• Bitching about the weather

    There are two kinds of Floridians: native born and transplants. There are two kinds of transplants: those that don’t mind the summers and those that do. There are two kinds of people who mind the summer weather: those that complain about it and those that don’t. I’m a transplant that doesn’t like the summer weather and is outspoken on the matter.

    Coming in to work this morning, I had the occasion to flip the calendar to the new month (we’re not in May anymore Toto). The first thing that jumped out at me was that June 21 is the first day of summer (the summer solstice for those of you who are astronomically inclined). To those of us who live in Florida, June 21 is a relatively meaningless day. Summer weather has been with us for over a month now; forget about waiting another twenty odd days. Highs in the nineties, lows in the mid to upper seventies, humidity thick enough to go down the wrong pipe, direct sunlight that will burn unprotected skin in just over fifteen minutes, what’s not to like? Normally I would just go indoors and stay there, but my friend the air conditioner has betrayed me yet again.

    WANTED: Catharsis suitable for a thirty-two year old male who is ready to go up in the attic and open a can of whoop ass on his air handler.

  • A mother by any other name

    Cheryl and Beth have a unique mother-daughter relationship. At any given time, any one of these labels may seem appropriate for Cheryl’s relationship with Beth: friend, rival, taskmaster, pseudo-sibling, mentor, nurse, maid, and cook. Of all these titles, the most surprising one was added yesterday afternoon, secretary. I would have sooner expected Beth to be doing aerial acrobatics from the arm of the living room couch than what I saw yesterday: Beth dictating a letter to Cheryl.

    You just haven’t lived until you’ve heard your six year old daughter dictating an email message for her aunt to her mother, like some kind of corporate executive: “, ‘feeling much much better’ PERIOD – NEW SENTENCE – ‘I’m having a lot of ,’”

  • Where’s your optimism when the glass is empty?

    Oh don’t mind me; I’m just suffering through some garden variety fatigue. You see, yesterday I had a rough evening. There wasn’t anything special about it, just another night of the Lightning in the Stanley Cup Finals. Ho Hum. The score was really close through two periods, but that’s nothing new. I got about four and a half of my accustomed seven hours of sleep last night, but I figure its good practice for the new baby (coming soon to a Kauffman household near you!). So I’m a little tired. You know what? I’m having a great time. Cheryl sits in her pregnant perch, directing chores like a household quarterback running a two minute drill. I’ve been running around at work like a man with an unhealthy understanding of chemistry. Beth and I have retreated to the backyard every evening to, GASP, do yard work. YARD WORK!?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND MAN!?!

    Yes sir, strange things are afoot in the Kauffman household (version 2.2). I’m exhausted. I’m working my tucchus off. Hell, I’m doing yard work every damn day. And yet, I’m unexpectedly content. I’ll admit that the prospect of Cheryl going on “managed bed rest” was a cause of concern within the cramped confines of my mind. Now it’s here and things don’t seem so bad. Granted, I still regard housework with the all the enthusiasm of a new proctology patient. I guess the secret really is how you approach things. Happiness can certainly be found in the strangest of places.

    The other day someone at church said something that took me by surprise. A gentleman told me that he noticed that Cheryl and I still talked with each other like we were dating. It was something that stuck with me. It’s rather ironic actually. When Cheryl and I were dating, people used to tell us that we acted like an old married couple. Now that we’re married people are telling us that we act like we’re dating. Does that mean that we’ve regressed?

    How does this all tie together?

    Let me just say that despite my exhaustion; despite my occasional lack of youthful exuberance; despite the televised sports events driving me to an early grave; I feel alive. I feel good, and I feel my mood infecting others. I’ve seen the return of Cheryl’s innocent smile. I’ve seen the return of Beth’s playful innocence. I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, I feel the warmth of the sun shining on my face.