Travels

Mike here.

Had a very good interview Saturday with an engineer, Dave, from an ocean sciences firm on the west coast. He was in Rhode Island between a conference and another interview, before heading back across the country. I picked him up at the airport, we had coffee, a few hours' conversation, then lunch, and more talk on the way back to the airport. It felt good--no, fantastic--to be assessed fairly as a professional, having several different skill sets and even more interests--and the multiple interests are not an impediment to my success. I get the sense that Dave is somewhat younger than I am, though he came to geosciences much earlier too, so I don't grudge him being an accomplished pro and a savvy manager. It was a relief to feel at ease with a prospective (or actual) employer, and not on trial (for trivialities).

Nope, no bitterness in my mind. None to be found anywhere. Movin' right along.

So my hopes are sky-high to land this gig, potentially doing multibeam (i.e. high-res depth sounding and seafloor mapping) work, sub-bottom interpretation, and even some 3D current modeling. A whole passel a' challenges Dave is lining up, and I couldn't be happier. New work I'll have to master, the prospect of going to a place as rugged and fascinating as Alaska--land of glaciers, grizzlies and the Palins--and being secure in the knowledge that I'm keeping a home for Katie and me. Not only am I looking forward even to the prospect of going--I've been missing adventure for a while now--but the hope for economic security has revitalized my willingness to work and study. (Found a 6-part series on the history of cartography in the library this afternoon. I had no idea such a topic existed. So I'm starting with Vol. 1, the ancients.)

When Katie and I got home, I was rip-roaring eager to check out geology supplies, like a transit and a GPS receiver, to scout out prices, so I hopped online immediately. We planned to sponge-paint the now white filing cabinet, and then go to the gym. And the painting took much less time--a little more than ten minutes for one coat--than I thought. So I flew back downstairs to do some more online hunting.

Kate followed slowly, clearly bothered. She's normally so stoic, even in the face of sometimes helpless worrying, that when she finally shows pain I know to pay attention. And at a moment like this, when I'm eager to do something of my own, I have two reactions. The dog in me wants to snap and say, "Let me finish what I'm working on, jeez! Why do you have to follow me around?" And the husband knows that's no way to treat a wife who simply wants my company. And I had a sense, though she wouldn't say at first, what the issue was.

I know because I'm the same way, when something's going to happen that I don't want to--I mourn ahead of time. In part of my mind the thing has already happened, because I believe it's inevitable. And in Katie's case, she knows this job will very likely take me across the continent. She saw me bring home a stack of books, some related to the possible work, and she saw me treat the painting project like I was blowing my nose. That's when her meek side comes out, and she begs for attention like a kitten. I can be inconsiderate and callous at times but I'm no deliberate brute, particularly when, the deeper I probe, the more serious her discomfort reveals itself to be. I'm probably going away.

There are the basic, matter-of-fact questions: what if I'm still gone when she goes into labor? What if she doesn't give birth until the very end of my scheduled leave? There's the big, general question: how can I possibly be a decent husband and father when I have a job 2500 miles away? All we can do about the matter-of-fact things is make the best contingency plans we can think of, and then hope things work out well. As for the big general question...

It's my eagerness to leave which seems to bother her more still. So this paragraph is as much a written reminder to Katie, as it is an explanation to anyone else who reads it. I love adventure. I love going to places where I've never been. I love finding unexpected and surprising things. I love having my mind blown by things I never imagined. I love trying to give some mental order to my sensations. I love exploring and coming to understand an unfamiliar setting. But this passion for novelty and experience leads back to a much deeper, more consistent, far more abiding thing. I want to share the wonder and the energy that wonder gives me, with the people I care about most. Above all, I want to share it with her. So I can bring back a bit of the Pacific, a bit of the mountains and a bit of the glaciers to her, and so add a few foreign seeds to the garden that is her own life.

And if I ever get around to becoming a professor, hopefully to infect my students with the same love too.

Necessity

So it appears we'll be in the condo for the next few months, at least. When I talked to my local mortgage officer, Lori, a few months ago about relief during a period of no income, she was very sanguine in her advice. The stimulus-related relief programs were just coming into being, so there was nothing I could do yet on that front. If I were forced to miss one or more payments, Lori offered somewhat frightening reassurance: the bank normally moves to foreclose after three months' delinquency. However, with the tanking economy and waves of foreclosures, the bank's forclosure department was positively swamped, and I might have up to a year before they would begin formal proceedings.

As reassurance goes, that's not very reassuring. I don't like the thought at all of being on a hook, waiting for something to happen while I flail helplessly. The worry, anger and frustration have had me up at nights, and interfered with my ability to focus during the day. At times like these, it seems online scams (Josh Made Money!) proliferate. There's ad after ad about making thousands of dollars posting web ads from home. That sounds like the kind of thing that might've been possible before the dot com bubble burst way back in the spring of '01 (how different a world was that? Before 9/11 even), but not now. Any reasonably lucrative, or even not so lucrative, career becomes an option at times like this. I've never been much of a schemer, and I went into academics specifically to avoid a career of merely hunting dollars...and I've found myself wishing I had more skills along those lines now. Unfortunately, no get-rich-quick plans made themselves obvious, no matter how anxious I'd get.

I've had two main ideas: get a job (duh), and sell some real estate, specifically the dock I inherited. I've been trying to sell this lousy 24' dock for over two years now, and obviously I wasn't out in front of the market enough to actually sell. So this year desire became necessity, and after scaring up a few buyers, settled on a price so far below my original request that, if this weren't due to immediate need, I'd feel thoroughly ashamed.

As it is, I take comfort that I've done what I needed to protect my little bengal, and the kitten inside of her. She's womanned up pretty well lately, turning into a (functional if not volitional) morning person for this temp job. Meanwhile I've resumed work on my dissertation, getting to know the vague and fragmentary bits of data which comprise my evidence. I interview tomorrow with an ocean science firm based in Alaska (their engineer is flying out from Anchorage) for surveying work, either in the Gulf of Mexico or on the west coast. Though I'd rather be here and enjoy the warm months as Katie handles her pregnancy, I don't think I'd deserve much respect for passing up a chance to provide for our family.

We celebrated the dock sale with dinner at a local Italian place, on Jamestown (I love that little island). A thunder squall had passed through just before we went, and there were clouds still hanging low in the twilight, and lazy thunder and lightning rolled through the sky from time to time. It was warm and muggy, and as we sat outside among the hanging lights, the evening took on a tropical feeling. I tried (unsuccessfully) to shake off the post-meal doldrums with a brief walk along the water, and though my gut still felt like there was a stone in it, we did see some lazy pink bolts curling across the sky.

The lightning was better than dessert and so we went home satisfied. Our heads are back above water, if only for now, and I can go to bed feeling even moderately confident for the first time in months. We talked at dinner about how this summer is so different from what we imagined last winter: marriage, child on the way, serious income worries; as opposed to my having a good job, and us lightheartedly dating, getting engaged and having a while to play. For our family starting sooner than we'd planned, I'm glad that things are this way. Katie and I are confronting the serious aspects of a relationship, beginning the work of caring for a child (and everything she does now is based on little EJ's welfare), and I'm dealing with the day-and-night worry of earning a living. Things have all gotten very serious, very quickly--so they all match each other. I'm content with that.

Friends

Mike here.

Kate and I visited my old buddy Al, and his wife Bianka and two kids Lorelei and Alex, today. Al cooked burgers and dogs, and we hung out on the back deck of their home for three or four hours in the afternoon. Now Al's the kind of guy who can get quite a bit done while never looking overly busy at any given moment (he was seated on a mower and working alongside his house when we arrived. I began mocking him for the height of his front lawn when I saw that he'd already finished the acre out behind). He was class president and I was treasurer for our junior and senior years in high school, which made sense because he was the popular one with the silver 300 ZX convertible, and I was the shy geek with a 30-pound book bag, driving around the old El Camino my sisters had both used.

Al has loved comics for longer than I've known him. He still has a collection of over 200 action figures, his daughter knows the difference between the Avengers and the X-Men, and though he hasn't kept all his comic books, the Spidey issues are going nowhere. I grew up loving cartoons. Bugs Bunny and Wile E. were my Saturday staples, and I even adored this crappy sixties-era spy series, Cool McCool (the real Inspector Gadget, before Inspector Gadget). Cool McCool was one of those cheap vintage cartoons shown early on Saturday and Sunday mornings, right after the test pattern came off. (Remember test patterns, before the days of hundreds of 24-hour cable channels? I was determined as a child to get the most out of my weekend viewing.) So I'd always loved animated stuff, but Al showed me that you can admire it into adolescence and beyond. Thanks, buddy.

Plus, he was a fantasy-fiction maven, and me being something of an intellectual snob even then, I took regular verbal dumps on the Piers Anthony-type things he'd read (until I discovered that Piers Anthony can be a very funny writer). But we had a deal: I'd read this five-book series, the Belgariad, about some little kid with a witch for an aunt, a wizard for a granddad and a spectral wolf for a grandmother, and who had to take down this evil god, Torak. In return Al would read the Lord of the Rings, the furthest into fantasy that I'd descend (and I did adore that series. I've read parts of the Hobbit--Bilbo vs. the spiders--probably a hundred times. Like I've read about how Hornblower escapes down the Loire in a boat during a snowstorm probably fifty times now). So I held up my part of the bargain, read the mediocre books by Eddings, and Al welched. Eight years later he finally got around to the Lord of the Rings--through Books on Tape. Way to go, pal. He might've gone so far as to watch the movies, but I doubt it.

Of course Katie wanted to hear embarrassing stories, but Al and I just weren't troublemakers. (The wheels came off for me in college, though I wasn't all that creative even then-- just a basement rat.) But in high school, before I drifted, Al and I were guilty only of goody-goody stuff--breaking the occasional speed limit, stealing a sign or two, letting a girl get in the way of the friendship. Lily-white teenage things.

We took a five-week vacation in England and Scotland after graduating college, which included an annoying foray north to the tiny town of Golspie, seat of the Sutherland family castle, Dunrobin. My great grandfather was sent to the New World by the other Sutherlands in the late 1800's, perhaps as part of the family purges of the time. (Robert Service tells such a story in his Rhyme of the Restless Ones--though I like to joke that the smart ones got the boot, and the dumb ones kept the land. Irvine Welsh would seem to agree, at least about the Sutherlands.) Apparently the old man was a rolling stone and it was my grandfather who settled the family in Jersey, where my dad grew up. The Sutherland property on the North Sea shore is grand enough, but the castle was closed by the time we arrived, so we just turned around after about twenty minutes of strolling the area and headed back south. I've got to say, Al handled the disappointment with quite a bit of equanimity.

The trip--five weeks in various tiny apartments, small bed & breakfasts, and a small Fiat we drove around the country--left us pretty sick of each other by the end, and it was several months before we started hanging out again. We learned that our natures are pretty opposite--he's a slow-down-and-relax kind of guy, and I'm a frantic, get-up-and-go type. For brief stretches, like a few hours or a few days at a time, that's great. For five straight weeks, in close contact without any break, it's pretty much hell. So our trip was good, and we saw lots of cool things (Castle Edinburgh rocks, and the city of Edinburgh was worth at least a week by itself. Loch Ness was dark and foreboding enough to suggest the presence of a monster)...but we needed to get away from each other by the end.

We did remain friends--once we got over the trip fatigue things were fine. Though Al got started with marriage and a family several years before I did, we're now back to somewhat similar places in life--unfortunately, including at the moment similar worries about the job market. Al is being something of a big brother to me, warning me about the labors and frustrations of raising kids. In fact, when I broke the news in February of Kate's pregnancy and our plans to get married right away, he responded like I'd've expected a sister to--with about 58 questions, all variations of, "Do you have any &%!#ing clue what you're getting yourself into?"

I was touched, quite honestly.

So, fast-forward to today. Al and Bianka had us up, we ate cookout and spent a few hours shooting the breeze, mostly about kids, pregnancy and baby hardware, and a few mildly embarrassing stories from Al's and my adolescence.

Both Al and Bianka wanted very much to be helpful and encouraging, particularly since Kate's a first-time mother and we've gotten ourselves involved in the family thing so quickly. It wasn't a question-and-answer session, but they dropped plenty of wisdom on us during the course of the afternoon. So, I decided to put together a list of the more memorable thoughts. Here they are:

1.) Intelligent improvisation is sufficient for breastfeeding, and for feeding in general.
2.) Vaseline is an indispensible aid during the first several months, and especially during the first few weeks.
3.) Dealing with the judgmental parents of other children requires immensely more patience and tact than dealing with children.
4.) If you should use formula, the federal government regulates its nutritional content, so the brand name is irrelevant. BJ's is just as good as Enfamil.
5.) Try to avoid socially awkward names, such as those of melancholy spirits of vengeance (Lorelei, in Germany. Maybe Lizzieborden here?).
6.) Steal everything from the hospital room that isn't fastened down, repeatedly on successive days if they restock. You'll find a use for all of it, and they expect you to anyway.
7.) Everybody gives you well-meaning advice. Go ahead and do what you want.

Around six-thirty we left, and drove home with the top down and the heat on (I really love my convertible), and were back in time for me to post this, and then for us to watch Kill Bill Vol. 2 (watched Vol. 1 the night before). Kate and I really haven't found any kind of entertainment that we don't both love (or detest) mutually (excepting live baseball and sports talk radio). During the movie, she might close her eyes briefly when Beatrix Kiddo is slamming Buck's head in a door, and she'll ask what rock salt is and what it has to do with the shotgun wounds, but she's definitely into it. Like how I got her--completely unexpectedly, and she kind of curses me for it--to fall in love with Metalocalypse, the cartoon about the stupid, good-hearted, and wildly successful death metal band Dethklok. Tarantino movies have a similar spirit, showing human innocence in the midst of violent death, at once both raised to an art form and made commonplace.

Okay, this is starting to sound like a mediocre film studies thesis. Basically, Tarantino makes a hell of a flick. (And I aspire to much better writing than mediocre theses.) Time to shut it down for the night, especially since the little bengal is now sleeping on my shoulder. Bye, all...

The Wonders of ... Breastfeeding!?!?!

Alright, since Michael always seems to be the one making posts, time for my two cents!

As I mentioned before I'm working now, so the day usually plays out something like this; Mike drives down to URI where he goes to study everyday (as I sip on the remnants of the coffee he's prepared for me), we sleepily smooch, say goodbye and I slump into the drivers seat where I continue on down to Wakefield. At the end of each day I collect him again at URI, and usually maintain my spot in the driver's seat ... I have to admit, I actually enjoy this manual shift thing! The convertible top just makes it that much sweeter!

So, today we went about our usual routine only tonight we had to eat and get back out the door in a hurry in order to get to this class I had signed us up for through Women & Infants. As soon as we got home we threw some burgers in the oven, consumed them in about 5 minutes and were out the door. Now the ironic thing is this blog post came to mind just as we were leaving the condo ... but I had no idea what was about to happen would be top on the list of ...

The 10 Things I Love Most About Michael:

10. Leaves pollen on the dash of his zazzy Beamer for over a week and writes "BLAAA" in the lime green dust!

9. Doesn't say a word if I eat, drink ... or even spill in this fancy little BMW!

8. Replies to my sneezes by saying "dyouchebag" instead of "bless you", 'cause he knows just how annoying it is to constantly have so much mucus and there's no reason to bless the damn thing!

7. Washes the dishes the dishes without me asking him to!

6. Makes my coffee just riiiiight! Lots o' milk and even more suuugah!

5. Eats spinach the exact same way I do ... shoving as much in at once as possible, because no matter how much you try to dress it up, or want it to taste like candy, it's still just going to taste like spinach!

4. Makes every dinner into a team effort, even when it's just burgers or frozen pizza!

3. Lets me warm up my cold feet on him!

2. Calls me beautiful, even after I've JUST woken up!

1. Finds humor in my absentmindedness ... and tells me I enhanced his mood by dragging him to the wrong infant informational class 2 months before the correct class even begins!

I wish I could blame this absentmindedness on the whole "pregnant brain" theory, unfortunately this type of mistake is not that uncharacteristic of me. It just so happened to be one of the first major brain farts I let rip in front of Michael! And I must say, if a man still loves you after ... or rather, because of, something so idiotic ... he's definitely a keeper, at least in my book!

One...a-two...three...a-four...

Mike again.

No posts last week. We've both gotten busier--Kate at her full-time temp job, and me, inspired by her, to get back to the lab and interpreting sub-bottom data again (the layer cake stuff I successfully turned her on with last fall). Despite our financial situation not improving yet, it's past time I ditched the self-pity and began working on things that matter, even though I'm not currently earning an income. Stalled out is not a good way to live, whatever the circumstances. For a little while, okay, but a timeout shouldn't last the entire game (so to speak). So...timeout over.

We're nearing completion on the sale of the NH dock, which will help immensely, though it certainly doesn't solve all of our short-term problems. Much more promisingly, as encouraged by Katie's brother-in-law Len, I blitzed a bunch of stimulus-act contractors with my resume, and I have an interview with one this coming Friday. If that turns into even a few months' gig I'll owe Len a gigantic debt of gratitude. Those two things, along with Katie's job and our applying for short-term mortgage relief, give me some measure of hope. Feeling unable to provide for us, and needing to rely on the good graces of a creditor because I can't pay, is humbling to the point of anger. But if we close this week and I find work with this company, then even though I'll need to leave town for work, I'll feel again like I'm doing my end of the job for this family.

Despite all that, Katie and I manage to have good times. She remains a budding hoops fan, just as despondent as I am that the Orlando Magic have choked away their best chances and the Lakers will win the championship. We haven't gone out dancing since New Year's, and Saturday while doing our pool-hot tub (legs only for her, Cori! Katie's being very safe)-sunbathing routine, a neighbor reminded us of the evening's Waterfire. For those of you who don't know (that is to say,
everyone from outside of Rhode Island), Waterfire is a summertime (rarely, for holidays, during colder weather) street party in the middle of Providence, where buoys with baskets of burning wood line the centers of the rivers flowing through the city. Music is piped into speakers which line the quaysides, and vendors of food, drinks and kids' amusements line the sidewalks for many streets around. The effect is like a combined street fair, campfire, Druid celebration and European carnival (particularly when you see the mimes, and the gondolas which ply the river). It's a lot of fun, but easy to overdo (especially as it's held every two weeks). The crowds along the river can be difficult to put up with too.

About once a month a plaza near the river is partly covered with a dance floor and stage, and there is dancing. Usually one type of dance is featured. Last night was salsa, but at other times it's swing, Argentine tango, or foxtrot-waltz (lumped into one as "ballroom"). There's a lesson to start, mostly for beginners, and then live music for about four hours, and at some point a performance by high-level dancers (sometimes amateur, sometimes pro). The range of people who go is pretty big--beginners just dropping by, interested beginners looking to learn (which describes Kate), intermediate dance lovers (which describes me), and especially, for dances with folk origins like salsa and Argentine, lifelong dancers who have almost hypnotic style. I have kind of a love-hate relationship with ballroom dancing. I do love it, almost equally to singing, but the competitive aspect of ballroom repulses me. I can be competitve too, and I want to be the sharpest guy out there, but the vanity and disdain for your competition which are so endemic to the sport, and which I start to take on, are things I simply don't want in my life. Every time I see a dancer who gives off that sense I react viscerally against it--as Kate can now attest.

I think of ballroom, or paired dance in general, in terms of three basic ideas: a joyful, almost goofy celebration of life and everything in it, with all the various feelings the music induces; an exercise in precision, coordination and sensitivity; and a relationship between a man and a woman (including a courtesy not unlike that of a martial artist for an opponent). All the latin dances are very sexual and aggressive, and each has a different mood. They share 4/4 time, with a jazz influence of stronger 2 and 4 beats: one-TWO-three-FOUR; but latin drumming is some of the most complicated and hypnotic on earth, and those beats can be artfully covered. Bolero and rumba, the slowest, are almost ominous, with each partner stalking the other. The seduction is already well underway. Cha-cha, slightly faster, with its triple step thrown in between the 4 and 1 beats, is flirtatious in tone, highly charged but the woman seems to reject him during certain steps (or he her). Where rumba and bolero are very serious, cha is playful. Mambo-salsa (virtually the same dance) is faster still, almost adolescent in its gaiety and speed. It's the most purely joyful of all the latin dances--with the possible exception of samba, which is so different it deserves its own paragraph.

Samba, along with waltz and occasionally Argentine, vies for the top spot in my list of favorites. It's a different beat, 2/4, and two measures (or any even number) generally make up one choreographed step. The dance got its start as a street processional dance, and is still to this day. But the street processional was also stylized into a social dance. It's known as Brazilian waltz, because you fit three steps into two beats: ONE...a-TWO...THREE...a-FOUR. Divide the measure into eighths (with each beat being four eighths): the ONE consumes four eighths (the first beat); the "a" takes up one eighth, and the TWO consumes three (together making up the second beat). That kind of foot timing requires a lot of energy and coordination, and it can leave beginners looking like they have springs in their shoes, or like they're trying to shake each other to death. But a coordinated samba...it surges and moves around the floor with the power and grace of a cat chasing its prey, or a sports car hugging curves at high speed. The dance can take on many personalities: dark and aggressive, light and joyous, athletic and exhibitive, tribal and sweaty (I like tribal and sweaty). The strength of the drums and the overall melody set the mood. Actually, one of my favorite sambas comes from the soundtrack to George of the Jungle: just a bunch of drums, and a gang of guys singing "OO-ma-WEH." For some reason I love it. (For some reason, I also love Japanese cartoons about futuristic interplanetary bounty hunters, but I don't think the two interests are related.)

I'll talk some other time about the smooth dances like waltz, foxtrot and tango. I'll also write about swing (which is my least favorite. Kind of like saying oatmeal raisin is my least favorite cookie. Cookies are great things, and I'll accept any, but my heart belongs to chocolate, not raisins).

So last night was salsa night at Waterfire, and Katie and I dropped by to see the lesson, which I disdained. She learned the basic step in less than five minutes from me, and in about six dances was doing all kinds of turns and spins, so I felt okay just walking on by and waiting for the band to start up. We watched the firestarting processional--somewhat dramatic itself with the firedancer on the lead boat--and went back to the dance floor, where the eight-piece band was live. We did a few ourselves, and Katie got back into the step, moving her hips like a lady should (don't tell her to do the Helen Keller!) and learning the beat. After two or three songs we took a break, went to watch the flames, and then came back. This time we watched, which is a big part of the fun of going dancing: admiring (or disadmiring) other dancers, and picking up bits of style or different moves from the good ones. And there was a range, even among the good dancers: those who did more folk-style salsa, the latinos and latinas, with a lot of clever hand leads and behind-the-back passes; those who just sort of juked, cleverly, to the music; and the ballroom-trained, step-just-so crew.

I saw one such couple who offended me deeply. The man looked like a Marine: muscular, big shoulders, close-cropped hair, wide jaws, fierce expression on his face. The woman, in heels, was slightly taller than he, dark-haired and voluptuous. Technically, they were very good. Every step, every lead, every line was precise, nicely timed, not rushed or violent. (Lots of strong guys wrestle their partners around the floor with varying amounts of force. Not Mr. Marine.) I was a little jealous of his skill, since I'm way out of practice. But the joylessness of his face excited my spite, to the point that I said nothing good about either of them, and condemned them to Katie as boring.

She took personal offense to this, being a beginning dancer who hopes someday to be as skilled as those two clearly were. She took my comment on the dancers as a comment on her. For the first time I can remember since we've met, I didn't back down when she protested, but went on slamming the couple, growing impatient with how she connected them with herself. It was, pathetic as it sounds, the closest she and I have come yet to a fight.

That's pretty ridiculous, isn't it?

Part of it was shame that I'm so rusty right now. But part of it was memory of the hypercompetitive jerks I've met in the dance world, people who believe that their desire to be great dancers makes nearly everyone else unfit for their company. That's the kind of thing I term "empty pride", and it's a good way to tick me off. It took me a while--a few more dances, and a glass of beer--to simmer down. I'm still kind of simmering down, I guess. It has me wanting to start practicing again with Katie. Maybe I'll call the studio, see if they'll let us practice while we're not taking lessons...

Baby Update

Giving the whole obstetrician thing a shot for the first 6 months of my pregnancy and after having been prescribed a mild narcotic for my chronic head aches, told that breast feeding isn't the most natural of things, and that my weight gain is far too much ... I've decided take the valuable advice of my older, much wiser sisters and change to a midwife for the remainder of my gestation!

16 weeks to go ...

Back to Work

With another week beginning last Monday, Michael's continuing frustration over our current financial state and lack of work, led him to contemplate more possible options we might have, when it occurred to him that he hadn't heard back from the temp agency he'd been in touch with a month ago. Mike had found work through them before and decided perhaps he needed to be more persistent with them this time around. After connecting with someone at the office, they explained that he simply needed to come by and update some paperwork and scheduled him for an appointment for the following morning to meet with the staffing director. The night before going in Mike asked if I wanted to tag along to see if perhaps they could find work for me too. I decided it couldn't hurt, two heads are better than one after all! So the next morning I printed off my resume, put on the only semi-cute, semi-professional outfit I could find and we headed to Providence.

After taking a bunch of surveys, filling out what was basically an online application, and completing a few data entry tests I met with the staffing director myself. She went over my resume with me and asked me a few questions, basic stuff. Then explained that she would try to find work for both Michael and myself by the end of the week ... and hopefully close to one another in order to accommodate us only having one vehicle. Not sure if anything would even result from this 2 hour long process, we went carried on with our day.

The next morning Mike was up before me as he often is, and woke me to say the woman from the temp agency was on the phone ... for ME! I swallowed the morning raspiness from my voice and blinked my eyes hard a couple of times before picking up the receiver, couldn't let on that I'd JUST woken up! The woman, Sarah explained they'd found a position for me as a receptionist at a non-profit company called, Easter Seals just a couple towns over in Wakefield. Of course I couldn't refuse!

Here's the link if you're curious what they do:

http://ri.easterseals.com/site/PageServer?pagename=RIDR_homepage

So I started the full time position the very next day, and will be with them now from 8:30 to 4:30 everyday for the next 6 weeks until their regularly employed receptionist recovers from a recent surgery. Which couldn't be more perfect, since the possible job coaching opportunity at the Rhode Island School for the Deaf would begin almost exactly when this gig will be wrapping up.

I will admit I'm not a big fan of having to go to bed every night now at 9:30 in order to function at 6:30. (Yes, it takes me an hour and a half to eat and ready myself, and yes I know 

it'll be worse once the baby's here!) However, the comfort of knowing we now have some kind of income makes up for part of this sleep adjustment, and having something to keep me occupied (during these pregnant days) makes up for the rest!

Unfortunately we have yet to receive a call back from lovely Sarah with an opportunity for Michael though, and that was the whole point in the first place ... I was just the tag along for goodness sakes! He plans to call back Monday and emphasize that it's not so crucial for her to be looking to find him a position in the same neck of the woods as where I'm working, and that he's willing to venture all the way back up to Providence everyday if need be. Hopefully once she's clear on that she'll have more to offer!

In the mean time Michael's getting in some practice at being mister-mom ... minus the kid! I came home after my first day of work on Thursday to find the house immaculate! Dishes washed, last bookshelf (from the to-be-nursery) moved, counter, dining room table, and even his desk area all clean, and organized! I couldn't close my mouth for a good 2 minutes! It didn't stop there though, the next day I came home and he'd also fixed the knobs on all my dresser

drawers, which had all been pretty floppy since we bought it a few months ago at the Salvation Army. I'm still a bit dazed in amazement seeing what a little motivation, and lack of a snuggle buddy can produce! Only now that I'm aware of this man's capabilities of keeping house the bar has been set ... not only for him, but for me too ... Uuulllll *I Love Lucy face* Now I'm in trouble!

Family

Kate got the news today, in the form of an e-mail from her mother, that her grandmother Duggin (one of those cute family names--my own mother was Manya to her grandkids) went to the hospital yesterday in an ambulance. Kate called her mother immediately and learned that there had been no emergency. Duggin had been feeling tired and nauseous all week, and by Wednesday was feeling dehydrated. The hospital wouldn't have appointment time to help her for a few days, so Duggin called her daughter (Kate's aunt) Donna, a doctor. Donna advised that she go the hospital in an ambulance--she'd have a better chance of getting the treatment she wanted in the emergency room than by making a regular appointment. So on Thursday, that's what she did.

This left Kate feeling a pretty little mix of emotions. One of the big ones was hurt, at not being in the loop. After taking care of Dugs for several months, Katie's become quite close to, and protective of, her. She certainly felt slighted that no one had thought to call her--of course Duggin's own daughters Donna and Karen had been on top of things, but even so, my little bengal shares the love and sense of responsibility, so she felt left out. She was also hurt that Duggin hadn't turned to her for help--that out of too much deference Dugs was keeping her from showing a little more love. There was simple worry. Another daughter (four! Kate's mom Andrea is the fourth) Darlene took Duggin's little daschund Rosie back home with her. For Dugs to let Rosie go is significant. And Darlene might actually take Duggin into her home. So events seem to be moving more quickly now, gaining speed, and Kate's suddenly unsure how much longer her grandmother will be here. And that led to the next feeling, which has come to dominate her evening: grief.

So after hitting the gym (she'd learned about all of this just before we went), she called Duggin herself to check in. According to Kate, Duggin still sounded exhausted, hoarse, and resigned to feeling badly. Kate's consternation deepened.

Both my parents are dead, from cancer. I've learned that you never stop grieving. The grief grows more muted with time, and becomes more of a subtle backdrop to the rest of life, but it's never gone. And I know what it is to grieve for someone who's still alive. So I was surprised to find myself wanting to say the usual trite things like, "I wish there were something I could say." Even observing that living 81 years, and seeing her great-grandchildren (and seeing another great-grandkid growing inside Kate herself) is a life well lived--the same thing I said about Gram a week ago--seemed shallow and foolish. Words can't possibly control mourning: they can't really make an impact on it. So a kiss and a long hug once we got home had to suffice.

The Olympic Ideal

It's easy to see that Kate's generally been active, and with me being home without a job, one thing we've done together is go to the gym (the local YMCA, which is a pretty good place). Especially while carrying, she's switched from running to walking, and has introduced Nautilus-circuit weight training, at least on a few machines, into her habits, not to mention the pool classes she loves so much. (Furthermore, aside from my encouragement, I think she's taken some extra motivation from Dr. Caron's casual remark a few weeks ago. And she gets nothing but praise from other women on how good she looks.) And now that I'm taking my daily inhaler again, my lungs have improved to the point where I can run, not just pump iron.

So on the way back from the Y yesterday, I mentioned that I try to train a little bit in every event of a triathlon, partly because it's well-rounded exercise, and partly because it's in the back of my mind to maybe try one someday. So Katy upped the ante. "I think we should do one together, once I've had the baby," she told me. I began equivocating, and she needled me. "Come on...is that a yes or a no?"

She dragged a yes out of me, and we talked about the kind of races--half triathlon, quarter, things like that--we might be willing to try.

I fear this competition thing. Just a little.

But that reminded me: it's about time for some more data! So here we go, latest update on Kate's muscle mass (right side): bicep, 12.5" (+0.25); thigh, 20.5"; calf, 14.38". So that's kind of our baseline now, but it'll be interesting to see, especially as we get into some more serious training later, just how buff my little bengal gets.

One extra little note: we both applied for temp work yesterday, at an agency where I've worked before...and she's the one who gets a placement this morning! Soon it'll be like John & Kate Plus 8, her making the money, me moaning at home about how much more shrewdness and business sense my wife has.