You Will Roam No More

I used to declare that all I need in a cell phone is a device that sent and received calls and fit in my pocket. Camera phones and blackberry's and keypads and mp3 players all seemed excessive. But now the Wife and I have iPhones, and I am smitten.

My previous cellphone had long since given in to senile dementia. Sending calls was only sometimes a difficult endeavor. Receiving calls was another matter. Despite using the best wireless provider in the Durham area, my phone typically received 1 in 15 calls during its final months of "usefulness". For a full 6 weeks of that period, it was forever suspended in "extended network," regardless of how many times I reset it, switched out its battery, updated its network settings, or smacked it against my desk. On slow days (most days), I would call my cell phone from my office to see how long it would take for it to tell me I had missed a call. Record time? 53 minutes.

In contrast, yesterday, I took my new phone on a walk with the Booger. While walking, I was able to listen to my favorite music, count my 5086 steps (at a reasonable 18:14 min/mile pace), answer a call from the Wife, check my e-mail, and take this not-great, but still illustrative photo of the valley where we usually walk. I'm sure if I had downloaded the correct apps, it would have done the walking for me and had dinner ready for me by the time I got home.


So now I have this old P.O.S cellphone that I suppose I could recycle like a responsible adult. Afterall, with the Baby Chicken on the way, I suppose I should be practicing the whole responsibility thing. But I'm feeling much more inclined just to give the old phone a loving send-off with a few good hits of a hammer.

The Booger is no Artax or Falkor

While traveling across the barren parts of this country, the Wife and I stopped at Arches National Park. Apparently, Utah has some awesome looking rocks. Surrounded by a whole hell of a lot of sometimes awesome looking dirt. Another awesome thing? We saw our only actual tumbling tumbleweed on the way into the park. It moseyed across the highway and tipped its ten-gallon hat at us.



One of the cool, non-boring things about having miles of mostly uninterrupted sightlines was that we could see all the small rainclouds drifting over the dessert. As we walked around the various arches in the park, we would get sprinkled on for 30 seconds, then get a face full of sunshine until the next patch of rain passed overhead.




Unfortunately, dogs are not allowed outside of vehicles there. So, one of the downsides of having miles of mostly uninterrupted sightlines was that the Booger could see us from the car everywhere we went. And because of the intense separation anxiety that had developed from our weeks of packing and the cross country journey itself, this meant that we could hear her whining in the car just about everywhere we went. We did our best not to acknowledge the tortured sea lion noises echoing from the parking lot. Luckily, no car windows were shattered from her shrieks.

We didn't have a whole lot of time to spend there. Supposedly you could spend an entire day looking at rocks and experiencing vertigo while looking over cliff edges. We only had a chance to check out one of the Double Arches and the North and South Windows.









And if you look at both the North and South Windows from far away, you can see this guy. Oh yeah, and just so you know the deserts in Utah aren't just pretty rocks and puny shrubs, there were also flowers there.

Blurry, Bug-Filled Pictures From the Passenger Seat

Here you go. The ultimate in July 4th photo essays: a series of crappy pictures of dirt and rocks and grass, all taken through bug-splattered windows at high speeds with a lens in desperate need of cleaning.

For some reason, we didn't have the camera out until we'd crossed the Mississippi, but if you've never seen the fruited plains and purple mountains (note: you'll be hard pressed to find any fruit or purple in most of these pictures), then, well, here they are.

Kansas

Colorado

Utah

California

Unfortunately, Paul Rudd Was Not Present

While we were resting and recouping from the trauma that was Kansas, the Wife and I got to do a bit of exploring in the Boulder area, where the Wife's dad and family live. And, yes, we got to see a lot of sickeningly healthy and granola people running up mountains, biking off cliffs, and installing home-made solar panels on their teepees. And, yes, one of my father-in-law's neighbors owned that Bactrian camel. Perhaps they developed an affinity for camel's milk? Or maybe there's a nearby underground camel racing circuit.

One of the highlights was hiking along the base of the Flatirons, which nominally was a "pleasant" hike, but ended up involving a significant ascent up to a natural quarry. Even the Booger was flushed once we reached the highest point of our hike.



By the way, correct me if I'm wrong here, but I believe this may actually be the first sighting of my face on this blog. It's not that I've suddenly decided that my visage is not offensive. It's more that I was just lazy and wanted to post this picture.




But, probably the most fascinating part of our walk that day was seeing a full regiment of junior LARPers reigning fake, plastic death on each other in a field near the parking lot. My understanding was that it was a role-playing summer camp of sorts. One of the Wife's half-sisters even knew one of them, who cringed and avoided eye contact when she went up to greet him with a hug. So, yeah, stereotype affirmed.

A couple hours later, upon returning to the car, dozens of the pint-size (read: 2 inches shorter than me) LARPers were still battering each other into submission. The wonders of blunted weapons and infinite lives, I suppose.

A Peculiar Reversal of Preference

I will continue to talk about the Booger because Baby Chicken refuses to communicate with me and the Wife is now working. Actually, on that front, the Wife has informed me that Baby Chicken has begun her morse code relationship with her stomach. It is an exciting time, if you're into that sort of prenatal relationship stuff.

So, yes, back to the Booger, who, for the most part, has resumed her customary lifestyle of slothfulness. However, without a fenced backyard to sleep/sniff in (and bark out of), we've had to get used to walking her more regularly. There is a series of trails within yards of here that creates a web throughout some undeveloped hills and valleys, and we've come to enjoy these trails for the vistas and the plantlife and the distant coyote howls and the aggressive mountain bikers and, of course, the copious amounts of deer droppings.

But, for all the wonderful sights and sounds and smells (?), the Booger will not poo on these trails. In fact, she will now only offer her canine blessings to the most well-manicured lawns in the neighborhood. Scrub grass, dirt, or other weed patches are no place for her distinguished poo. The curious thing is that back in Durham, the Booger hated going on the lawn. It's as if switching coasts flipped a switch in her head.

And so, every morning and evening, I find myself holding up our blue doggie bags in clear view of anyone who might be looking out their window or walking out to their car while the Booger pops a squat, just to make clear my intention of picking up after her.

The Booger Sends a Shout-Out To Her Homies

The Booger would just like to send a note to her cronies back in the NC that she is fine and living it large on the Peninsula. There are deer that come up to the back porch just like in Durham. And they are just as unresponsive to her solicitations for slobber time as their NC counterparts. But on top of that, there are also raccoons, skunks, large birds, and rumors of coyotes that roam within yards of here. For the sniffers out there, the humans of the household leave the back door open for all the odors to waft in from the Bay and over the hills of San Mateo county. It's enough to get high on.

In any case, The Booger misses you guys and all the time she would spend ignoring you, eating your food, vomiting in your yard, or licking your owners' ovens. That includes the Wheaten boys, too, of course.

From One End of the Spectrum to the Other

I've yet to return to Stanford for pickup. Not because I don't want to, but because I decided I'd check out several other games in the area to see what's out there.

So, on Monday, I went out to Foster City, right on the Bay, and was surprised to find a group of 40-somethings and their pre/early-teen sons. Their ringleader was ecstatic to see me. "Wow, we'll have 12 people today! On good days, we just have 8." Apparently, on extra good days like this past Monday, they also decide to distort their playing field to look a little more like a dog run.

While I found the game at Stanford relatively laid back, I should say that the level of play was also pretty strong. Mistakes were not chastised or derided, but you definitely had to run your tail off. And I'm fairly certain that many of them had played on competitive teams before. At this Foster City game, though, well... not so much. It was sort of a walking game. Of turnovers.

On Tuesday, I attended a third game within a 10 mile radius of here. And after those three games within reasonable distance of each other, I had not seen a single player twice. In any case, this game took me out past the salt flats in Redwood City to a business park where a handful of players take 1-1.5 hours off for lunch to get exhausted and have an excuse not to be quite as productive in the afternoon. Between these folks and the Stanford game, I think I've found a nice mix of fun, lightly competitive games that operate at the upper and lower bounds of my skill range.

So, at the very least, I've got 3-4 games a week to keep me in shape while I look for a job.

It Has Begun

The Baby Chicken is already trying to butter me up. For Father's Day, she somehow managed to procure these two gifts for me. And as hard as it is for me to pass up a onesie, it's pretty convenient that these outfits are much better suited for her. And so, the accumulation of baby stuff has officially begun.

I also find it interesting that, by the designs on these onesies, the Baby Chicken already assumes she will have me wrapped around her finger. So presumptuous. We'll just have to see about that.

It's Not a Baby Rooster!

While we were visiting my family down in Alabama, my parents both asked us if we wanted to know Baby Chicken's gender.

"Definitely," we replied.

"OK, we can go to the hospital tomorrow," they said. At the time, the Wife had just barely passed the threshold when it is feasible to know the gender, and we had already assumed that we wouldn't be finding out for at least another month, given the time delays in getting across the country, waiting for new insurance to kick in, and navigating through the twists and turns of finding a new OB under a new HMO. So, yes, we were surprised by their suggestion. But when your dad runs a vast majority of the medical diagnostics in Bumpkin County, Alabama, there are no such hurdles.

And so, now we know with about 95% certainty that our Baby Chicken is indeed a baby chicken, rather than a baby rooster, thanks to a few views of her in some unladylike positions (which we shall forgive her for). And whereas before she was a bit tadpoley lookin' and slightly more baby chickenish, you can see here that she is indeed humanoid. The Wife and I are extremely proud.

Our Cross Country Trek in 5 Random Pictures

We stopped in Alabama and spent time experiencing the chaos that accompanies two very talkative, very outgoing, very different girls. We love them to death, but we're hoping Baby Chicken is a bit more introverted and reserved. Here they are in a rare quiet moment.



Look! Kansas! It's flat! What a surprise! I almost posted a picture where the highway actually bent out of its normal straight path, but I got sleepy just looking at the photo.



Once we got to Colorado, things obviously got less flat and much more interesting. Exhibit A: this camel, seen at 8,000 ft.



The Wife and I took a detour to see Arches National Park in Utah. But it was pretty hard not to be drawn in by this high quality attraction seen in the middle of the desert. We looked and looked, but we couldn't find any sign of Butch Cassidy or his King World Water Park. So disappointing.



After hitting our only bit of traffic for 3300 miles, we finally crossed the Bay Bridge on our way to Belmont, CA. We strategically planned our arrival into the Bay Area so as not to hit the bulk of rush hour traffic, meaning that we delayed our departure from the Utah/Nevada border that morning so as not to get to San Francisco between the hours of 5am and 9pm.



OK, obviously, there were more pictures taken. I have yet to look through them all yet. Don't worry, I'm still unemployed; so, there's not much else to do. Except look for a job, I suppose.