This is week 112 of The Life of Riley, a weekly post detailing my activities since I ended a thirteen year career as a corporate drone. These posts are usually long, personal, and geared more for my own memory than the reader’s entertainment.

Sunday (Day 777): Ice Cream Dirge

I made blueberry pancakes for #1GF! and then went out to clean out the gutters. I wore no shirt, a tool belt, and had six pack abs. I fed a bunny who was perched on my shoulder, and #1GF! looked upon me lovingly and wondered how she could deserve such a perfect life. Or something like that. I know there were blueberry pancakes and gutter sludge, but beyond that, my notes are a bit fuzzy.

The sky was blue with only a few puffy clouds who were gracious enough to apologetically skirt the sun like people ducking around tourists taking pictures. The sea was green and clear. It was 82 degrees, and there was a breeze. It was an absolutely perfect day in terms of weather, so I packed up a couple of sandwiches, and #1GF! and I went to the beach.

The only thing that was odd about the next three hours on the sand (other than the superb weather) was that the ice cream truck switched from its mangled version of “Turkey In The Straw” that inexplicably skips a lot of the notes, to some sort of ice cream dirge. It was the most depressing song I’ve ever heard coming out of an ice cream truck.

As we walk back from beaches, I saying to #1Helga, “In United States, trucks play ice cream song. In Russia, song play YOU!” #1Helga just looks at me likes I am crazy peoples while ice cream dirge make me sick for homeland and frozen borscht truck.

We showered off the salt, and #1GF! napped on the couch while I sat next to her reading a book. As the breeze drifted in the window against the back of my neck, I looked up and thought about how cool life is.

I left #1GF! to put together some chicken enchiladas for dinner, and my mother dropped by. We convinced her to stay for dinner. After all, getting people to drop by was one of the reasons we got this house. My mother ate with us, stayed for a bit, and then headed out, leaving #1GF! and I to return to being lazy.

Before bed, I finished Lamb: The Gospel According To Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. It wasn’t my favorite of Moore’s books, but it was an interesting read.

Monday (Day 778): Very Few [CRTL]-Z’s

Even though I went to bed early the night before, I woke up completely exhausted. I think I must be waking up multiple times during the night because of the sleepless nature of #1GF!’s pregnancy. #1GF! encouraged me to go back to bed, but it’s not easy to go back to sleep while your pregnant girlfriend goes off to work. Not for me it’s not, anyway.

After #1GF! left, I started getting a headache, and I went against my conscience and tried to lay down for a little bit. I thought I’d take a quick nap on top of the covers to see if I could get rid of my headache. I lay on my back fully clothed and my head sunk into the pillow.

The crow calls from outside were echoing off of the walls, and I could hear the planes and small boats speeding over the water to their destinations. The sun was shining through the cracks in the blinds, and a slight breeze was blowing in the window. There is something about taking a summertime nap on a sunny day that is almost decadent. Sleeping when the sun is shining (especially this year) is like wasting good weather on the assumption that there will be more. Because I’m built for guilt and not for naps, I couldn’t sleep.

I got up, had a Coke and some aspirin to take the edge off of my headache, and went to work on LOR 111. On my lunch break, I started reading a book on what to expect during a child’s first year. Of course, I drifted off the page and into my thoughts.

When I thought about the baby, I wondered what her life would be like. I didn’t think of any lofty goals or anything complex. I don’t care if she ever grows up to be president or if she makes millions of dollars and can pay off certain media outlets to drive up sales of her old man’s novels. All I really want is a child who is healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes. A kid who, through some great pool of luck, sidestepped the sea of genetic issues that she could end up with. And there’s nothing I can do about that except hope and wait.

I thought about how I hope that, as a parent, I can help her to see that the world isn’t a cesspool or a utopia, but something in between. I hoped that my odd experiences and views would prepare her for whatever life throws at her instead of compelling her to blaze a trail out into the middle of nowhere. I hoped that she’d be a person who will know that danger isn’t always labeled as such, without feeling the need to slap labels on everything. Mostly, I hoped that she’ll be a person who will feel like she was loved and doesn’t have a lot of [CRTL]-Zing to do as an adult.

Alone in my house, I started thinking about all this, and my eyes welled up.

Within a couple of weeks, we’ll have a little girl living here. A child is the top thing that #1GF! wanted out of life, and just because she’s having it with me doesn’t make it any less fulfilling for her (nyaah). We all have our dreams, and to see someone getting what they really want out of life, is rare, and pretty neat.

I love kids, but I wouldn’t say that having kids was ever a dream of mine. I’ve thought of my life with or without them, and it seemed like it would be fun either way. The one thing I’ve always wanted out of life is for people to read the things that I write, and get a laugh out of them. And maybe even think that I turned out okay. If I could do that, I might finally think that my writing isn’t merely a compulsion, but a good choice.

I worked on LOR until 4PM, and then took the mower for a spin around the yard. I finished up at 5PM, did some backups, upgraded to the latest version of WordPress, and then goofed off reading feeds for an hour before #1GF! got home. We ate leftovers at the kitchen table and laughed at how loud the neighbors were being.

1GF! chose to watch Mission Impossible II for her nightly entertainment, although I have no idea why. She (rightfully) complained about the acting the whole time. I went back to reading the baby book to try to get a little information on what you’re supposed to do with babies once they arrive, and only looked up when the acting sounded especially bad.

Tuesday (Day 779): Feeling Like Lt. Steven Hauk

It rained all day. Again. Rain. I’m hoping that any good weather that we had coming to us will be credited to our account this winter. Rain is good for writing though. I finished my last full round of edits for the book, and then formatted my manuscript so that it would be easy for #1GF! to read.

#1GF! came home from work and was excited to start reading. There were no major changes, but I added twenty or so pages since she read it last. I ate soup and sat on the floor waiting for her reaction. In fifteen pages, she found five errors. I suppose that isn’t all that bad, but considering the number of times I’ve read the damned thing, I wasn’t too happy about it.

After dinner, I was trying to figure out what genre my book fell into. “I don’t think there’s a genre specifically for humor.”

“Oh, your book’s not funny,” said #1GF! without a hint of sarcasm.

My jaw dropped and my lip curled like an Elvis impersonator who showed up at the wrong gig. “What?”

“No, no, no. I mean it’s funny in places, but it’s not a funny book.”

I leaned on the counter. I think I was slowly crumpling. “My book is not funny.”

“I like it, and it has funny parts…”

“But, it’s not funny.”

“Well, no.”

I shook my head and laughed. “I think I have to go clean up dinner now.”

#1GF! read for a while, and eventually went out for a pedicure. I drowned my unfunny book sorrows in some QuakeLive. I meant to play just one game, but got into a series of games with some people who were precisely at my skill level. I would win, come in second, come in third, and then win again. It was the best skill matching I’ve seen in a while, and a lot of fun. It ate up a couple of hours until #1GF! got home and busted me goofing off.

Wednesday (Day 780): Agent Search

I brought a thirty-two inch tube TV out into #1GF!’s car because one of her co-workers said he would take it off of our hands. Those things are not light. They are on the outside edge of being carried by one person.

Once #1GF! was on her way, I sat at the counter trying to finish The Gum Thief, so that I could return it on a trip to the library without renewing it. Even though I was within twenty pages of the goal, I failed.

I drove to the library and grabbed a couple of more fiction books and then sat myself down at a table to comb through the agent section of Literary Marketplace. Literary Marketplace is an annual book listing all kinds of people in the publishing industry. It costs about $300, so getting the information from the library is a lot cheaper.

I sat down at a table in the back and went through the agent listings. Supposedly it’s very difficult for a new author to get an agent, so the typical process seems to be that you query a lot of agents and hope that one bites. If they don’t, you revise and repeat. Nicholas Sparks queried twenty five agents for The Notebook, and was turned down by twenty-four of them.

I didn’t really know what to look for in an agent, so my only criteria was that the agent had to have a website, handle commercial fiction, require no reading fees, and be a member of the Association of Authors’ Representatives (AAR). I thought that the AAR membership and reading fees might filter out some of the more predatory agents, and the website was a requirement because I thought that if an agent didn’t have a website, it was because they were either too busy or behind the times to need one. After a few hours pouring over the book, I had written down twenty-seven prospective agents. I pocketed the slip of paper, and headed for home.

Because a lot of the agents wanted a synopsis of the book included in the query letter, I figured that I’d probably need one before I sent out anything. I sat at my desk and started putting together chapter summaries to get the outline of the synopsis started. Does this sound dry? It is. Writing a novel is a fair amount of work. Editing that novel is even more work. Writing a synopsis and developing an agent query letter makes you realize that writing the book and editing was the fun part. From what I’ve read, the whole process gets more and more bogged down until the agent rejections start rolling in.

By the time I had a rough outline for a synopsis done, it was already 6:30PM. I put the synopsis aside, wrote a small amount of LOR, and gave up for the night. I hate to admit it, but by the end of the day, I was tired. I didn’t do anything worth being tired about, but diving into a world that you know nothing about and trying to stay afloat can take its toll.

Thursday (Day 781): Robot! Clean Up Aisle One

#1GF! went to her regularly scheduled doctor’s appointment and I started researching dehumidifiers for my hydrophilic house. When I was wading through the contradictory reviews, #1GF! called to let me know how her appointment went. She was practically in tears because she was bleeding. A lot. I did the best I could to calm her down and figure out what she wanted me to do, but she didn’t want me to do anything. I offered to come pick her up, but she was already on the way home. She finally calmed down a little and then apologized for freaking out.

“Listen to me. If I had any amount of blood shooting out of my penis, there’s a pretty good chance that I’d freak out, too. There’s also a good chance that I might cry a little, too. Just keep that in mind.”

She calmed down and got off the phone with me so that she could call the doctor. Although I was calm on the phone, I went into action and had the suitcase checked and ready by the time she got home, just in case this was going to be a hospital run.

And this is where it’s no fun to be an atheist. If you believe in a big man in the sky, moments when things spiral outside of your control, are perfect for calling up the big man and saying, “Hey, big man. Me here. Things are looking a little fucked up down here. Think you can make this one turn out okay?” And then you feel better because you really believe that the big man is going to help you get through it.

When you’re an atheist, you do what’s in your power to correct what you can, and then stare into the void that is out of your control, waiting for something to get within your reach. Whether you want to or not, you are forced to accept that there are a lot of big things in life that are outside of your control.

If people find a god when they have kids, I’m not sure if it’s the miracle of birth that pushes them into it. Maybe it is, but from where I’m standing, having an all-powerful imaginary friend with the ability to stop your nine month pregnant girlfriend from bleeding all over the place could be a very comfortable crutch to lean on.

In life, there are always things that are out of control. Having a child on the way doesn’t change that. What it can change is the level of desperation with which you want to influence the uncontrollable to make things come out alright. Logistically, a god doesn’t help me, but I understand how it could help someone to be able to ask for that uncommonly simple favor, “Just give me ten fingers, ten toes.”

#1GF! came home and she was still bleeding, so we called the doctor again. They told us to wait until the afternoon, and if the bleeding hadn’t stopped, we should go back in to the office. It didn’t stop, so we went back. #1GF! had an ultrasound, and the baby seemed to be fine. We even saw the baby yawn. At least the tech said it was a yawn. I have no idea how they see pictures on those ultrasound screens. To me, it looks like something coming through the Star Trek transporter without the benefit of the concluding resolution.

After the ultrasound, #1GF! made me come in with her for her internal exam. I have never been in the room for something like that before. Ladies have these throughout their whole lives, but I am a dude. Dudes do not go into exams like this. I took one look at the table with stirrups and started heading for the door with half syllables peppered with nonsense words like “hiaya”, “glaven” and “deesh”. It felt a lot like accidentally walking into the ladies room. #1GF! assured me it was fine, and sat me by her head, I think to let me know that I would in no way have to help out with the exam. Which was a relief. I only play a doctor on TV.

For the guys who have never been in this secret room, they have this bendy light attached to the table so that the doctor can see what he’s working on. I got a little bored, so before the doctor came in, I kept periodically leaning in to the light and asking for price checks on various items like limeade and Softscrub. Then, I asked for a cleanup in aisle one. #1GF! laughed, and it seemed to lighten her mood.

The doctor came in and told us that some veins or something probably got aggravated during her last exam. He said if the bleeding didn’t stop in a couple of days, then we’d have to go back in.

He also suggested she get some rest, and when I thought my excursion to Ladytown couldn’t get any weirder, he told her to make sure that she was getting “pelvic rest”, too. I wondered how many people he had to tell that if your woman is bleeding for an unknown reason, don’t put your junk in there because you might just make things worse. Although we both enjoyed the term “pelvic rest”, the only thing that could’ve made the excursion more surreal would’ve been if he had warned me not to “shoplift the pootie” or maybe did a price check himself.

I’m not a big public affection guy, but I took #1GF!’s hand as we walked across the parking lot. “Let’s get you home.”

Once we got home, #1GF! got into bed to rest. I stood around waiting for instructions that never arrived. I did some laundry for #1GF!, even though I’m not typically allowed because of my propensity to treat girl clothes like boy clothes and turn them into rags.

Once I was sure that we weren’t going to the hospital, I went to the local home warehouse and picked up the biggest dehumidifier I could find. I also looked for a pair of leather work gloves to replace the ten year old pair that had somehow sprouted a fur coat in my wet basement.

Have you seen the motocross gloves they make for working on houses these days? It’s almost impossible to find a pair of work gloves these days that don’t look like they were made for motocross. How are those going to keep you from slicing your hand open when you slip with the utility knife? It took me a while to find a simple, old school pair of leather work gloves that should ride out this decade.

On my way home, I stopped into the office supply center to pick up a new notebook to replace one that I’ve been carrying around for notes and ideas since April of 2008. They had the portable five inch by four inch notebooks that I like for a dollar, with a limit of two per customer. After two, the price jumped up to $2.50. I didn’t understand what that was about, but I picked up two. Then, I put one back.

Even though it was only a dollar, I didn’t need a second notebook because these portable scratch pads can last a year or more for me. I walked to the register, and then went back and picked up the second notebook again because I couldn’t pass it up for a dollar. I thought I’d use it eventually, or find someone who would. I felt like one of those people who buy things because they’re “a good deal” and then try to pawn them off on friends and relatives who have no need or use for the sale item.

#1GF! and I ate leftovers for dinner and then I finished The Gum Thief, which had an ending that was the equivalent of “and I woke up and it was all a dream.” It was as if the author got tired of writing and refused to finish the story.

Before bed, I went downstairs and took the dehumidifier out of the box. The robot eyed me from his spot under his window. I lifted the sleek, cream colored machine onto the concrete floor. The robot’s eye whirred in an out of focus as he slowly rolled over and examined the new inhabitant of planet robot. His screen flashed a question mark.

“It’s a dehumidifier, robot.”

The robot paused like he understood and then flashed the question mark again.

“A dehumidifier. It takes water out of the air.”

The robot’s eye started whirring again.

I plugged the dehumidifier in and turned it on. A whoosh of air came out of it’s fan. He rolled backwards at full speed and tripped over his cord, toppling himself on his side. As soon as his tub hit the floor, the robot played his prerecorded dog bark like he does whenever he gets startled. He lay on the ground seesawing back and forth, barking out a warning to his nonexistent attackers.

I looked at the robot on the floor. It was pathetic. “Hold on.” I walked over and set him right. The robot retreated behind me. He was inspecting the dehumidifier from behind my left leg.

“It’s a dehumidifier, robot. It sucks water out of the air. It’s not even sentient.”

The robot picked up an extension cord and started tying himself to a shelving unit.

“What are you doing?”

The robot flashed a picture of himself in a circle with a line through it.

I took the tangled extension cord away. “I’m not replacing you, robot. This pulls water out of the air. You pull it out of the ground. You’re similar, but you have different skill sets.”

The robot rolled around me and over to the dehumidifier. He circled it twice and stopped in front of it. I could hear his eye still whirring. The dehumidifier took no notice. The robot flashed a heart three times on his screen. The dehumidifier sighed out dry air.

“It’s not sentient, robot. It’s a de…oh forget it. I’m going upstairs. Do not hump my dehumidifier.” The robot didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. He spun himself around and backed into a spot next to the dehumidifier so that they were almost touching, but not quite. As if to prove that he was still the same old robot, he promptly fell asleep.

Friday (Day 782): Sealing Off The Underground Boat Dock

I read Stephen King’s On Writing until noon, even though I was supposed to be writing query letters and a synopsis for my manuscript. #1GF! was home sick, and for some reason, I take that as a license to screw off. I don’t know how that works, or how I have come to consider reading a book about writing “screwing off”, but that’s what I did.

A storm from the night before had moved out to sea, and the ocean was roaring so loud that it sounded like we lived next to a highway. At lunch time, I went to check on the basement, and found a lot of water coming up through new cracks in the foundation. I dragged the robot around cleaning it all up, and he tripped over his own cord, got stuck behind support columns, and fell over a couple of times. At one point, he got stuck behind a pole, fell over, and refused to move. I picked him up, and said, “Come on, dummy.” And then I felt bad about calling him a dummy in front of the dehumidifier. He didn’t mind, because he’s a fucking shop vac.

Here’s the problem with writing: when you create characters, they take on a life of their own in your head. When they have physical representation, sometimes a small part of your consciousness works its way too far forward and for a brief second, you end up talking to your shop vac. You hope, in those times, that no one else is around.

Once the water was cleaned up, I chipped out a lot of cracks and filled them in with hydraulic cement to stop any further water penetration. I used the water from the dehumidifier to mix the concrete, and felt not only like I was ripping off Mother Nature, but like I was somehow recycling.

After filling holes that were so deep and waterlogged that they could’ve hidden an underground boat dock under the house, I ran out of concrete. I tried to insulate the basement windows in an attempt to further button up the basement before the winter, but I ran out of insulation after a window and a half.

I ran out to the local home megastore for some more concrete (and insulation), and didn’t finish working until 6:30PM. There were still a number of cracks to be chipped and filled, but the work day was over.

I had a decent headache by the end of the day, so we got takeout rather than have me cook. #1GF! offered to come along for the ride, but I wanted her to put her feet up because they were starting to look like blown up rubber gloves.

When I got to the pizza shop, a new kid was trying to find my order in the computer system, but couldn’t seem to find it. A woman piped up from the back and recited my order to him without looking. I thought that was pretty cool. “When’s the baby due?” she asked.

My eyes widened. “Friday. I still can’t believe it.”

“I probably won’t see you before then, so good luck!”

I thanked her and headed home feeling like some sort of regular. I told #1GF!, and she said, “She never asks me that!” #1GF! seemed a little more than disappointed. I shrugged. Maybe she’s tired when you come in.

#1GF! and I spent the rest of the night watching The Shield, even though it’s full of desperately crappy acting, and then we read until it was time for bed.

Saturday (Day 783): Baby Names And Black Coffee

I finished insulating the basement windows, showered, and sat down to read the last ten pages of Stephen King’s On Writing. It’s a pretty good book for prospective writers. If you’re already writing a lot, I’m not sure that it offers tips so much as it gives an interesting narrative of how Stephen King came to be a writer. It also gives the impression that you’re not alone in the insane compulsion of wanting to write for a living.

I finished up the book and #1GF! and I went to the library. I returned two books and then took out a couple on baby names. I think people think we’re lying when we say that we’re not sure of the baby’s name, but this sort of proves we really don’t have a name yet. It’s not that we aren’t trying to find a name, but our tastes are different.

The favorite name that I’ve read recently? Moxie Crimefighter. #1GF! does not share the same opinion.

Names that #1GF! has rejected so far (more than a few of which have the potential to create a powerful baby superhero):

Boo
Cleopatra
Electra
maJONdra
Marvella
Nalani
Nikita
Oceane
Omega
Scout
Skye
Snowdrop
Storm
Valkeria

Names that were suggested to be rejected:

Chewbacra
Exemelle (XML)
Lara Lor-Van
Mistatee (pities other babies)
Mocha Latte
Morgan Mindy
Satana Devilla
Vadra

Two girls’ names that inexplicably made it past the editors and into a baby name book targeted at English speaking parents:

Tita
Kunto (Look it up. It means “third child”.)

After the library, we went to the home megastore, and #1GF! waited in the car while I picked up more buckets of hydraulic cement to finish off the basement. We then picked up #1GF!’s mother at her house and headed home.

When we got back to the house, I put some snacks and drinks on the counter for the ladies, and changed into my work clothes. I went to the basement and chipped away at the cracks, while the ladies spent time together eating grapes and sipping lemonade.

Later in the day, #1GF! called down the stairs to tell me that my parents were going to drop by. I wasn’t quite done with the prep work on Project Basement Seal, but I had made a fair amount of progress. I was down to my last six feet or so when they arrived. I went upstairs and changed back into my regular clothes.

We all sat around the table and talked, and someone noticed a stain in the middle of my kitchen ceiling. A water stain. Fuck. I had a water problem that was so bad that it had leaked through the attic, through the insulation, and through the brand new ceiling. Are you fucking kidding me? When did this happen? I went up to the attic and found the source of the leak. The wood of the roof was rotted it had been leaking so long.

I thought of the little old lady who sold us the house and told us that there were no water problems. No water problems that I’ve used six buckets of hydraulic cement fighting. I thought about how they said that the roof was only a few years old. Oh, it’s a new roof? Really? No fucking water problems in the house you say? None? Great! We’ll take it. The cracks that spewed water like a fountain into the basement and the wet rotted roof that has now stained a brand new ceiling must’ve happened post sale. Never trust old ladies. You think they’re so sweet and innocent, but if you’ve ever been to a bingo hall, you know: they’ll stab you in the eye with a bingo dobber if you give them half a chance.

I spent a fair amount of energy trying not look at the football sized water stain on my relatively new ceiling, while pushing thoughts of medicare cuts and closed down bingo halls out of my head.

At 6:30PM, #1GF!’s mom wanted to head home. My parents were going to leave, but I told them to stay. I was going with #1GF! for the ride because we’re within a week of the baby and I was a little overprotective about her getting stuck somewhere by herself. My parents were reluctant, but I told them to stay and use the house like a vacation house. And they did.

We made the round trip and got back to pick them up for an 8PM dinner at a local restaurant. My dad laughed when he ordered a cosmopolitan, deeming it a girly drink. I didn’t really notice until he mentioned it, but those drinks are pink. I had a black cup of coffee, which in terms of manly perception, is the teetotaler’s version of a straight scotch.

“Don’t think I drink black coffee because it’s manly. It’s purely an economic issue.”

My father took a sip of his girly drink waiting for the explanation.

“When I worked at that chronic hospital in high school, coffee was a forgotten commodity like coal. You drank coffee in the corner of the basement in that place from small styrofoam cups. It was the type of place that serves as the basis for horror movies. The building was brick and cross shaped, and full of people who were mentally ill or waiting to die. Whatever their issues were, most of them were forgotten out there. Tack on the smell of the bleach and urine, some random screams, and it was as close as I’ve been to being part of a horror movie set. It was on an island for chrissakes. They never had anything but powdered creamer, and after trying that once, I started on sugar only.” I took a sip of my coffee. “Then, in college, I ran out of sugar and never bought more. It was a matter of economics, and then I got used to it.”

So, I’m not as macho as I may seem.

After dinner, my parents went home, #1GF! and I tried to come up with a name that was agreeable to both of us.

What I Learned

• I have a fucking leak in my roof.
• The ice cream truck song is called “Turkey In The Straw“.
• I have a new way to make chicken enchaladas.
• Baby stuff can be tiring.
• Pregnant women are relentless when it comes to waking up at night.
• Sleeping on a sunny day seems decadent.
• My manuscript is not funny.
• Getting a book out takes a lot more than writing a book. There’s a whole business behind it to learn.
• Some agents require a full synopsis of a manuscript. Yea. After all these years, book reports might come in handy.
• Nicholas Sparks was rejected on twenty-four out of twenty-five agents for The Notebook.
• I’ve seen a lady exam.
• I know what “pelvic rest” means.
• A dehumidifier makes a huge difference.
• Kunto? Really?

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