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Michael's Diary Entries Diary Navigation: Choose A Diary Entry -------------------- Latest Entry: 8/28/00 -------------------- 8/21/00 8/14/00 8/7/00 8/1/00 7/24/00 7/17/00 7/10/00 7/3/00 6/26/00 6/19/00 6/12/00 6/5/00 5/29/00 5/22/00 5/14/00 -------------------- Michael's Introduction

June 26, 2000

Dear Readers,

What a horrible week! I had to watch the kids for four straight mornings. I’m kidding about the horrible, of course, but after, let’s say, taking an unofficial vacation from my responsibilities as a stay-at-home dad two weeks ago -- or as Lisa called it, being a slacker and dumping on her -- I felt a little rusty, a little easier to rile, and a little light in the patience department. By Thursday, though, I was back in the groove and ready ... to go off duty again. I love summer, and so does my wife, I think. Yeah, I’m sure she does. How couldn’t she?

Rain and Reparative Incompetence:
Brandon loves it when things break in our house and I can’t fix them, which according to him and Lisa are most things, because this means that I have to call either my brother Darren (Uncle D) or a repairmen, giving Brandon the opportunity to watch men who really know how to use tools. A few weeks ago he let me know the depth of my perceived reparative incompetence when he, upon noticing a hole in his sock told Lisa, "Call Uncle D to fix."

So on Monday, when I rolled back the carpet from the corner of the lower level of our raised ranch and took down the imitation stone panels, held in place by grout, to find the spot where water was entering our family room, Brandon watched with excitement, seemingly aware that this job would require outside intervention. He was right: a crack stretched the length of the foundation wall from top to bottom, about 4-1/2 feet long.

On Thursday, the repairman came and Brandon sat on the couch and watched him the whole time: clean the spot, drill into the hole, shoot in the epoxy and cover it with hydraulic cement. What a way to spend the afternoon for him. The leak is fixed, but the wall is still apart. And I just know Brandon is thinking, hoping, that I can’t get it back together. But I will, I promise. I will put that panel back together myself, if I can.

Good Bye, Good Luck:
On Saturday, my sister, Sandra, threw a farewell party for herself. She has decided to leave her good, important job helping kids stay out of trouble and move to California to live with our sister Paulette, a writer, most recently for the television show Seven Days. While I wish that she wouldn’t have moved, mainly for my own selfish reasons, losing another best friend and very reliable last-minute babysitter, I bid her a fond farewell and celebrated her new prospects with her and family and friends. Secretly, however, I hope she hates it there and comes back soon, but I’m not counting on that.

Now, I’m not a complete fuddy-duddy, though I often appear and act that way. Well, on second thought, I am, but anyway I do understand the appeal: to be in your mid-twenties, unattached and unencumbered, with a place to stay in Calif., with a successful sister, with job possibilities in Hollywood, and no worries if it doesn’t work out. The more I think about the better it sounds -- Lisa, I’m logging onto to Priceline.com looking for the cheapest fare to CA -- just kidding.

But this loss of another friend has toughened my resolve not to make any more close friends: they all move away and I’m tired of it. My wife says that’s unreasonable -- and she’s right, as usual -- but everyone, every couple I really like moves away. Usually it’s job-related, at least that’s what they tell me. But I don’t care: no more making friends.

Party All Night Long:
Back to the party. It was supposed to be a little get-together but it turned it to a full-blown party, at least by our modest standards, over twenty people, piles of food, chili enchiladas, hot wings, chips and dips; and rivers of drinks, frozen fresh strawberry margaritas, which I expertly made, and beer.

Brandon and Allie enjoyed the party, getting to stay up well past bedtime and getting to feed Doritos to our old dog, Maggie. Allie also got to eat chips all night, taking after her father who’s a recovering Doritos addict. My recovery program doesn’t allow me to even keep them in the house, but tonight I inhaled them, a whole bag in two breaths. I’m open about my weakness (unlike Lisa who refuses to admit her chocolate dependency and keeps candy bars hidden in her purse and her car). I remember how I once used Lisa’s car and found over ten wrappers of Three Musketeers and Kit Kats strewn about the passenger seat. She said they had accumulated over many weeks. Talk about denial.

I’ve noticed that when I buy sweet snacks for her and the kids they disappear quickly, ten (little) candy bars say goodbye in less than two days. Of course, she blames the precipitous decline on (you can guess it) the kids. But her candy bar munching, chocolate mouth stuffing doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that I can’t eat good, full-fat chips without gaining weight, the way she does things sweet. Someday I hope some scientist does something really important for society, like eliminate the injustice of hereditary susceptibility to weight gain from overindulgence of junk food.

Eating low fat chips all alone in a dry basement,
Michael