I yell too much at my kid. I usually catch myself mid-yell, when Ruby’s already wide-eyed and thinking “What the?!” Then she cries, and I cry in my heart. Shaun and I both pop off too much. Too much! We are planning on a parenting class to learn about these time out things and these reasonable limits things and these hushed tone things. We want to do better, be better. Ruby deserves better.

We are both wrecked. We’re out in Denver trying to make a ball-busting life-changing decision about relocating. We’ve had lots of big conversations…the kind that you’re just sort of wilted afterwards. Ruby thinks it’s two hours later (DC time) so she was up this morning before 6 and had lots to talktalktalktalk about. Mind you, we are thankful for her talking (and her singing melts my heart), there’s just so darn much of it.

She told everyone in the butterfly room at the Butterfly Pavilion that she had pooped. That had to be our favorite moment with her today. I don’t think it was a mystery as she was perfuming their habitat, but the fact that she needed everyone to know her business just crackled.

Speaking of poop, we found this in our tour of “things to do in Denver with kids” on the internet today. We learned very quickly that we are not poo-ologists. Every time a new poo popped up that we were supposed to identify, we just kept typing “Marlon Brando.”

You know that moment when you realize that you are friends with someone? It’s a cool one — from third grade on up into the rest of your life. Lisa’s and mine, I think, happened last night at the Birchmere. I thought we were going to see Josh Ritter open for Hem, when in fact Hem opened for Josh Ritter. Hem was great, as always. Funny, sweet, and completely tight musically.

Josh Ritter was stoned. STONED, my friends. He was having so much fun you couldn’t help but giggle with him. And giggle we did. Since we weren’t there to see him (we were there to see Hem, doh!), we felt a little like two kids in the back of class, sniggering at someone else’s very deep and personal poetry. I couldn’t get over how baked this guy was, and when I turned to Lisa and saw that she thought the same, it was that moment. We both nodded and thought “Totally,” and we were friends.

I did feel a bit of nostalgia when I saw Drunk Girl. She usually shows up at these events (more at the Black Cat than at the Birchmere, but you see her everywhere) and she looked just like me many moons ago. Last night Drunk Girl was late twenties probably, with a couple friends (there to see him, not Hem). She was in the hallway passionately stabbing at a photo of Mary Chapin Carpenter saying “I loooove heeeer” while her friends tried to hold her up and looked nervously around for the management. She was pitching and swaying all over the place, going on about a certain song and a certain moment and a certain guy. She needed lots of water, some serious pajama time with said friends, and maybe a Quarter Pounder late the next morning. Her friends looked tired. I hoped they rode this (other?) one out and made sure she got home.

I’m my own ride home these days, and for that I am grateful.

Poor Ruby’s brain probably spends most of the day clacking like a Pachinko machine thanks to me. I’ve always loved words, and I seem to use an average of 3 or more of them to describe the exact same thing when she and I talk. Shaun says my Indian name would be Speaks in Hyperbole because he always has to divide by three the number of things I mention in a story, the percentage of involvement of other people in the adventure, and/or the amount of drama actually felt by all. I would argue that I should be called Walks with Synonyms. I used to love the synonym game in Mrs. Van Vliet’s third grade class — my friend Amalia and I were always the last to stop rattling off words. What a couple of goobs (dorks, cheeseballs, dweebs).

Case in point: at Lincoln Park yesterday a helicopter flew overhead. Ruby looked up and shrieked “Helicopter!” which sounds a lot like “Helicopter!” coming from a 22-month-old (read: Helr-em-bop-ter) but it’s recognizable. A man sitting watching his kids looked at me and said “Did she just say helicopter?” because it’s sort of a long word, and she’s still a little thing. Before I could answer, she added, “Chopper! Whirlybird!” The man didn’t have any more questions. I grinned to myself as I walked my thesaurus-ass home.

Park Man probably didn’t really get Ruby’s last word, because it actually sounds like she says “Worry Bird.” I’ve decided I like that though. If I were badly wounded in a car accident, say, I would prefer overhearing the paramedics say, “This doesn’t look good…better call in the Worry Bird.”

To add to the list, Shaun and Ruby walked in Congressional Cemetery last night and saw President Bush’s helicopterchopperwhirlybird go by. While we were having dinner and I was relaying the park story to Shaun, he smiled knowingly and asked Ruby, “What does the president ride in?” She pointed at the ceiling and said with every confidence, “M-rine One!”

Shaun had a brilliant moment last night. After years of mind-numbing swirls of “how can I make this happen for us?” he finally came to peace with the fact that financial success via the internet is a lot like gambling. Rather, it is gambling, and within that it’s a lot like a slot machine. One Granny in a buh-zillion hits the mega-jackpot on a slot machine, replaces her above-ground pool with an in-ground one, buys each one of her nephews a tittie bar, and retires to a McMansion just outside of town. The guy sitting next to her though, is convinced that if he just sits there for one more hour or one more bucket or one more twenty that he will be able to do the same (except for that he would keep all the tittie bars for himself — he’d just let his cousins run them).

Think about it. There really are people supporting their families (or helping) by doing what they love via the internet. Folks like Shaun and me then read about these instances and think “By damn, we can do something like that too!” Then we spend evening upon evening coming up with products to sell or things to talk about that would interest people or ways to update the ever popular amateur porn site (now, I didn’t say we were going to start one, but the thought is going to make me smile all afternoon). Shaun always jokes that when whatever we are working on goes belly up, we’ll become one of those couples who puts our stuff on the worldwide web. Otherwise, we could always apply for bartending and table-waiting jobs at Granny’s nephews’ tittie bars, but I digress.

As it is, Shaun has a completely legitimate and gangbusters business that is web-based, and has nothing to do with stuff, titties, or either one of us blathering on about our lives, opinions, titties, or stuff. He works and works and works and makes Ruby and me proud. It is work, though, and lots of it. And we get tired. And we assume (wrongly, I know) that making money via the internet is easy. Well, it isn’t unless you’re this guy. That sizzled Shaun’s taint when we read about him. I just wanted to die for not thinking of it first.

And that’s what I mean! Everyone keeps trying. Intermittently, the thought that it just might happen for you is reinforced by shit like this.

When Shaun mentioned this intermittent reinforcement thing to me, I thought “that’s brilliant! You didn’t read that somewhere? You just came up with it? Maybe you should start a blog, talk about it, and see what happens! We’ll make millions.”

Update: Turns out, Shaun read about intermittent reinforcement here (scroll down to “Clicker Trained By Our Email”) and just applied it to success on the internet. So we won’t hit it big with that original thought. I hear there’s a help wanted sign up at The Pole. There’s your big money, people. Granny’s no dummy.

First, solemn props to Katherine for her birthday.

Then on to what we tried to do to celebrate it. Instead of more things, I decided to give her a do (clean it up, people) and go to the thea-tuh. We took in “The Gigli Concert” at Woolly Mammoth, because of the rave reviews it got. Actually, I have a subscription to the season, but we decided to get the subscription to the season because, in part, of the rave reviews this play got.

I couldn’t tell you a thing about it, and I was there. Well, I was there for half of it. About ten minutes in, I thought, “Is it just me, or is this revving up sort of slowly?” Twenty minutes in? “Boy, these two fellas seem to have having a great time, but I just don’t get it.” Thirty? “That woman to our right seems to be having a great time too, but I still don’t get it!” Forty minutes in? “It’s cold in here.” At fifty minutes, I think I was actually awakened by the high pitched weeeeeeeeeeing of the woman on my left’s theater-supplied listening aid (which clearly wasn’t working properly because she kept adjusting the weeeeeing and cursing under her breath). When the lights came up for intermission, I was praying “I hope Katherine thinks this blows too, because I am really tired.”

Thankfully, my girl looked at me sort of like “Whaaa?” and we instantly started talking through what it would be like to just leave. I’ve never left the theater at a live performance. I’ve walked out of movies (most recently, and not very recently at that, was “The Limey” with Terence Stamp, and I think that’s because we were finished with the sandwiches we snuck in), but not a play.

Before we knew it we were rushing down the sidewalk like two schoolgirls trying to sneak in a smoke before shop class, scanning guiltily for the car.

If someone ever reads this blog that knows what happened in Act 2, or for that matter, Act 1, let me know.

I am rethinking these subscriptions to theater, because I am having really hard luck with it. And they’re expensive! Either I am not cool enough, theater is way too subjective, or I am much too cool.

I did see “The Sex Habits of American Women” at Signature Theater recently and really enjoyed it. Sex habits of American women though? Sort of a no-brainer because, well, I have those.

Last night, Ruby and I were getting into her costume jewelry (got a lot of completely garish and jangly stuff on ebay for nothin’), and Shaun came to join us. As he plopped down onto the floor, he let out a big fart, the kind you can’t help but laugh at. We have been teaching Ruby to say excuse me when she “toots” and burps. This time, we all giggled, but pulled it together quickly.

Never one to miss an opportunity to be completely overbearing, I said “Daddy, what do you say?”

Ruby gave him a big leg-up and yelled, “Thank you!”

I am constantly amazed by this little gem of a Web site. Shaun and I were heading to his office in the car, listening to a mysterious song which I would have sworn was David Byrne. We picked out some lyrics, specifically the ones above, I keyed them into sing365 and out popped Brian Eno, “Spinning Away.” Song makes me want to fly — I played it at least two more times after I dropped Shaun off. Helped with the rainy skies outside.

Up on a hill, as the day dissolves
With my pencil turning moments into line
High above in the violet sky
A silent silver plane – it draws a golden chain

One by one, all the stars appear
As the great winds of the planet spiral in
Spinning away, like the night sky at Arles
In the million insect storm, the constellations form

On a hill, under a raven sky
I have no idea exactly what I’ve drawn
Some kind of change, some kind of spinning away
With every single line moving further out in time

And now as the pale moon rides (in the stars)
Her form in my pale blue lines (in the stars)
And there, as the world rolls round (in the stars)
I draw, but the lines move round (in the stars)
There, as the great wheels blaze (in the stars)
I draw, but my drawing fades (in the stars)
And now, as the old sun dies (in the stars)
I draw, and the four winds sigh (in the stars)

Note: The parenthetical “in the stars” are not as annoying as they look when you read them. In fact, they are the crazy warblin’ sing-along part. Perfect.

So, yeah, that’s a good show. We watched the first four episodes at the cabin, and then snuck in another the night we got home. I have to say, though, that I am not jonesing for the next one. Looking forward to it? Sure. But I’m not clammy and anxious about it.

Naturally this means that I can try crack now, since the two are similar in their ability to suck you in. I’ll just do it, you know, the once.

One of the counselors at Kolmac called to check in on me today. I finished their program in August of last year, and I am still on their radar. That’s a good program.

I remember when I started…one of my first nights was led by Too Cute Jerry. I immediately nicknamed him when he started the group because, well, he ain’t ugly. I was so thankful he wasn’t my one-on-one case manager. How distracting! It’s hard to concentrate on eliminating a substance from your life when you are preoccupied with adding a person to it. I never wanted to be taken to the mat for relapse thoughts by Too Cute Jerry…unless the mat had a down comforter on it, candles all ’round, and Lou Rawls playing softly in the background. Forget the wine! Throw some Ben and Jerry into the mix and you’ve got the perfect evening. Or so I imagined. Often.

OK, now, don’t get all hysterical about my musings here. I am really not a Lou Rawls fan.

Seriously. If you are having substance abuse problems and you need a place to go, call this place. There are incredibly decent people there who will help you. Then forgive yourself the occasional indecent thoughts you might have about one or more of them.

I don’t remember what it’s like to take a shower in the morning. I know I used to do it, back when I worked “outside the home” and had to clean the night-time away in order to face other people at the water cooler. Back when I was kicky and single, I worried more about whether or not people knew how dirty I was on the inside, not whether I had actual dirt on my person.

Shaun takes a shower every morning. He goes to work, see. He walks among suited and spiffed up folks on the busy streets of downtown DC, while I lurk around my home office looking like Gollum in sweatpants. I could make more effort, sure. But there just isn’t time.

Men are faster at these things, too. They have less…hair. To wash, condition, shave. And maybe the frequency with which Shaun showers makes the experience less fulfulling than it is. As I am getting kicked in the groin by The Diaper Dodger and waiting for my morning meds to kick in, I imagine Shaun in the shower, breathing in the lily koi fragrance of a delicious soap, and peering through thick steam at a beautiful island woman as she swabs down his chest with her thick hair. (Note: I’m sure there are moments when Shaun imagines exactly the same thing.)

I get over myself soon enough. I go back to being thankful for my family and the roof over my head and my treatable depression. I walk to daycare or Starbucks and I see folks who are much worse off. My mantra, oddly, is to say to myself, “Well, I could have one leg.” I don’t know where that came from, exactly, but that’s usually where I start. Doesn’t work every time, simply because there are one-legged people who kick ass with the leg they have left.

Then I see the man who motors around the Hill in his wheelchair on stumps that used to be both his legs, and I really feel like crap.

Course, if I spend too much time on it, I think “If I had no legs, I could probably use that as leverage, and get someone to push my lumpy-ass torso into a nice hot shower every morning.“