 years, I’m going to get an email from myself with the subject “Brawn reminder” which simply says
Ask him “did you make the noise grownups make when they have to go to a meeting yet?”
It was really, really trippy to schedule an email for October 25, 2027. But not nearly as trippy as scheduling one for October 25, 2042.
And, of course, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll even be around for all--or even any--of them. Will whoever inherited my email account be surprised to get an email from long-gone me? Will the AI which has long been in command of the earth metaphorically nod, now able to check this one thing off its list?
So a few months back, Top Management suggested that we try seriously revamping the way our day is structured for the first time in decades. I had mentioned several times over the years that I seem to work best late at night. She pointed out that now that our kids are all old enough that none of them—not even The Brawn—gets up at the crack of dawn anymore. And even if he does get up hours before any of the others, now being a (GOOD LORD) 12-year-old, he can obviously take of himself just fine.
So I tried it. After watching an hour or so of television together, she heads off to bed and I head down to my office in the basement to work.
And work I do. I guess I had thought I might be a bit more productive, but a bad night's work now is generally more productive than a really good day's work used to be, and there have been nights where I've gotten three or four times as much work done in one late-night shift as I used to accomplish in three or four decent days. It's a bit crazy.
It was only after we'd been on this new schedule for a few weeks that it occurred to me that virtually every paper or story I wrote in high school or college, I wrote late at night. I always chalked it up to procrastination, and I'm sure there was plenty of that mixed in there too. But mainly I think it's that the writing part of my brain only really truly comes alive after midnight.
So it's been great. There are downsides, obviously, including the fact that I think I'm always at least a bit sleep-deprived, but since the primary symptoms of that are fatigue, irritability, mood changes and difficulty focusing and remembering, who can tell the difference?
At least I thought that was the main downside. Until tonight. When I discovered that the real problem with working crazy productively at 2:47 in the AM is that you might suddenly get an insanely itchy itch right in the middle of the back where you can't reach it and despite there being 7 other people in the house there's no one to scratch it for you.
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.)
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?
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.
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
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.
Top Management is cutting a lemon; she has found that if she adds a slice of lemon to her water cup in the morning, she will drink twice as much water that day, or sometimes even more. Because she is talking to me as she does this, and is notorious for her multitasking abilities, she has placed her phone on the perhaps not entirely dry counter. What's more, the phone is located exactly halfway and on a direct line between the lemon being cut and the quite large and quite full cup of water into which she's about to be depositing the slice.
I grab her phone and move it to a different part of the counter. Although I am my usual oh so unobtrusive and subtle self, she stops cutting and talking to look at me quizzically.
"Your phone was right between three different sources of liquid," I explained. "I didn't want it to get wet."
Top Management looks every so slightly offended. Or at least, she starts to look that way. But before the expression can entirely form, The Golden Weasel, keeping true to her name, yells from the studio, "Mom, seriously? Again?!"
I assume The Weasel is just making a very and perfectly timed joke...until I see the look of guilt on Top Management's face.
"It's not what you...I was watering the plants and...we're really going to have a talk about throwing family members under the bus."
So the Golden Weasel and the Brawn are in the patio, where they've discovered an entire bin of old junk. (Needless to say, their mother, who has tossed all this stuff in the bin, is sequestered away, working diligently.)
"Oh!" the Golden Weasel shouts, having obviously just unearthed some priceless treasure.
She scampers up to the living room and shows me the rare gem: a Baby Einstein giveaway. It's like a birthday card of sorts—which, I guess, it is, having undoubtedly been given to each new mother whilst in the hospital—printed on really heavy cardstock.
"And look!" the Weasel says happily, opening the card for what seems to be the first time ever. "The CD is still inside!"
"Well," I say, "that would certainly explain all of you."
The Brawn is feeling philosophical as he gets ready for bed.
"People always say to expect the unexpected. But that doesn't make any sense. It's impossible. That's the point. It's like jumping to the moon without clothes."
There's a short pause.
"Well, without shoes."
There's a longer pause as he tries to work through this metaphor.
"Rocket shoes. It's like jumping to the moon without rocket shoes."
So we're watching Fantasia 2000. As the credits roll, bits and bobs from the now-finished film flash alongside the numerous names of the animators. Their utterly delightful take on Camille Saint-Saëns's Carnival of the Animals, starring a host of wacky—well, one wacky, and six rather severe—pink flamingos flashes across the screen.
“Oh!" The Brawn says. "Swans! I love the swans one!”
“Flamingos," corrects the Golden Weasel.
“What?”
“Flamingos. Those were flamingos.”
“Right. That’s what I meant," he says. There's a pause, then he says again, softly, "I love the swans one.”
"You know, Dad," The Brawn begins and I can already tell this is going to be good. "Anyone can fly."
"Really?" I ask, assuming I'm going to learn about how old you have to be—or, rather young you can be—in order to get a pilot's license.
But no. As usual, I'm not even close. "Oh, sure. Anyone can fly. I mean, anyone can jump" — and I do not argue this very arguable argument by pointing to his big brother — "and, really, jumping is flying. It's just a very, very short flight."
The Brawn comes in. "Just need monkeys and stuff," he says, heading straight for a pair of monkeys his insane Uncle Jay sent a few years back.
"Oh! My dinosaur stuff!" he adds, upon sighting said reptilus extinctus.
"Aaaaaand...a pillow," he adds, grabbing one that's twice the size of him and managing to balance his loot, if somewhat precariously.
I can't help but be discomfited by how similar our approaches to shopping are. Especially when he says, as he departs, "Okay. I'm going to Mom's room."
So I'm making coffee as the two youngest are eating breakfast. They're watching a cartoon, but I'm not awake enough—note the "making coffee," not "drinking coffee" bit—to know what, and the television is mercifully out of my line of sight.
The Brawn says, matter-of-factly, "When you get older your grip looses." He takes another bite. "You can't hold on like when you were young."
The Golden Weasel chews thoughtfully. "Yeah," she agrees.
Top Management and I have a friend who once told us that it never gets easier, that you don't actually worry less as they get older, the worries just change, shift, transmogrify and, if anything, they get worse, since they're no longer just a matter of putting some bacitracin and bandaids on the boo-boos.
Which brings us to tonight. I'm getting some IMs from Max about, of all things, who would win, Piano Man or Rocket Man, and arguments are being put forth for the pros and cons of each side. And she causally adds:
(I'm half paying attention to making sure the fire alarm doesn't start to go off—someone spilled food on the burners and it's smoking a little)
opIOYUP that just caught fire for a second but it's okay fire's out and the window is open
we're all good
didn't mean to panic you, sorry, it's all good, I promise everything is fine
it was only on fire for a split second
I mean...look. I don't think of myself as one of them helicopter parents or nothing but what in the hell, Max. You know, it's not like "opIOYUP" is too concerning or anything. Oh, it only caught fire for a split second? A length of time that only actually exists in superhero comics? I'm so relieved.
The Brawn startles as I walk by. I look at him quizzically.
The Rose explains that he'd just been telling her he heard a ghost when I suddenly appeared, hence the jumpiness.
"I was standing in the hallway," he says breathlessly, "when I heard a creaking in the living room but when I looked, there was nobody there. It was a ghost."
Despite the supernatural being the only logical explanation, I start to explain about houses settling and how today was unusually windy and then I look at his big eyes and earnest eyebrows a little more closely and I say, "do you want me to explain what it really was? Or do you want to keep on thinking it was a ghost?"
He stares at me for a moment. Then, with a tiny smile, he says, "I want to keep on thinking it's a ghost."
"Did you know the low for today was 54?" the Rose asks in delighted disbelief. Given that it was in the high 90s just a few weeks ago and she blooms when it's cold and overcast and if it's rainy? oh my. This is her way of making it clear it was a good day.
The Golden Weasel looks perplexed. "What a loafer?" she asks. Clearly she didn't know me back in college.
The 16-year-old, attempting to prove to the Golden Weasel that as her older sister she does, in fact, know all there is to know, confidently states the prime interest rate at the close of business (on a Sunday): "C2."
The final exchange rate for the yen against the euro at market close? "Cumulus."
The Golden Weasel looks suitably impressed. The Rose looks at me to see if I'm as proud of her as she deems I should be.
I'm not. I'm twice as proud. Or, as she might put it, "Schrödinger equation."
"Buttons can't talk," says the six-year-old with affectionate exasperation.
I look up at the television. Apparently there's either a talking button I missed, or someone is under the mistaken impression that buttons can converse? Something like that and, either way, it's obviously absurd.
Never mind that on screen at that exact moment, a cow and a chicken are learning to square dance. That's just fine. But talking buttons? A bridge too far.
Our freezer's malfunctioning a bit again. It won't stop making ice cubes, even though the bin into which the cubes fall is completely full, so when you open the freezer door, dozens of excess cubes spill out if you're carefully monitoring the inventory. It keeps doing this even though I've actually turned the setting to off. Some things just don't take "no" for an answer.
So I open the door this morning and see that it's now malfunctioning in another, at least more aesthetically pleasing, way. I reach up and snap off the result of the malfunction and hand it to the six-year-old, who happens to be standing right next to me, thinking he might like it.
The Brawn looks at the thing in his hand, puzzled. Then he picks it up and turns it this way and that, delighted by its shape and texture.
"Look!" he yells. "It's like a straight cold candy cane made out of water!"
Yes, buddy, it is. To those of us who didn't grow up in SoCal, we call such bizarre, foreign marvels "icicles."
The door to the boys' bedroom is closed, which is unusual for late evening. I knock gently.
"Come in," politely calls a distinctly unhappy voice.
I poke my head in, and see The Brawn lying sideways on his bed, an arm sticking up straight in the air, an extremely disgruntled expression on his dirty face.
"What's wrong, buddy?" I ask. "Everything okay?"
He sits up and frowns. He grumbles something I don't quite catch.
"You can't what?"
"I can't snap."
"Oh," I say, relieved that for only the third time in my fathering career, here's something I can maybe help with.
I have him show me his technique, and I correct it. Soon he's...well, not snapping, since there's no sound accompanying his movements, but his form is very nearly correct. All that's now required is some patience and some practice, two things for which six year old boys are widely renowned.
Then I have an idea. You can find out how to do anything online. I google "how to snap" and bingo. The ftop hit lays out the exact steps—all of which merely confirmed I'd advised him correctly—and the fourth or fifth hit is a video that looks like just the thing.
We click through. The Brawn mimics the motions, looking down at himself to make sure he's doing it right. So he misses when the video really takes off.
He looks up for the final few seconds. "Wait," he says. "What was that?"
I play it again. He watches silently. When it's over he just keeps staring at the screen, then turns towards me. He doesn't say anything.
"It was a joke," I explain.
"Oh," he says. He thinks. "Can we watch it again?"
We do. This time he smiles. When it's over, he laughs. Then again, harder.
The Golden Weasel puts a tinkertoy creation down on my desk.
"This is The Wheel of Doom™," she says. "It—wait."
She pauses, then holds her hands out, palms facing forward. "It's The Wheel of Doom™," she says again, only this time her voice goes down as low as it can (which isn't far) on the final word, adding a certain heft, a certain sense of, well, catastrophic annihilation. "You have to say it the right way. When you just say 'The Wheel of' it sounds like it could be something pretty or fun. But then when you say the last word—Doom (and this time she makes her voice quaver in a ghostly manner)—then people know right away what it's really like."
I consider the sculpture, its neon colors and friendly shapes, and wonder how on earth anyone could ever consider it pretty or fun, anything, really, but an object of abject terror.
"Okay. So it's got lasers here and here, and here and here, and these ones spin around but these lasers spin around and go up and down, so it can pretty much kill anything anywhere right away."
She unleashes an incandescent smile, spins and dashes away. Two seconds later, she's back.
The 5-year-old comes in from playing with the little boy next door.
"Do you know what happens when you leave a fish too long in the oven?" he asks.
It never even occurs to me that this might be the set up for a joke; his delivery far too sincere, he's clearly about to convey how cool it was when the kid's father ruined dinner just now or something along those lines.
And, indeed, the boy makes a squiggly gesture with his hand, as though illustrating how the poor fish was burnt to a thin, twisty crisp.
"It turns into bread," he says, awestruck.
Now, admittedly, my understanding of chemistry is only slightly less lacking than my knowledge of physics, but even so, I have to break it to him. "Yeah, I'm pretty confident that's not correct."
As he goes off to wash his hands, it occurs to me that the manner in which some sort of bizarre transubstantiation meets alchemy was just explained to him was more or less the same way I learned about sex. Which might be related, in some way, to the fact that I have six children.
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