IMR: 1998: July: 16 -- Thursday, 7:27 p.m.
Our Apartment, Makiki, Hawai`i
I've had better weeks.
Katie's taking a nap, and no doubt it'll be a short one, so I'll make this quick.
Left the apartment with Katie for a walk in the park so Jen could take a nap. I didn't make it out of the building. While I was pushing the stroller out of the elevator, it suddenly dropped.
Just eight, nine inches, landing I guess on the huge springs below, but it was enough to take me off balance and tip the stroller. In horrifying slow motion, I struggled to keep it upright while landing hard on my knee. I couldn't hold it, only slow the fall, and with a gentle thump, a thoroughly startled Katie rolled out and landed on her stomach on the floor of the elevator.
Struggling to my feet, I growled a few words I really ought to get out of my vocabulary before Katie starts to talk, which scared her more than the fall did, so she started crying. I think I spontaneously sprouted an extra pair of arms, managing to grab Katie, snatch up her spilled toys, right the stroller, and hit the button at the same time.
Jen snapped violently out of doze mode as soon as she heard. We called the nurse line immediately.
Ultimately, she was fine, didn't even really notice, I bet, smiling and squealing and kicking away less than a half hour after her tumble. But Jen and I were certainly wrung out, and our plans for the evening (I already forgot what they were) were shot.
I started drafting a nasty letter to my landlord in my head.
We pack up and head off to mom's house. When we get to the car, I discover that my door lock has been punched.
Scrambling around the car to enter from the passenger side, I thankfully find nothing missing, the scoundrel apparently unable -- in the end -- to actually get in. But the damage was done, and for the rest of the day (and forever until I can afford to get it fixed) I grow to hate life more and more as I have to go through a ridiculous series of maneuvers every time I want to get into my car:
- Open the passenger door with the key.
- Hit the 'unlock' button on the console, which opens all doors except the driver's door.
- Open the back door on the driver's side and unlock the driver's door manually.
- Open the driver's door, get in, and swear.
The letter to the landlord grew by a paragraph.
Jen's first day back at work, my first day back at being full-time dad. Katie decided I needed to be hazed all over again, spending most of the afternoon and evening screaming.
Screaming in my ear, screaming at everyone at the mall, screaming at the neighbors. She only stopped to sleep, but even that was fitful, since all the screaming left her panting and jerking with those huh-heh breaths you get after a long cry.
Oh, and she also stopped screaming when she needed her throat to throw up a couple of gallons of applesauce.
She screamed all the way to Kahala, and promptly stopped and passed out five minutes after Jen jumped into the car. "That's daddy's little girl," I muttered, trying to get the rusty spear out of my skull.
I had a checkup meeting with my lawyer. Enough said.
Work at the press included, in part, wiping up years' worth of accumulated gecko poop to clear the way for my boss' new shelf, and realizing (after counting) that I have about 300 more individual book pages left to switch over to the "new" design.
I wake up, stumble groggily down to my car, and find that this time, some one successfully managed to break in to my car.
"Ack," was the best I could muster. Could someone have been so desperate to get into my car so as to come back four days later to finish the job? I mean, there are two '94 Honda Accords in the lot, and a '92 Acura upstairs! Goddamn it.
They did a fairly thorough job of cleaning it out, though their choices were somewhat baffling. While leaving the brand new, $100 child seat and an envelope stuffed full with registration papers (and, shockingly, the car's original title), they cleaned out the glove compartment, the armrest and the trunk.
That is to say, they got my Jiffy Lube maintenance log, the owner's manual to a 1984 Nissan, half a dozen custom tapes (!) of Björk, Journey and Chemical Brothers, maybe 95 cents in change, and a duffel bag filled with rusted tools, stale flares, extra lug nuts and jumper cables.
The only thing worth taking, I think, was the jumper cables.
The letter to the landlord grew by two paragraphs.
I faxed it from work, filing a report with the cops over the phone and trading car horror stories with the folks in the office. One guy had a friend whose whole car was stolen over the weekend from a restaurant parking lot, so I guess I was lucky in that respect.
But still, what a sucky string of days. And the break-in wasn't the worst of it. I won't even go into the worst of it.
The week did have, to be honest, some happy gems.
On Sunday, spotting an ad in the paper, mom rushed us over to Sears and bought us a brand new car seat for Katie. Even though we'd been saying for a while that Katie had outgrown the "infant seat" we received on loan from cousin Jennifer, I didn't expect mom to replace it. 'Twas a pleasant surprise, and it's a much, much nicer chair.
Tuesday night we got to hang out with mom, chowing down on some Arby's Beef & Cheddar and watching Law & Order reruns on A&E (that's a lot of ampersands).
Wednesday evening we had William over for some fancy bagels (from Bagel Bakers at Manoa Marketplace) and "Scream 2." The bagels were great -- had my first taste of lox -- and the horror ie sequel was indeed better than the first one.
And... well, the thieves didn't take my new "Barenaked Ladies" CD, which I'd left on the floor in the back seat.
I guess I should also be thankful that Katie's beeing such an angel today. She was a little fussy right after lunch, but so far she's been happy and playful. Four and a half hours to go...
I just got through videotaping her for Jen's parents. Katie's milestone of the moment is being able to "tripod" -- that is, almost sitting up, but doing so by propping herself up with her arms.
She eventually gets too excited or tired and tips over, but it's still adorable.
Doh! She's awake. Gotta go.
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|© Ryan Kawailani Ozawa · E-Mail: email@example.com · Created: 16 July 1998 · Last Modified: 22 July 1998|