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Monday, February 14, 2005

Saved By Devo (Again)

My kids love Devo.

What can I say.

So little almost-2 yr.-old Cole gets to being cranky after dinner,
fights with me take his meds, spits them out all over me and basically does his best at being the Gemini that he is.

He begs for a Little People video but the video doesn't work.

He wants to be held. He feels like shit I know.

I hold him.

The sleeves and shoulders of my shirt are stained with his snot.

I'm about at my whit's end.

He asks for the Wiggles but I returned that DVD earlier today.

I put on Devo... and all is well in the house.

We Are The Chestpains, This Is Our Theme Song

So I take the boys to the doctor this morning after being kept awake for several days by their snotty noses, coughs and general crankiness.

Both boys are diagnosed with minor ear infections.

We discuss meds and inevitably is comes back to allergies and how to handle them. The nurse practioner is big on Albuterol to help the cough. Suddenly you find yourself giving your kid motrin for pain, albuterol for the cough, amoxicillin (that nasty Pepstol Bismol colored shit we all had as kids), and zyrtec for the allergies... it's like they are living in an old folks home I tell you.

Somehow it comes up that I have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday, my 37th birthday at that.

"Oh but that's for his heart," says my wife when the nurse makes a comment about three boys being sick on Valentine's Day.

"What?" she asks.

"It's a long story..." and without skipping a beat I launch into my whole Sudafed O.D. story.

"And you had chestpains," she says.

"Yes," I say.

Spencer interrupts, "Yeah and now dad has a band called the Chestpains!"

"A little dose of humor goes a long way." I say to the nurse, before turning around and giving a high-five to Spencer.

On the way home inthe car, he starts singing the band's theme song, "We Are The Chestpains/This Is Our Theme Song/Don't Know The Refrain?/Come On And Sing Along..."

Little Cole chimes in with the "whoa, whoas"

Saint George Makes A Request

Seems avid reader St. George was the first to puts dibs in on the soft cover edition of Kem Nunn's THE DOGS OF WINTER (from Saturday February 12 post).

So George it's yours just tell me where to send it.

That is George if you want to give up that thinly disguised veil of being anonymous.

A Monkey Is Born

I worked a post-wedding brunch yesterday (Sunday) at a house in Durham which was full on Cribs-style (if Southern gentrified folks had their own version of Cribs.)

Had to get to the catering company shop by 6:30am.

Woke up very unrested from sleepless kids with sick desires:
"Blow my nose," "I need a drink," "wahhh aah wahh."

I make it to the shop on time but coffee and the morning constitution aren't part of the program.

Because the house is so huge (i.e. VIP customers) we've got the crack staff to handle it. 9 people are working a party for 100.
Two kitchen staffers who prep the food and work the eggs benedict stations, event planner, one lead, and 5 waits of which I am one.

We had to set up tables and chairs around the house.

Some of which involved a flight of stairs 16 steps long.

Midway through the shift one of the co-ed, young girl waits confided in me that she was about to shit herself.

I'm not sure why she told me this other than to get some smypathy. Caterers (and food service blokes for the most part) are a rare breed. Not topic is too taboo.

When the lead wait sat down for a break in the garage and tipped over an ice cooler with wheels, falling back into the bussing area and knocking over the tub of slop (i.e. the liquid of drinks not drunk) and spilling it across the garage floor, there's nary a chuckle. Just a matter-of-fact discussion by those in the room:
"It looked as if it happened in slow motion." After said discussion the collective regroups and continues about the duties of the shift. Someone muttered the adage: "what happens catering, stays in catering."

So I'm not suprised about the shit comment. Everybody probably needed to take a morning dump, myself included, but when working a house party, nobody wants to be the staffer who stinks up the bathroom.

As the shift began to wind down, I noticed the bathroom door ajar and got a whiff of stench.

A few minutes later I saw the co-ed and asked her if she felt better. She chuckled. "I feel like I just gave birth to a monkey," she said.

"That's funny, " I said.
"Because I just saw a monkey running through the house."

This is catering.