it’s tuesday night and


It’s Tuesday night and my toenails are too long. Not all of them, just a few here and there. How that happens I have no idea, I always cut them all at the same time. Must be that some are just rogue growers, outpacing the other toes. The crooked one, in particular, seems to have an agenda.

It’s Tuesday night and there’s a tied-off bag of dirty diapers sitting on the ground next to the trash in the garage. It’s there because the diaper-eating machine we have in Keaton’s room got full, and Sharaun put it there for me to take the final few steps to the “outside” trash. That’s my job, see; taking things to the “outside” trash. If Sharaun says she “emptied” the trash, what she means is she tied off the bag and moved it somewhere other than in the garbage can from whence it came. This is “emptying the trash.” It is then my responsibility to take this bag, be it on the floor in the garage or slumped out of the way next to the sliding glass door in the kitchen, to it’s final resting place in the “outside” trash. It’s a tiered approach, see.

It’s Tuesday night and so far I’ve listened to four albums all the way through: Of Montreal’s Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?; Andrew Bird’s Armchair Apocrypha; Aqueduct’s Or Give Me Death, and Patrick Wolf’s The Magic Position. They are all quite good, and I listened to them because I feel like they’ve suffered a bit for my Arcade Fire tunnel-vision. In particular, the Of Montreal album is a standout. Seriously, listen to this track and tell me what you hear. Beatles? O&O-era Zombies? Beach Boys? Great stuff, right? When I was bangin’ this joint in the car today, turned up to eleven, the weather was so gorgeous and not a thing in the world seemed amiss.

It’s Tuesday night and I stopped at the store on the way home to buy vanilla extract. I was, or am, I can’t quite decide, going to make cookies. A family recipe of Sharaun’s, her mom’s dad’s favorite. They are somewhat difficult to make though, and my mind wanders to easier tasks like peanut butter or sugar cookies. I don’t think we have any chocolate chips, or maybe I’d make those. Anyway, I bought a big thing of vanilla extract at the store, it was the store-branded generic kind, the kind with names like “Sunny Select” or “Sam’s Choice.” It was $5.99, cheaper than the size smaller of the “name brand.” I came home a triumphantly showed my purchase to Sharaun. I was shown the bottle she bough (larger by one ounce) for $0.98 that day at the local sprawling el-cheapo store. Fine, back tomorrow with the receipt then. Cookies aren’t getting baked by typing anyway.

It’s Tuesday night and I’m in a wonderful mood. Things seem great, and my cares seem small compared to the many things I enjoy. My job, while difficult, is becoming easier by the week as I find more confidence in what I do. Difficult things turn into easier things, and impossible things into only difficult. I feel respected and even somewhat revered, unjustly so, to be sure, yet I feel it. And it’s not just my job: I’m happier than ever with the little family Sharaun and I are working on. Our daughter is the most precious thing in the world to me, providing me with an endless source of fascination and pride. I like our house, the town we live in, and the direction in which we’re headed. I couldn’t ask to run with a better clique, our friends are our extended family. Things are good, and looking up.

It’s Tuesday night and there’s still a pile of dead ants on the guest bathroom floor (I killed them with the death-spray, you can get it at the supermarket). I thought about vacuuming them up, Sharaun vacuumed today and left the vacuum right there in the hallway. Right in the middle of the hall, cord stretching off into the other room, looping and bending around corners. It’s right there outside the bathroom door. It’s her style. Cleaning up but leaving all the implements of cleaning out, thus making a mess out of cleaning. It’s her ironic twist on tidying, like the joke about a towel getting “wetter as it dries.” She tortures me with it, because I’m expected to notice, and give praise, for the cleaning that has taken place. All I see is the dustpan, and the vacuum, and the 409 and the sponge and the upholstery spot-cleaner, splayed around the room in disarray. “Yes honey, it looks clean and tidy, neat as a pin right under all this mess. Yes indeed.”

It’s Tuesday night and I missed registrations for the Spring semester philosophy classes at the local community college by one week. I marked my calendar for the wrong week, the deadline’s passed. I’m bummed, but figure it’s OK. I’ll just mark the calendar for summer term, no big loss.

It’s Tuesday night and my on-again/off-again beard is on-again. I admire it in the rearview mirror everyday on the way to work. I want to grow it long and bushy and wear it fashionably unkempt like a fake hippie. I like the way it makes me look, like to twist it up into little hair tornadoes while I sit and think, like the fact that it’s something different on my face after so much same on my face. I think this time might really be “the” time. The time when I grow it for good and learn to live with it. We’ll see.

Goodnight lovers.


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