The Swiffer Kids

So there you are, in the dark, drunkard-stepping through a sea of Lincoln Logs, Spiderman underwear, monster trucks, and about 8 billion Goldfish crumbs.  It’s hard to balance but you manage to avoid a direct step down onto the Batmobile, which would have punctured your heel and, worse, triggered the toy’s action song, one so catchy and horrendous, you’d sworn 100 times you were going to write a letter to China.

As you regain your balance however, your other foot finds a wayward sippy cup.  You roll your ankle, flip up in the air, and come crashing to the floor tailbone first.  You’re in a Tom & Jerry Cartoon.

As you realize with gratitude that nothing’s fractured (probably), you smile and say to yourself, “Those darn kids!”  WAIT.  No you don’t.  You come to your senses and declare through gnashing teeth, “That’s it!  Those ingrates are gonna start fuckin’ cleaning up around here!” (At least, that’s what I said.)

You know they should.  But there’s a funny little problem:  those kids . . . they just don’t want to clean.

Joan Rivers once said, “If they can crawl, they can dust.”  While I do not dispute her older-than-dirt wisdom, Rivers neglects to make the distinction between the ability to dust and the willingness to dust.

With their tiny developing bodies, small children have dexterity to spare.   No doubt you’ve seen your own munchkins guide meatballs into their gullets with a fork.  You’ve ducked as they slung Play-Doh – with an archer’s precision – into the fine latticework of your ceiling fan.  You’ve marveled at their manipulation of six buttons on the Wii remote, as they destroy all the zombies from the Planet Zebor.  Ain’t they amazin’?

Yet they can’t put a sock into a fucking basket.

Service Ineptitude Kills Great Grub at Korma Sutra

(I regret not taking pictures; the food was beautiful.  But oh, those gin and sodas!)

Just when life couldn’t get any more hilarious, my wife and I decided to venture out with another couple to downtown Houston’s Korma Sutra (706 Main St.) We had heard nothing about the restaurant except for its North Indian Cuisine (Mughlia).  We love trying new foods and restaurants, and our friends were buying, so what could go wrong?

Photo courtesy of http://thekormasutra.com

We were greeted and seated promptly in the beautiful, crimson dining room.  It was 6:30 p.m. so we knew we were the early crowd; there were probably six other occupied tables.

What soon became obvious was that the lady who’d seated us was also the only waitress in the place.  Also, no bartender in sight.  No manager.  No other human being in sight that smacked of a Korma Sutra employee except for one busboy who walked very fast.  Having worked in upscale restaurants, I took two glances around and I knew this spelled trouble.  It was Valentine’s weekend – Saturday night – at a mid-to-upscale joint . . . with skeleton crew.

Yet, I made myself take a few deep breaths.  We’re not at Chili’s and this isn’t America.  OK, well it is America, but any time you venture outside the trailer park dining circuit, you have to pretend you’re in Europe.  You’ve got all night to eat dinner, right?  What’s the hurry?  So I shifted my mindset to “patient” and I believe my dining companions did as well.

But after our water glasses were filled, we waited at least 10 minutes for the next table visit.  Not exactly an eternity but in a relatively empty restaurant, it did not seem like it should have taken so long.  When the waitress finally made her way back, she simply asked if we were ready to order.

At this point I had to lay another expectation aside:  having a savvy order taker.   I really appreciate it when servers can speak fluently about the kitchen’s offerings.  Being a novice to the cuisine and new to this restaurant, I at least expect:  ”is this your first time here?”  or, better yet, enthusiastic recommendations.  But no.  This obviously under-qualified person was simply trying to get our orders so she could get on to the next waiter task.

We ordered everything – since we’d had ample time to look.  I ordered tandoori lamb chops with ginger and rosemary and a tomato saffron soup.  We also ordered a chicken curry, tikka masala, and plenty of rice, potatoes, vegetables, and naan.   I ordered a bottle of cab while my wife and her friend ordered two gin and tonics.  Finally, we asked for two orders of samosas for appetizers.

Alive & Wiggling Slightly

The reason I need to document all this pain is so I can look back with clarity and say, “Yeah, I remember that.  It was THAT BAD.”  I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to forget how horrible this feels.  I don’t want people to be ignorant about Lupus.  If my pain can cause even the slightest increase in awareness, then good.  Lupus is just dastardly.

On a recent episode of River Monsters, host Jeremy Wade explained how some large species of catfish can live for many days after being caught and removed from water.  They showed an African village and its fish market – with rows and piles of recently caught fish – many of them breathing and wiggling slightly . . .  obviously miserable, desperate, helpless, and running out of time.

Now.  While I’m confident I’m not about to be eaten or have my skull turned into a tribal ornament, I’m afraid I can relate to how those poor creatures might feel.

With my kidneys wasting away, my fatigue has multiplied in recent months.  I’ve never felt a deeper futility, a more profound mental and physical tiredness.  Even after a decent night’s sleep, I am relegated to chairs most of the day.  When I walk, my femurs feel like they’re made of goo; my thighs of rubber.  For good measure, I also bruise spontaneously (meaning with no trauma).  I get sore bones and pull muscles with simple movements.  Because of failing kidneys and medications, I get all bloated up and resemble Jabba the Hutt, with intermittent temper to match.  With special effort, I can stay awake past 10 p.m., maybe 11 p.m. if there’s an event . . .

It just feels like total systemic atrophy and it won’t stop.  Lupus – and the subsequent kidney failure I’m experiencing as a result of it – is a complete and total fucker.  It’s my own personal Serpent and the Rainbow.  Sadly, my nephrologist says he’s heard it all a thousand times.

Kidney Transplant Update (Century Problem Warp)

While not among the better known mind games one can play with oneself, “Century Problem Warp” is a real honey if you’ve never tried it.  The rules are simple: (1) take a current problem or predicament you have, and (2) pretend it’s a different century and reanalyze the solution or outcome.

For example, let’s say Comcast has ganked your internet for the eighth time this month. You have a deadline, unfinished projects, and clients tapping their fingers at you. BOOM it’s the year 1910, and eureka! you know what the internet is and no one else does. You invent it and become a quadrillionaire. Then you die of complications from polio because Jonas Salk is only four years old.  Thanks for playing!

I’ve been playing “Century Problem Warp” with my whole kidney transplant situation – mainly been to keep myself in good spirits. This is because when I get zapped to 1910 with these failing kidneys, I am making funeral plans, or pawning parts to Dr. Frankenstein.   If I get deep into the mind game, it gets a little depressing and dangerous.  “So, this is what it would feel like to be dying very slowly,” is NOT good for creating positive feedback loops!  So, I am enormously grateful to find myself HERE at the moment:  in a medicine boom, in the best city with the best medicine, NOT dying.  Beyond that, I’ve got a great support system and have had some enormous good fortune in my search for a suitable donor.

Lil’ Taco Warriors Pt. II – El Toro Meat Market

It was one of those days that I’m embarrassed to admit how little I had to do.  3/5 of my kids were at school, while the other two were playing the blood-pressure-skyrocketing game of Hi-Ho-Cherry-O Confetti, where pea-sized cherries from the popular board game become projectiles, choking hazards, and eventually painful foot-lodgings.  O childhood gaiety.

I had to intervene.

Intervention, of course, meant getting my ass of the couch and setting aside my laptop.  With Twitter full of commuter rage and work litanies, and our living room raining tiny cherries, I hatched my plan like any good parent:  ”TACO TRUCK!”

My Lil’ Taco Warriors (Lachlan, 3, and Vigo, 2) snapped to attention instantly upon hearing my plan.  ”TACO TRUCK?  FIRST WE HAVE TO GET A TORTILLA, AND THEN WE EAT A PIZZA AND A QUESADILLA.”

However vague their recollection of how this worked, our team was amped to have an activity . . . like Phineas & Ferb’s signature saying, “Hey, I know what we’re gonna do today!”

The plan was simple:  Wait ’til 10:15 a.m., load kiddos in the van, and head west on FM 1960 to look for taco stands.

After passing approximately 18 fast food joints whose headquarters are in places called Nopa Linda – Detroit, Massagua-chussetts, USA, we happened upon the taco stand where I lost my taco truck virginity. “HEY WE’VE BEEN THERE!” shouted Lachlan.  ”We go watch airplanes!”

“Correct!” I replied as we raced past Lee Rd.  ”But let’s keep going!”