A Day in the Life

I get home just after 7 a.m.  It was a relatively slow night at the 911 Center, not much to speak of other than a few wrecks in the rain.  Idealistic me, I applied for this job because I wanted to help, to make a difference in some small way.  I accepted it because of the incredible insurance.  

Eighteen months later, I rethink that decision almost daily.  Working thirds is hard on the body, a strain on our marriage.  As I walk in, Luke is in his sit-me-up booster seat.  He smiles as soon as he sees my face.  He recognizes me.  And somehow it is all alright.

After getting him dressed and in his car seat, I hug Mrs. Bone goodbye and get ready for bed.  I can't shut off my mind.  I replay calls from the night before, mistakes I might have made, what I could have done better.  It is something after 8:00 the last I remember.

I wake around 1:30.  The five-plus hours is the most sleep I've gotten in four days.  I've been in a rut of waking up between 11:00 and 1:00 and not being able to get back to sleep.  Around 2:30 I give up and decide to get a couple of errands in before I pick up Luke at daycare.

First up is a stop at the grocery store where I pick up some fruit, nuts, and cheese -- snacks for work -- and some Martha White self-rising flour.  I've taught myself to make something close to biscuits over the past few months.

Next is a visit to Walgreens.  Desperate for sleep, I pick up some Melatonin and Calms Forte.  I avoid taking medicine if at all possible, to the point that my doctor will begin sentences, "I know you don't really like to take medicine..."  But at some point I figure the lack of sleep becomes unhealthier than the pills.

Then it's off to get Luke.  I skip the interstate and take the two lane, enjoying the ponds and pastures, trees and sky.  The 15-minute drive has become my "me" time.  I roll down the down the window, turn up the radio, and enjoy the one bit of my day where I'm not sleeping, working, or responsible for another human being.  

The first thing I notice is Luke is not wearing the same outfit he left home with.  This is a not uncommon occurrence.  He has had what we in the parenting business refer to as a blowout.

On the way home, we stop off at the Sonic.  Once a week I treat myself to a small shake and small chili cheese fries.  It's a guilty pleasure.  Besides, I got cheese and nuts and fruit for work so it balances out... ish.

The first order of business once we're home is to let Sunshine outside.  Sunshine is the cat, though we would never refer to her as "the cat" because doing so might imply she is just an animal, that she doesn't have a personality, that we don't consider her our daughter.  And nothing could be further from the truth.

She showed up at the back door a few years ago, starving and bloody-tailed.  After an ever-so-brief attempt to find her a home, we decided to keep her.  Honestly, she never gave us much choice.  Our lives have since become a "Who rescued whom?" bumper sticker.

Next I unload the dishwasher and start some laundry.  Not at the same time, that would be a trick sure to astonish.  The squeaking you will soon hear is the sound of the dryer dying.  The repairman gave it six months to live.  That was over two years ago.  She's a fighter this Whirlpool.

Luke gets fussy after a bit and when I pick him up I feel something wet.  It is blowout number two of the day.  It is the worst one I have experienced to date.  I may as well wear the Spray 'n Wash in a holster.

Mrs. Bone gets home and we begin the nightly routine: feeding Luke, giving him a bath, and putting him to bed.  

Our Hello Fresh delivery didn't arrive on time this week so we order Mexican.  (I'm gonna have to eat a lot of fruit and nuts to make up for this day!)  While I am at the restaurant picking up our food, I get a text: "Guess what just arrived."  Perfect.  I don't mind though as we have mostly found Hello Fresh to be more aptly titled Hello Bland.  

We eat while watching a couple of "General Hospital" episodes.  Luke wakes up during the first so I go and rock him back to sleep.  I doze off during the last, grabbing a much-needed fifteen or twenty minutes before it's time to shower and get ready for work.

It is 9:30.  Sunshine demands five more minutes of outside time before I leave.  I oblige.  Then it's another hug goodbye and I'm out the door.  

As I back out, Sunshine sits in the doorway and watches me leave.  Beyond, Luke sleeps peacefully in his room while the woman I married is going to bed, hoping to catch two or three hours before the little guy wakes up again.

Some decisions you never have to rethink.

"These are some good times / So take a good look around / You may not know it now / But you're gonna miss this..."

Ye olde dog days

Apparently, I mention the dog days of summer in a post every July. Last year, I tied it in to National Blog Something That's In Draft Week, or NaBloSoThaDraWe as you most likely know it. I may still have to do that in the next few days. After all, I'm nothing if not cyclical...

I always figured the phrase "dog days of Summer" had something to do with how dogs mostly just laid around in the shade or under the porch looking for relief from the heat. Thankfully, in these progressive times, we have Wikipedia. Else I may have gone my entire life thinking that and thus never knowing the true origin of "dog days."

According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with Sirius--not that satellite radio people--also known as the Dog Star. In olden times, people would sacrifice a brown dog at the beginning of dog days. Why brown? Well, that's what I'd like to know. Unfortunately, Wikipedia didn't say, which pretty much can be taken to mean no one alive today knows the answer.

On a related note, we had a brown dog when I was growing up. Just wandered up one day, which is how we got most of our pets. I named it Brown Dog--there was sort of a clever descriptiveness to it, I thought. We also had a pet named Whiskas. It was a cat. But I digress.

While sources differ on the exact dates of the dog days, they roughly run from early July through mid-to-late-August in the northern hemisphere on planet Earth. And so, these are they.

Maybe they also could be referred to as the Blog Days of Summer. Because it seems that while physically I've been doing lots, my mind has mostly been lying around under the porch hiding from the sun. Thus resulting in an even greater lack of blog posts than usual.

I figured that I would try and catch you up on all that's been going on in Bonetropolis the past couple of weeks with a series of bullet points. But then I thought maybe that sounded too violent, so I'll just continue in paragraph form.

Last week was the birthday of someone very important to my existence: he who bore me. We commemorated with dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Then Dad regaled us with tales of what it was like when man landed on the moon, which occurred the day before his birthday, coincidentally.

Sunday, they left on a two-week cross country trip to the Grand Canyon. Currently, they are in Flagstaff, Arizona. He called Monday from near Dallas. It was raining. "Don't you have some way of checking the weather radar on the Internet?" As if I know a secret trick no one else knows.

But I suppose it's kinda nice to feel like he still needs me now and then. They grow up so fast.

Speaking of, Nephew Bone has been doing well. He is walking upright with the skill of someone six weeks his elder. He'll be a year old three weeks from today! And I thought time flew before. Oh, and he also swallowed a leaf. Don't ask how we know.

Meanwhile, yours truly has just been doing the usual--work, sleep, running, pondering my eventual retirement from competitive Scrabble, and of course, golf. This past weekend, I came within 18 inches of my first ever hole-in-one. That would have been the single greatest moment in my life--not to be confused with the greatest nine minutes of my life.

So, that's the story from Bonetropolis. The dog days are almost over. Hopefully, my mind will soon crawl out from 'neath the porch of no ideas to once again frolic through effervescent fields of minutiae and skinny dip in streams of hilarity.

"Babies squalled as August crawled past old folks in the shade. The weather vane was stuck, and White Oak Creek would drop, when dog days came around..."

That 70's Fish

I welcomed a new member to the household Saturday. At the wedding reception, there were Bettas on some of the tables, and I brought one home.

I didn't know if I'd ever get another fish after Pablo, and I sure wasn't in any hurry to get one. But when I came home from work Monday afternoon and he was swimming around his bowl, I realized I had kinda missed that.

So without further adieu, I now present to you, for his first time ever on the internet, GabeKaplan:


(Photo courtesy of my Crackberry Curve.)

I know, I know, the first question many of you will have is going to be, "Fish at a reception?" And the answer is... apparently.

And I'm sure some of you are also wondering, "Why Gabe Kaplan?" First of all, Welcome Back Kotter is one of my all-time favorite shows. What other show dealt so candidly and humorously with issues facing inner city youth and had a sign in its credits that said, "Welcome to Brooklyn: The 4th Largest City In America?" I'll tell you what other show. None!

Gabe Kaplan, the man not the fish, is an accomplished actor and comedian, as well as a world-renowned poker player and investment strategist. Not to mention he won the 2006 TVLand Award for Best Teacher. Now hopefully, little GabeKaplan can help bring to light some of big Gabe Kaplan's accomplishments.

Also, I kind of like the thought of hanging out with GabeKaplan, watching the game with GabeKaplan, napping with GabeKaplan, and yes, eventually, dancing for GabeKaplan.

And sure, if Gabe Kaplan, the man, finds out I named my fish after him and is so honored that he decides he wants to meet me, send me every episode of Kotter on DVD, or stake me in the 2008 World Series Of Poker, well then, who am I to object.

Who knows, me and GabeKaplan might even wind up being BFF's.

Wonder if he knows whatever happened to Epstein.

"Who'd have thought they'd lead ya, back here where we need ya? Yeah, we tease him a lot cos we've got him on the spot. Welcome back..."

Remembering Pablo...

We are here today to celebrate the life of Pablo Picasso, the famed Betta fish. Pablo died Monday, July 9, 2007, of unknown causes. His age was at least twenty-six months. He will be mourned by many.

Though Pablo's exact origins are unknown, his owner liked to claim he was born near the equator, in the tropical waters around Borneo. Mistakenly named after the famed Spanish painter Pablo Picasso, due to his lack of any visible ears, the little blue Betta was destined for greatness.

The first known recorded sighting of Pablo was in the Fish Bowl region of Wal-Mart, where he spent many mostly boring days. After escaping from there with most of his youth still intact, Pablo moved into an apartment in May of 2005. A few short months later, he moved again, this time into the two-bedroom-one-bath bachelor paradise where he would spend the rest of his days.

Originally intended to be nothing more than a Mother's Day present, Pablo used his charm to convince his owner to keep him. Hopelessly attached to the little feller after only a few hours, Pablo's owner would go out and buy another Betta and another aquarium to be given for the Mother's Day gift.

Often lauded by his owner as the "most handsome fish in the world," Pablo developed many talents, such as being able to hear footsteps on the stairs, and looking irresistibly cute.

Pablo was a fun-loving fish whose preferred pasttimes included swimming, eating, and napping. He also seemed fascinated by the television and watching his owner dance. Pablo did not appear to be a fan of car rides or cameras. Some of his favorite things were Betta Gold pellets and distilled water, and he was known to occasionally nibble on a Fruity Pebble.

Pablo was a friend and a companion. A pet in a place where no pets were allowed. He brought life, warmth, and laughter to his home. His passing leaves a huge void. And he will be missed always.

Sam

We said goodbye to an old friend today.

Sam has been part of our family for many years. We got him a couple of years before I moved away from home. Since I wasn't allowed to have pets where I moved, Sam remained at Dad's until my sister got married three years ago, when he went to live with her.

My sister called me today crying, telling me she thought Sam was dying. Since I had to work, I called Dad to see if he would go over there and check on the dog and my sister.

I won't go into details, but Dad said he thought Sam had a stroke. He took him to the vet, and Sam was put down this afternoon.

I went over to my sister's this evening, figuring she could use some company. I got there after 9:00, and her eyes were still puffy and swollen. We sat out by the pool and talked for an hour and a half, a little about Sam, but mostly about anything else, to try and keep her mind off of it. She took good care of Sam, and I told her that.

By all familial accounts, Sam was fourteen. I last saw him a couple of weeks ago. He was moving slowly and sleeping a lot, but he let me brush him for a few minutes. I prefer to remember his younger years.

One of his favorite games was getting out of the yard and wandering thru the neighborhood, marking his territory and "talking" to the other dogs. Almost everytime, my sister or I would have to go literally pick him up and carry him home.

Then there was his idiosyncratic two-week kibbles-only phase, where he'd pick every single kibble out of his bowl, leaving only the bits. We were about to try changing to another brand of dog food when Sam suddenly went back to eating normally again.

Dogs are a true joy. They're always excited to see you and loyal beyond compare. They become like part of the family. Losing one is tough.

I had a friend whose dog got run over several years ago. I'd never seen this guy show the slightest hint of emotion, ever. But when I asked about his dog, he was unable to speak about it.

Sam always seemed to be terrified of fireworks. He would whine and go hide in his house anytime anyone was shooting them. I suppose it's good he won't have to endure another 4th of July.

I'll miss you, ol' buddy. And thank God for dogs.