Monday, July 31, 2006
Half-White Men Can't Jump
So Caleb's about to be the next two-year-old version of Michael Jordan. Or maybe Dennis Rodman.
He'll beg and beg and beg until we break down and take him to a park with a hoop. "Batball? Batball? Batball? Baketball? Eeeee! Baketball?" We'll truck over to the green space by my house or take the bus downtown, and "Baketball!" it is. He shoots, the ball goes about two feet in the air and drops, he exclaims "Haaa!" or "Whoooooa!" and does his Happy Dance of Basketball Joy, spinning around and tilting his head. He'll chase that ball from every side of the court to every other, at least until he sees a bug, at which point he'll wail "Bah!" in terror, start crying, and run toward the nearest available adult, holding his arms out urgently so we'll pick him up.
Last day, it was time to go home, because it was getting dark. "Nooooo!" times four million. "Me more!" times three million. "Nooooo!" times two million. Lather, rinse, repeat. Finally, a strange strange string of syllables. J and I exchanged suspicious glances. "Did he just say . . ." And he repeated it loud and clear for the edification of the mommies: "Fuck that!"
Hee. That's my boy.
So Caleb's about to be the next two-year-old version of Michael Jordan. Or maybe Dennis Rodman.
He'll beg and beg and beg until we break down and take him to a park with a hoop. "Batball? Batball? Batball? Baketball? Eeeee! Baketball?" We'll truck over to the green space by my house or take the bus downtown, and "Baketball!" it is. He shoots, the ball goes about two feet in the air and drops, he exclaims "Haaa!" or "Whoooooa!" and does his Happy Dance of Basketball Joy, spinning around and tilting his head. He'll chase that ball from every side of the court to every other, at least until he sees a bug, at which point he'll wail "Bah!" in terror, start crying, and run toward the nearest available adult, holding his arms out urgently so we'll pick him up.
Last day, it was time to go home, because it was getting dark. "Nooooo!" times four million. "Me more!" times three million. "Nooooo!" times two million. Lather, rinse, repeat. Finally, a strange strange string of syllables. J and I exchanged suspicious glances. "Did he just say . . ." And he repeated it loud and clear for the edification of the mommies: "Fuck that!"
Hee. That's my boy.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Paycheck to paycheck, big guns growing, etc.
So I did the math and I have about 73 dollars left for food until the 2nd week of August when I get another paycheck. ($73.92, to be exact. Some of this may have to go toward laundry quarters also.) But I also have a personal trainer who is Arnold Schwarzenegger in a wheelchair and still likes me even though last week during personal care he fell out of his chair and it was completely totally wholly 100% my fault.
Things work out.
So I did the math and I have about 73 dollars left for food until the 2nd week of August when I get another paycheck. ($73.92, to be exact. Some of this may have to go toward laundry quarters also.) But I also have a personal trainer who is Arnold Schwarzenegger in a wheelchair and still likes me even though last week during personal care he fell out of his chair and it was completely totally wholly 100% my fault.
Things work out.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Gainfully employed
I got hired today. I get to work at a day hab program intended to improve quality of life for developmentally disabled adults, which is pretty freaking sweet.
Conversation at bus stop:
[we discuss the job of my long-haired male conversational partner, which is to do maintenance at a hotel, and his payment is that he can live there for free]
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: So do you have a job yet?
ME: Yep. Working with developmentally disabled adults in a day hab program that is intended to improve their quality of life. Personal care, job skills, just keeping folks occupied, stuff like that.
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: Oh, that's cool. A paycheck and a give-back.
ME: More give-back than paycheck.
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: Be careful you don't get a give-back injury.
BUS: !!!SCREECH!!! [English translation: "Here I am!"]
ME, about forty-five minutes later: Hee! "Give-back injury." I get it.
I got hired today. I get to work at a day hab program intended to improve quality of life for developmentally disabled adults, which is pretty freaking sweet.
Conversation at bus stop:
[we discuss the job of my long-haired male conversational partner, which is to do maintenance at a hotel, and his payment is that he can live there for free]
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: So do you have a job yet?
ME: Yep. Working with developmentally disabled adults in a day hab program that is intended to improve their quality of life. Personal care, job skills, just keeping folks occupied, stuff like that.
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: Oh, that's cool. A paycheck and a give-back.
ME: More give-back than paycheck.
LONG-HAIRED DUDE: Be careful you don't get a give-back injury.
BUS: !!!SCREECH!!! [English translation: "Here I am!"]
ME, about forty-five minutes later: Hee! "Give-back injury." I get it.
