i just didn’t know

Contact low.Friday! Here’s hoping we get on our standby flights tomorrow and get to lil’ brother’s wedding reception on-time. Root for us, K? Thanks.

Blog; let’s go.

It was my turn to put Keaton to bed the other night, the first time in a while since I’ve been out of town. The bedtime ritual involves 1) the brushing of teeth, 2) the using of the potty one last time, 3) the washing of hands and face, and 4) the removal of our daytime clothes (remembering to put them in the hamper) and the donning of pajamas. Past that it’s time to lay down in bed, say a prayer, maybe sing a song or talk for minute about the day, and then it’s kiss-and-a-hug and off to sleep.

We began in the bathroom. Keaton brushed her teeth well, and then sat down to use the potty. Afterward she climbed back up on her stool and put some soap on her hands. Turning on the water, she wet her hands and began rubbing them together, soaping them to a froth. Smiling, she looked up and me and began to sing, “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Tyler! No… no… wait…,” she started over, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Grammy…” I smiled back at her, thinking she was just remembering that we had called Grammy earlier that evening to actually sing to her for her birthday, and she continued with her song.

As she got past the “… dear Grammy” part I began telling her, “OK Keaton, go ahead and rinse now.” At my urging, she became noticeably frustrated, stopping her singing to stammer something like, “No! That’s not the way we do it!” Thinking this just another manifestation of her three year-old OCD, I again asked her to go ahead and rinse. By that time, however, she’d restarted her birthday song all over again. Now I was getting frustrated because she wasn’t listening to me, and I changed my tone a bit. “Keaton,” I said somewhat firmly, “I asked you to rinse please. You’ve been washing long enough.”

With tears in her eyes, and the most pained and frustrated look on her face she once again turned to me and squeaked something like, “That’s not how we do it!! I’m not finished!” Confusingly, she almost seemed torn or conflicted. Once again I figured she was just frustrated that I wasn’t letting here complete what I saw as just another bedtime-delaying tactic – a favorite thing of hers. Standing firm, I repeated myself, noting that I wouldn’t be repeating myself again. “Please rinse Keaton, I’m not going to ask you again and I want you to listen.”

Broken, and now fully in tears, she obliged me, quit singing and rinsed her hands. After drying them, she ran out into the living room where Sharaun was watching TV. “What’s wrong baby?,” asked Sharaun. And that’s when I found out what all the fuss was about. Her head buried in Sharaun’s lap, she said tearfully, “Daddy wouldn’t let me sing ‘happy birthday’ while I washed my hands.” “Oh,” said Sharaun, “He wouldn’t? Maybe daddy doesn’t know about the birthday song while we wash our hands.” I perked up.

“Oh, is that a thing, or something?,” I asked. Sharaun replied, “Yeah; we sing the ‘happy birthday’ song while we wash our hands to be sure we have enough time to get all the germs off.” Keaton looked up at me through puffy eyes and snuffled a satisfied sniff as if to say, “Duh dad.”

I don’t know why, but when I realized that I’d forced her to do the opposite of something Sharaun had schooled her to do, I felt pointedly terrible. Now I understood the conflicted look on her face and the frustrated tears. She wanted to listen to me, but she was doing what mommy taught her to do. How could she do right by the both of us? No wonder she was upset; I’d have been confused too. What’s worse, I’d been stern with her when she was only trying to do what she thought we want her to do. It’s a tiny thing, I know, but it made me feel terrible. No really, I almost wanted to cry for putting her between a rock and a hard place.

I knelt down and held her arms so she was in front of me and I could look at her. “I’m sorry Keaton,” I said. “Daddy didn’t know. I didn’t know you sing the ‘happy birthday’ song while you wash your hands to make sure all the germs are gone. That’s a really good idea, and I’m glad I learned about it. We’ll do it next time OK? I’m sorry I made you stop singing and rinse before you could finish. I won’t do it again. Will you forgive me?”

And with a big hug she said, “It’s OK daddy. You just didn’t know.”

Goodnight folks. Talk to you next week from sunny Florida.

Oh, and, I do believe it hit another week wall-t0-wall. Go!

my junk is 100%

Talk about the passion.Hello Wednesday. As you read this I’m already on a plane. But I wrote for you. Go.

Being that Keaton is now three-and-half going on four, I’ve found myself more and more lately fielding questions from relatives and friends alike about if or when Sharaun and I plan to “go for number two.” Most folks who we hang out with on a regular basis know the answer I typically give to that question, but, being that it will segue me into a fun blog, I figured I’d answer it here too.

What I usually say to these inquiring minds is some variant of, “As soon as my junk starts working again, we’ll make it happen!” I then laugh, because, whatever the message, delivering it with a bit of humor seems to take the edge off. And, if you’re a read-between-the-lines kind of person, you’d probably come to the conclusion that maybe my joke hides some hidden meaning. Is there something wrong with my “junk?,” are Sharaun and I really actively trying to “make it happen?”

The answer, for the blog’s sake, to each of those in turn goes like this: “No,” and “yes.”

But it’s the story behind those two single-word answers that’s the material for today’s blog. So, let me start at the beginning, which entails addressing the “yes” answer first…

When we were blessed so richly with the arrival of our #1 favorite child, Keaton, I think Sharaun and I both had it in our mind that we’d someday like to give her a sibling. We still very much feel like that today. Originally, we imagined a two-to-three year space in between progeny – something we’d idealized from the gaps between us and our own siblings, no doubt.

But, both she and I are pretty much realists, and we’d long known that just because two-to-three years “seemed right” didn’t mean things would work out that way. We did, however, want to try to hit our schedule. So, going on a year-and-a-half ago now, we began “trying” for number-two in earnest. Yes, this means timed and tested trying. Nearly a year-and-a-half of these tries now (which, admittedly, only amounts to a measly eighteen actual chances) with no results.

And that brings me to the “no” answer. Being that we’ve been at it now for this long with nothing to show for it (well, other than a week’s worth of beaming, smiling confidence and bravado from an over-sexed me on a monthly basis, that is), we both started to wonder if maybe there weren’t some external factors at play in the whole thing. We agreed that, after a year of measured trying, we’d run the idea by some sort of medical professional and see what they’d recommend.

That eventuality came to pass a few months back, with Sharaun putting the question to her lady-doctor. This first-pass visit was largely non-revelatory in that it consisted of the woman-bits-PhD asking Sharaun questions and then, satisfied with her answers, recommending I get my junk checked. Far from a frustrating response though, as it now gave me some tangible checkpoint to look forward to. Finally, after my junk-checkup, we’d be able to rule out my junk as the party at-fault in the matter (not that either of us were vindictively assigning blame or anything).

In fact, let me take that last parenthetical clause as an opportunity to sneak in a bit of an aside thought here. The gist of it being that neither Sharaun nor I are anything near “heartbroken” that our last year-and-a-half of coitus has failed to “bring it.” Nor are either of us wrung tight in a fit of frustration about it. In fact, we both look at the situation through a similar kind of “when it’s supposed to happen it’ll happen” lens. Now, if we didn’t have Keaton already, maybe our attitudes would be different… and we’d be more aware of the proverbial ticking of that proverbial clock, but, in our current situation, we’re both just a bit… curious. That’s not to say that we don’t wish things would have happened already, but they simply haven’t.

The thing I wanted to know, not at all out of desperation, was if perhaps there was some “issue” behind the “delay.” I wondered to myself, more than once, “What if Keaton was our one-in-a-million chance?” Of course, my self would then immediately answer myself with something like, “Man, what an amazing one-in-a-million we got. I couldn’t be happier.” But, part of me (and to a lesser extent, I think, Sharaun) was indeed curious as to if there maybe were some real, explainable “reasons” we hadn’t been “successful” yet (note to self: to cover the bases, insert apologetics about usage of the word “successful” here; themes should include – Keaton is a success, monthly sex is a success; etc.).

Anyway… the bottom line here, the point of this now two-paragraph aside, is that we were, and are, far from distraught about how things have played out thus far and are, honestly, supremely happy overall with our current lot in life.

So, where was I? Oh, yes… the junk-checkup.

I eagerly made an appointment at the fertility clinic. And, when the appointed day and time rolled around I made my way to the facility. Not being someone overly crippled by shyness, I walked in as if I were going to have a cavity filled. I guess maybe there is some amount of “stigma” about having to go to the wiener-doctor… I mean at its most base level it does mean a man is entertaining the thought that perhaps he’s not as virile as he should be. Maybe that he’s somehow “broken” as a man; non-functional. I thought about these things as I picked up on the tone of the office. The place was quiet, and the people waiting in the lobby were keeping to themselves, studying magazines or talking quietly to each other in pairs. The air of the place didn’t really shake me, but just made me cognizant that I was really there to get my junk checked… thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Still though, curiosity and desire to know topped out fear or apprehension in my gut more than 2:1.

A nice lady took my copay and then a woman in scrubs called me into the back. There, she silently escorted me to an open door leading to a small room. Here she said her only words to me the entire visit, “Once you go inside, close and lock the door. There is paperwork that explains what you need to do and you need to follow it exactly. Everything else you’ll need is in the room.” “Thanks,” I say, and proceed into my own private masturbatorium (trying not to think about how many other people had called it their own private masturbatorium that day, let alone all-time). I locked the door behind me and began to take stock.

The room was small, about the size of a typical bathroom. On the far wall was a small bench with pillows, long enough to lay down on. There was a sink with soap and paper towels to my right, and a small cabinet to my left. Sitting on the cabinet was a pen and clipboard with a stack of paperwork and an empty plastic specimen jar with a blank label on it. On the wall above the sink was a watercolor of a semi-clad woman, tasteful and remotely erotic if maybe someone thought long enough about it. On the wall above the cabinet, more of the same. On the back wall, above the bench bed, was a small wooden cabinet door, about the size of a medicine cabinet. Next to that was a light switch. On the floor behind the cabinet with the paperwork was a magazine rack stuffed full of well-worn magazines (more on that later).

I took a breath to bring myself around to the moment and sat down to read my instructions. They were, more or less, as follows: 1) Wash your hands and junk, 2) Put your specimen in the jar, 3) Close and label the jar, 4) Fill out this paperwork about your specimen, 5) Put the specimen and this paperwork in the cabinet in the wall and flip the switch to let us know it’s there, and 6) You’re done. “Right,” I thought, “Let’s do this then.”

I looked at the watercolors; nothing. I decided to check the magazines. Boy, what a collection. Something for everyone. One with fat chicks, one with black chicks, a couple tasteful ones, more than a couple really-not-tasteful ones. I thumbed through a couple of them, unsure, and managed a little forward progress. Unsatisfied, I just set about getting down to brass tacks and making it happen.

Time passes. Things happen.

I put my name and the time on my little jar and put it in the wall. Then I flipped the switch, washed my hands again, and headed out. There was even a special back door for specimen-givers to sneak out of, so we (presumably) didn’t have to do the “I just had a manual self-administered orgasm in a little room back there” walk of shame. Nice of them. With my job done, I called Sharaun on the way home and decided to try and parlay my personal conquest into a real one, “It was kinda lonely in there,” I began. “I don’t feel like going back to work, I’m gonna come home first.” Lo and behold, it worked… and, as I’d hoped, some real lovin’ helped offset the odd clinical lovin’ feeling. But I digress…

More than a week later Sharaun heard from her doctor: My junk is 100%, nothing wrong. Virtual high-fives to all the dudes rooting for me as they read along; my crank works.

We’re both a little relieved, I think… but honestly this is what I’d expected to hear. “You’re both fine, keep trying.” And, whatever… that’s actually fine by me. We will keep trying, and we’ll keep praying and hoping and whatever else. When it happens, it happens. Wish us luck.


spinning in love

One day maybe.Hi.

Before going to bed last night I told Sharaun I had today figured for a harrying one at the sawmill.  With last week shot to time in Oregon and the subsequent game of catch-up, and Monday’s Yosemite weekend extension absence, I knew I’d face an avalanche neglected and undone work.  I was right; but it was one of those good-feeling busy days, where you end up leaving feeling more productive than overwrought.

After work I made a brief stopover at a local watering hole to have an (informal) “after hours” business meeting with some of the other shirts.  Sometimes those suds-and-appetizer ad-hoc meetings are the best for real conversation… and the unstated rule of confidentiality that disclaims all bar-talk certainly helps.  Anyway, thirty minutes past five and I was home… unfortunately with a bellyful of bad-for-me pub food and not much interested in the healthier pasta dish Sharaun had prepared for me (I’m scheduled on the “Bad Husbands” episode of Springer next month).

Once at home, I found Keaton especially animated and talkative, and had the wherewithal to grab the camera and roll film as she started to tell me about her plans for “falling in love.”  So then, since I recorded it I figured I’d spend ten minutes editing it and slapping a title on it so I could properly share it with the internet.  Here, then, is Keaton talking about “falling in love”:

Interesting notions on love and marriage, Keaton.  Glad you could be here to share with the sounds familiar audience today.

And now, changing subjects: The Ford continues to lumber along while she awaits a merciful death at the hands of the Obama administration’s “Cash for Clunkers” plan.  A goverment-connected friend of mine keeps me informed on the progress of the various legislative efforts around this initiative which are snaking their way through Congress.  In a good sign, the House today passed their version of the bill.  A good sign, to be sure, but I’m still reserving all-out excitement for final language and voting.

Oh before I go, I heard a joke I liked today.  Q: How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb?  A: It’s a really obscure number; you’ve probably never heard of it.

And that, my friends, is the end of the blog for Tuesday.  Goodnight.

it’s good being here now

moonJust you and me and the white moon in the sky above tonight.

Just you and me and this hammock and the kinda-wet grass that’s got my feet damp and chilly in the breeze of our sway.  Everyone else gone home and our family sleeping; we still got this moon and this black sky and this clean-smelling air and each other.

It’s good being here now.

It’s better that we fit tight; makes it feel like my tongues are meant for your grooves and your tenons were made for my mortises.  This string binds up our arms and legs and hangs us under the stars and the moon like trussed game.  Even though your hair tickles my nose and my whiskers poke at your cheek, they’re good tickles and pokes.

So I’ll just breathe and stare and you’ll just stare and breathe and that’ll be enough.  The cricket and frog olde-tyme chorus will cheer us in our cocoon, and even the little invisible bugs alighting on our arms and legs won’t be uninvited.

Collaborating together on nothing, and busy letting the Earth spin despite our collective indifference, I’ll be here for a while if you’ll be here for a while; OK?

But really, have you ever looked at the shape of your own hips?  They have this kind of ideal bend to them, some perfect curve maybe based on that one magic ratio they taught me about in math class.  You know, the number you can find in pinecones and sunflowers and nautilus shells – also maybe in the arc of your hips.

I’ma trace that line with my finger and pretend I’m the Lord God with a sketchpad.

So let’s just swing here for a few more minutes; the stress of today is nearly erased from my mind and that’s nice.  It’s really good being here now.


sharaun can win anything

Winner winner.Tuesday and, after a hard-fought Monday at work spent trying to catch up from the two days missed last week, I plan to put in another blitz for 5pm (or 6pm… or 6:30pm… or 7pm).

I’ve mentioned before on the ol’ bloggy-blog-blog about my wife’s luck when it comes to radio call-in contests.  Over the years, she’s managed to win just about whatever she sets her mind on winning (and not just as a stay-at-home mom either, her streak extends well back to her pre-Keaton working days).

At various times she’s won an Xbox, an iPod, shopping sprees, and too many concert tickets to list.  I’ve also mentioned before her predilection (deviance?) for “teenie bopper” music.  Mmmm, yes… that’s right.  Despite her clear advancement into her thirties, she’s remained a staunch Top 40 listener, and holds in high regard some of the more “bubblegum” manufactured pop artists of the current week.  It’s OK, I’ve come to terms with this… sorta.

I’ll assume you’ve read the two linked blogs above, and just start with my homecoming from work today: It’s 6:45pm and I walk through the door.

“I don’t have much time,” Sharaun says, “I’m sorry.  You’re dinner is on the table and there’s a salad made for you in the fridge.”  Now, I’m pretty frazzled from a busy day, but I’m also as hungry as a post-hibernation bear and decide a waiting dinner is pretty nice for having just crossed the threshold.  I give her a quick kiss and “hello” and sit down to eat.

A few bites in, I turn to her, she’s now sitting at the computer.  “What are you doing, anyway?,” I ask around bites of homemade flatbread pizza (she can make it where it’s so low calorie I almost burn it off entirely just chewing and digesting). “I’m waiting to buy New Kids on the Block 5-star tickets,” she replies.  I sigh silently to myself.  No, I don’t “condone” the spending of hundreds of dollars on the New Kids on the Block, but then again, my “non-condoning” means little when I deliver it with a “but go ahead and do it if your conscience can stand it” smile.  Anyway, God knows what I’ve wasted hundreds of dollars on in the past…

But really, as an aside, these guys have to fade back into obscurity soon… I can’t continue to finance their reunion; it has to end.  I swear, the day they re-break-up I’ll celebrate our savings as fervently as Sharaun did they day they reunited.  Hurry up guys, the nostalgia can only last as long as us husbands feel charitable.

As she sits there, frantically putting in her credit card info after clicking what I can only assume was a button marked: Buy Insanely Overpriced Tickets Now!, she’s also got the radio on in the living room.  See, not only do the New Kids tickets go on sale at 7pm, the radio is giving away tickets to the Britney Spears show this weekend.  In fact, the radio has been giving away tickets to the Britney Spears show several times a day for the past couple days, and Sharaun’s been trying to win them now for about two days.

The contest goes like this: The radio plays itty-bitty snippets of Britney Spears songs all munged together, in some seamless mess of song pieces, and then gives away tickets to caller 107 provided they can name all the tunes correctly.  Earlier last week she asked me to show her how to record things on her iPhone, so she could capture the song snippets for later analysis.  Yes, I showed her.  Then, as the days wore on and she didn’t win, the radio amped up the contest by reversing some of the songs in the mangled mashup.  When this happened, Sharaun asked me if there was any “nerd” way to figure out what the backwards songs are. (Not sure why she came to me for the nerd-consult, actually.)

Since I have some experience with things-backward, I replied in the affirmative: “Sure, I can reverse the recording for you.”  And so she mailed me an AIFF file at work, I flipped the audio and mailed it back, and she set about decoding.  Around 3pm she IM’d me to exclaim she was 99% sure she’d figured out the tracks.  Understandably, I shared her elation and dropped all my important work-related business to jump up and down in my cube and shriek with her over the phone for a bit (this is sarcasm, for those wondering).  Sigh… I work in a cube while my wife deciphers Britney Spears songs to win radio contests…

Anyway, it’s 7pm and the radio says it’s time to win Britney tickets.  I hear the quick garble of drum-machine thick songs come from the living room, and ask Sharaun, who is quite preoccupied with buying her New Kids tickets, if I should call for her.  Of course I should.  Except, I’m not really into it… I’m eating my flatbread pizza and trying to get Keaton to eat her dinner and just overall not caring.  About ten calls into it I realize I’ve fat-fingered the number she told me and I’ve been calling the wrong place.  Frustrated, and noting she’s now apparently done celebrating her New Kids cash-flush, I hand her her phone.  She asks for mine as well, and she sets about dialing the station in turns from each.

And yes, you know she won.  She always wins.

Listen to Sharaun win right here.

Thanks Erik for the text: “The radio says you’re a nerd.”  Yes, that was Keaton you can hear in the background shouting, “Are you talking to Gracie’s mommy?!  Are you talking to Gracie’s mommy?!”  Gracie is a good friend of Keaton, her mommy, Michelle, is who Sharaun is sharing her radio-spoils with – hence the, “Michelle we got it!” comment.

I just thought it was a fun story, and I had the audio to make it all media-rich.  Deal with it.


spurned by santa

The molasses pace of this week and a half is more than I could ask for.  Every day I wake up thinking it’s a day later than it really is, and am pleasantly surprised when I realize the error.  So, when today was Monday as I rose, and I realized we’re down to our last two days – it was something of bummer.  But, let’s move on from all the talk of vacation-end and get on to some talk of vacation-happenings.

The other night we took a short walk down to the city park near Sharaun’s folks’ place.  It’s located smack in the middle of the historic shopping district here, and the city has done considerable work over the past ten years or so really shaping the place up.  In fact, it looks really good down there – and the crowds drawn to the park, temporary ice-skating rink (yes, in Florida), shops and food seem to show that the work has paid off.  We’ve walked the short mile or so down there a couple times already this trip, and each time have really enjoyed letting Keaton run around in the park and strolling the shoplined avenues.

This particular night, however, we were there right before dinner and the light was beginning to dwindle.  As we played in the park, we began to notice a man setting up lights around a sleigh sitting central to the goings-on.  Sure enough, Mr. Claus himself showed up for pictures with kiddies just as we were getting ready to make the walk back home.  When Keaton saw him, she absolutely lit up.  She looked at me, looked at mom, looked back to Santa – and just stood there struck like a stone, mouth open and wide-eyed.  I finally said to her, “Do you want to go say ‘hi’ to Santa?”  “Yeah!,” she squealed as she tore off in his direction.

There were several kids flocked around Santa, and she sort of sidled up alongside them in the back row and just stared up at him in awe.  Eventually, the throng thinned and she had a clear shot at him.  She stared right up and him and said, “Hi Santa!”  Only, she said it sort of smallish and demurely, since that’s just how our girl is.  Unfortunately, Santa did not hear her salutation, and instead turned his back to her to talk to some other kids.  At that, Keaton waited there a minute, wringing her hands, and the walked back to me with the sorriest, saddest look on her face I’ve ever seen.  When she got to me, she said, “He didn’t answer me,” in the most forlorn little voice.

I was absolutely heartbroken; felt crushed right along with her.

Trying quick to recover, Sharaun and I both said something along the lines of, “It’s OK baby, he just didn’t hear you that time.  Go on back over and say ‘hello’ to him a little louder this time so he can hear, OK?”  With a little prodding, she walked slowly back over and found another opening for some one-on-one time.  This time, Santa saw her first and stooped to speak to her.  As he did, she was excited, but I could still see the reluctance in her eyes from his initial spurning.  When she came back, she was a lot happier, but I could tell she still had some misgivings about this Santa guy.

Later that night, as I was putting her to sleep I asked her, “Wasn’t it fun meeting Santa today?”  “Yeah,” she said, and her voice turned frost cold and sad, “But… he didn’t answer the first time.”  I about bust out into tears right then and there.  Poor girl.

Sorry for the sob story… I promise it’s not indicative of the week.  In fact, we’ve had a fantastic time – and I suppose I should’ve chosen to relate a funny story instead, but that one stuck with me as something that might “blog” well.

For now, I’m outta here.  Holler at you guys later, OK?

it’s cool y’all

‘Round 9pm and Sharaun’s out (more on that later).  I’m listening to the iPod on shuffle, just switched from some late 50s free-jazz to Radiohead’s “Stop Whispering” to James Brown live at the Apollo.  I love shuffle.

Just another Friday here in America.  You know, no closure on our government’s taxpayer-backed $700B Wall Street bailout; the largest bank seizure ever with Washington Mutual being commandeered by the FDIC before it can crumble on it’s own, then later sold piecemeal to JP Morgan; even China won’t lend us money anymore

It’s cool y’all.  Don’t worry.  Oh!  Did you see the new Real Rules Road World challenge!?  I totally almost choked on my Grilled Stuffed Chalupa when that one gay dude was making out with that inflatable sex doll in Vatican Square!  It was, like, so hilarious, I had to put down my People magazine and full-on got Fire Sauce all over the picture of Brad Pitt’s newest and blackest baby.

What a mess; what a mess.

We can get past this.  Let’s write…

At work, I usually run the MSN instant messaging client in the background on my laptop.  We have our own internal-only sawmill IM client, but I use the MSN one to talk to people outside of work.  Typically this is limited to Sharaun, and maybe on or two other friends who don’t happen to work at the same sawmill or live in the same state/country as me.  It’s useful for quick communication with Sharaun though, particularly if I’m tied up in a meeting – as I can type out a quick answer to things like, “Hey, can you pick up some milk on the way home?” and the like.

Sometimes though, IM just doesn’t cut it.  That delay between reading and writing can really gum up the gears of a conversation.  Take, for example, this exchange between Sharaun and I this morning.  She was at home, presumably eating bon-bons and doing her toenails, and I was at work, winning bread or some such.  Marvel:

sharaun says:
you know color me mine
that pottery painting place by the bounce place

dave knows all your secrets says:
i don’t really know it, why?

sharaun says:
I wanted to go if that was ok with you

Straight-forward enough.  At this point, I think I understand what’s going.  There’s some paint-your-own pottery place around here (apparently next to the bounce place we sometimes take Keaton) and she wants to go.  I’m not sure, however if she’s asking if I want to go with her, or if she’s asking if she can go with a friend (meaning she’s actually asking me if I’m OK with Keaton for the evening).   So, I proceed to inquire down this path:

dave knows all your secrets says:
are you asking me to go?

sharaun says:
that’s what “I wanted to go if that was ok with you” means

OK, makes sense now.  She’s asking if we all want to go, as a family, to the paint-your-own pottery place over by the bouncy place we sometimes take Keaton.  Glad I asked.  At this point, I’m already typing up the explanation of why I misunderstood her the first time.  See, I want to explain that I was just unsure if she was asking me to go, or asking if she could go with a friend.  But, right before I hit send on that message, she replies again:

sharaun says:
anyway, there is a MOPS moms night out there tonight at 6:30

And, seconds later, I hit “enter” on the sentence I’d been typing”

dave knows all your secrets says:
i thought you might be asking if it’s OK if you go w/liz and spend money or something.  when?
you want to go tonight?

On her end, confusion blooms:

sharaun says:
I said 6:30
not Liz
are you reading what I type at all?

Man, I hate it when this happens.  Now we’re exactly one thought out of sync.  I try to type a little faster and make my seemingly misplaced explanation a little more clear:

dave knows all your secrets says:
when you asked me if it was OK, i didn’t know if you were asking me to go or asking if you could go w/someone else (assumed liz)

There, that’s totally clear, right?  I just misunderstood her.

sharaun says:
no. It’s tonight at 6:30. Do you mind?
I can have dinner ready beforehand

OK, now I’m getting confused.  It’s the phrase “Do you mind?” that out of place here to me.  I need some further clarification, and attempt to get it:

dave knows all your secrets says:
do you normally ask someone if they “mind” when you’re trying to invite them somewhere?  sounds like you’re wondering if i “mind” you going w/o me?
how long would we be there?

See, the whole “Do you mind” thing really makes it seem like she’s asking if I mind her going… it just seemed like an odd way to ask me to join my own family at the paint-your-own pottery place up by the bouncy place we sometimes take Keaton to.  I mean, she clearly told me above that she was asking me to go with her… right?  Her response:

sharaun says:
I am asking if you mind watching K

Oh, wait… what?  Now she is asking if I mind her going and leaving Keaton with me.  By now, I am royally confused, and have decided we are having two totally different conversations.  I let her know this as tactfully as I can:

dave knows all your secrets says:
good god you make no sense

There.  That should do it.

sharaun says:
what about that makes you think you are invited?


dave knows all your secrets says:
you never said that

Whoops, my first mistake.  I was spotless up until here.  I should’ve been reading a bit closer back there I suppose.

sharaun says:
sharaun  says:
anyway, there is a MOPS moms night out there tonight at 6:30

Oh, I see.  She copied her own sentence from a few lines above.

dave knows all your secrets says:

sharaun says:
I never said that?

OK.  Whatever.  This conversations is almost over.

dave knows all your secrets says:
i’m going to punch off your face

sharaun says:
not if yours is already laying on the ground and you can’t see me

dave knows all your secrets says:
no sure, that’s fine.
i don’t mind.
i like watching her

sharaun says:

dave knows all your secrets says:
plus i get to listen to music when you’re gone.

sharaun says:
I’ll make you a pretty piece of pottery

dave knows all your secrets says:
OK, make a bong so i can smoke tons of weed…
and then maybe you’ll make sense

sharaun says:

dave knows all your secrets says:
love you.  sorry i don’t read right.

A flawed technology, I tell you… flawed.

Well, Sharaun’s car decided to crap out on the side of the road today.  I went to rescue her (and Keaton) and the thing was towed off to the local shop.  No word yet on the damages, but I suspect some kind of transmission problem (because, as you know, I’m an expert in all things car).  So, we’re doing the one vehicle thing with her taking me to work (which also means she has to take me by the donut place beforehand tomorrow – can’t come empty handed on my turn for the rotating managers-bring-donuts Friday). It’s cool, two cars is overrated.

Hey, Bill put up some pictures from our “extended lunch” the other day when we drove downtown to meet Sharaun and Susie at the circus.  Since I haven’t posted pictures of Keaton in ages, you should go check out what she looks like with her new retro bob and black dye-job.  Man… I think Bill’s camera needs an adjustment, I look globular.

Goodnight friends, have a good weekend and I’ll holla at you Monday.