zygote daddy

a little thursday night diversion

So after more than two hours of various arcane procedural rules, mysterious calculations of delegate assignments, and repeated head counts (yes, head counts), we finally left our local caucus, only to find out that Obama had already been declared the winner. Hooray for democracy in action.

But I must say, there is something really refreshing about experiencing the purest form of American participatory democracy. Sure it's complicated, inconvenient, and disenfranchises thousands of people at work and in war zones, but I doubt that's any worse than rigged electronic voting machines.

And besides, it is just so damn exciting to be in the middle of what feels like a defining moment in American history. It's almost enough to exorcise the cynic in me.

the hazards of a college town

I like living in a college town. Even Ames (or L'ames, as it is periodically derided) has an independent movie theater, two different coffee houses, and an omnipresent bearded homeless transvestite. Unfortunately, as a college town it also has its share of newly independent 18-year-olds with pickup trucks and delusions of invincibility, which came home to me on Saturday when d.w. was rear-ended while sitting at a stoplight:

Thankfully she was fine, although she's had lots of x-rays, a referral to a physical therapist, and some chiropractic visits as a result of nagging back pain. Chins was home with me at the time, awaiting Mama's triumphant return after hours working in the studio. Of course, we still had to shell out a few hundred bucks for a new carseat, but hopefully the guy's insurance company can reimburse us for that. We'll see — I'm not holding my breath.

But you know what the kicker is? This is the second time our little car has been run into by a pickup-driving teenager with delusions of invincibility in the two years since we bought it. And last time the car had all of about 500 miles on it.

We were thinking about turning Chins' carseat around to face forward after his birthday on Saturday, but now I think we'll leave it as is for awhile, even if his knees are practically under his chin...

politics and babies: shameless, yet awesome.

For being less than a year old, Chins is really taking his responsibility as an Iowan seriously. Monday night he attended his very first political event, when Hillary Clinton came to Main St. to give a speech on a suitably Rockwellian (Whoa. I first typed "Orwellian". Whoa.) street corner. It wasn't set to start until 7:00, so Chins had his bath, donned his jammies (or rather screamed and writhed while d.w. tried to maneuver his hands and feet into their respective compartments), and the three of us set off, stroller and Ergo in tow.

A better-managed campaign event you will not find. The crowd was herded into the street between police barricades, packed densely below a banner with some vague, forgettable slogan scrawled across it. There were bleachers, too, positioned exactly to fall within the camera frames of the bevy of press and campaign photographers. It was a little odd, though, being in an audience completely behind and to one side of the candidate (the side opposite the press area, naturally). The sight of a candidate speaking passionately in the direction opposite from those assembled was, frankly, a little surreal.

Chins did great actually, considering Clinton arrived an hour late, an hour overflowing with the most tedious filler one can imagine. One of our local politicians droning on about...something. An old lady, who I think was the county Democratic chair, relating the most soul-crushingly boring story about...something. Then there was the middle school girl haltingly reading something clearly intended to be inspirational. Maybe it was, but by that point my heart had turned to stone.

(But you know, that's how these things usually are. Obama was late to an event here a couple of weeks ago, so we the assembled were subjected to the impromptu, pulled-out-of-the-ass speeches of self-important political science majors. Kill. Me. Now.)

Shortly before Clinton arrived, the late hour, the lack of toys, and the standing around finally caught up to Chins, so d.w. and the be-Ergo'ed, jammie-bound baby made their way, bouncing and singing, through the crowd. We had been offered a spot on the dais with the other nuggets of the political gold mine (union members, old people, any people of color they could find), but I have a feeling the sight of a crazed, sleep-deprived woman bouncing her crazed, sleep-deprived giant of a baby would have drawn the ire of all assembled. Or at least campaign handlers.

But then again, Chins probably could have single-handedly sealed the deal on Clinton getting elected — I mean, what politician could resist those cheeks? And what politician wouldn't get elected in a landslide, with a photo of something like that?

Maybe I'm on to something here.

the fabulous timberline lodge: a pictorial journey

As promised, a few shots of the beautiful Timberline Lodge:

life in the glorious timberline lodge

Now that the spring semester is finally over, ecology grad students everywhere are fanning out to research sites across the globe in search of fame, fortune, and deadly parasitic infections. For me, this means studying birds in the beautiful rolling prairies of southern Iowa and northern Missouri, where thankfully the parasites are limited to mosquitoes, chiggers, and a diverse array of ticks. And yes, in the the four days since I've been here I have become intimately familiar with all of them.

For the next few weeks I will be living in the glorious Timberline Lodge, overlooking beautiful Lake "The grass is wet...is that a septic tank leaking?!".

Timberline Lodge: a less suitable moniker for this place would be exceedingly difficult. Far from being a "lodge", it is actually a cheaply-constructed addition tacked onto the back of a gun shop (oh, I'm sorry, that's "hunting outfitter") in the little town of Mt. Ayr, Iowa, more than 700 miles from the nearest timberline.

The other researcher staying here thankfully brought a giant fan with her, which we have had going full blast since we arrived, so as not to gag from the overpowering stench of mold emanating from the "bedrooms", really a couple of hastily partitioned sections of a very wet basement. I shouldn't be too down on the place, because after all, there are beds here, with sheets and everything.

Of course, those sheets look like they haven't been washed since 1972. Seriously. I was barely able to bring myself to take them off the bed they were so nasty. And when I did, I decided that I would be better served bringing my own pillows...I really don't want to sleep on something with that much of someone else's blood on it.

I'm guessing it's from bed bug bites. OK, add those to the list of encountered parasites.

At least I can sleep in my sleeping bag, which contains only my own funk. Sure, it's 15 years of funk, but it's somehow not creepy and gross when it's mine. Well, it's a little gross, but at least it's not creepy.

And did I mention the bathroom? Should I? I'll save the gory details, but suffice it to say that I wish I brought shower shoes. And from now on I think I'll leave the lights off. It's just better that way.

Just curious: If you were charging $250 a week (or more than $1000 a month) to rent out your dank basement with a single bare bulb and loose wires descending from the ceiling, wouldn't you at least do a once-over with a sponge? Anyway.

So while I miss d.w. and Chins terribly, I think everyone would agree that having him stay here would not be the most prudent course of action. Especially given his penchant for rolling around naked and stuffing everything within reach into his mouth. We're going to try to spend weekends together, although I have a feeling that means a motel. I should ask the proprietor of the Timberline Lodge if he might know a decent one.

And then again, maybe not.

[Pictures to follow this weekend, when I head back home for Mother's Day (since, you know, I want to have a home to come back to at the end of the summer). Goody goody.]

considerations we hadn't foreseen when we decided to go with cloth

So it turns out the best way to bleach those rather alarming vivid green stains out of cloth diapers is to wash them and lay them in the sun for a day or so. It also turns out that the first sunny day we've had in weeks had a high temperature hovering somewhere around zero. Put these two fun factoids together, and this is the result:

Oh, and another thing. Today was the first time I have ever had to sweep a pile of snow into a dustpan. Good thing our house doesn't get that warm in the winter.

zygotic habitat restoration: check.

Ok. Thanks to the diligent efforts of d.w.'s and my various sets of parents (oh, those wacky modern families, you know), we finally have one room finished in our little experiment in perpetual home remodeling. And our little hatchling will be happy to know that his room was the first to cross the finish line, his impending arrival adding that sense of urgency critical to getting over that little wall you hit at about 93% completion. So let's take a little tour, shall we?


OK, for a little context we'll start with the big picture. Here is our house. One of the benefits of living in a place like Iowa, besides the creepily friendly populace, is that a cute little house with all the original woodwork (the flipside being all the original wiring) costs less than a college education. In case you're wondering, yes, that is a sea kayak. And yes, the nearest ocean is a couple of thousand miles away. And yes, it's just a little pathetic that I take it out on old quarries and reservoirs. But I'm getting off topic. Let's look at the hatchling's room.

    

Both d.w. and I agreed very early on that there would be a few ground rules for the baby's room. No teddy bear wallpaper border. No frilly furniture. No pastel colors. And for god's sake, no plastic crap. It was a long, hard slog, but I think we came out ok. I will admit we became a little bit obsessive about the whole thing, but with the fervor of true believers we stuck to our principles, even when descending into the design-god-forsaken bowels of Babies-R-Us.

So there you have it. Our quest completed, we can now sit back and patiently await the hatchling's arrival, confident in the power of clean lines and primary colors to soothe and succor an infant's ills.

Yeah, not too convincing, am I...

With only a few weeks left, "patient" and "confident" are probably not the first words I would choose to describe myself. "Deer in the headlights" is probably more appropriate:                  

on urban memory

Well, on Monday d.w. and I made it back from our little weekend jaunt to Chicago. While we were there we did our part to bridge the internet/reality divide, stopping by with Samantha from Back to Me, who is easily as cool in person as she is on the innernets. But that whole bloggers-are-actually-three-dimensional-sentient-beings thing sure takes some getting used to.

Yikes. You know you need to get out more when real human contact becomes a novelty.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. We had a blissfully relaxing weekend with various college and grad school friends who all somehow managed to get sucked into the Midwestern vortex from Florida, New York, and southeastern Ohio (totally not the Midwest -- it's like West Virginia without the inbreeding) upon entering the real world. 

Ok, hold on.

I was about to go into one of those totally uncreative "What is it with people getting sucked into the Midwest?!" rants, but I think I'll take a different tack. Because really, Chicago is a totally cool place. For a city so relatively young, I just love how bursting with history and memory it is. Untold decades of deferred maintenance and outright neglect have slowed the relentless advance of sterile urban homogeneity. Train platforms remain creaky, gnarled wood, and the once elegant, now rusting wrought iron trusses are held together by 132 coats of paint, urine, and hope.

And the apartment buildings! While ascending the back stairs to our friend's fourth-floor apartment, you could feel the memory of the place seeping up through floorboards worn to concavity.

But you know, something tells me d.w. wasn't feeling it. That's the other thing about Chicago: it's got a hell of a lot of stairs when you're 30 weeks pregnant.

4-H project titles make no sense, and other things to be learned at the state fair

We finally made it to the Iowa state fair on Wednesday, and I must say it was a rather eye-opening experience. I have never seen such swarms of those old-people scooters. And the sad thing? Hardly any were driven by old people. They appear to be far more popular among the morbidly obese. But I digress. Anyway, I thought I'd offer a little glimpse into the fair for those unlucky enough to have missed the excitement. Ready? Do you think you can handle it? OK then:

 

Are we humble fair-goers really that predictable?

 

Apparently Iowa never got the memo about fanny packs. But man oh man, that's one patriotic little girl.

 

Goddamn I wish I could pull off a handlebar mustache. Of course, here I don't think it would be perceived as avant garde or ironic.

 

For a people so enamored by giant and/or oddly-shaped vegetables, you would think they would actually eat them, too.

 

I'm sure something separates the first place ear of feed corn from the tenth place ear of feed corn. But I have no idea what. Also, did you know you could get a tenth place ribbon? For feed corn?

 

Somehow a poster about global warming in Iowa (which I never before realized has an icecap) and a set of felt Christmas ornaments are judged in the same category in the 4-H competition. Not sure about that one.

 

Even if a poster title makes no sense, it can still get you second place.

 

I will never brush my teeth again. Also, I just noticed the poster at the bottom. That's either a morally suspect application of biotechnology or one fucked up college dating guide.

ok, just one more thing to love about iowa.

The Iowa State Fair starts Thursday. I love the state fair. Who doesn't like fried [insert any food here] on a stick? But the best part? Definitely the cow made out of butter. Actually, what I love most is watching the steady stream of people making their annual pilgrimage. Last year they also had Tiger Woods sculpted out of butter (with a tiger, of course, in case you couldn't figure it out). This year, Superman. Expect a full discussion next week.

My question is, what do they do with the butter after the fair? Sure seems like a waste. You know, that butter could cover a lot of toast. Or maybe you could run a car on it — just so long as you could figure out a way around that whole solid-at-room-temperature problem. But I must say, it would be the quintessential alternative fuel for the upper Midwest. That and pork fat. Yummy.

I think I may be on to something.