I set a goal for myself this weekend: Spend a few hours cleaning my bedroom & bathroom. Let’s see how I did…

• The tan computer desk’s main surface and keyboard drawer have been decluttered and cleaned. Even the scanner, speakers and keyboard received a quick wipe-down. One can, for goodness sake, see the entire desk surface.
• The bathroom sink and counter-top are clean.
• I took the roomie’s spiffy new vacuum cleaner for a spin, and boy does my floor look good!

The other computer desk needs a quick once-over, all of the hutches and shelving need their contents thrown on the floor and rearranged and/or tossed into the trash, and then there’s the small matter of my overflowing closet… but I think I’ve done enough damage for one day. I’m taking a four-day weekend after the coming joyfully-short work week, and my goal is to spend part of next Sunday making more visible progress on turning my living quarters into somewhat less of what many parental units around the world and over the years might refer to as “a pig-sty.”

Not, mind you, that I normally live in filth. Just… clutter. Lots of clutter.

Once again this morning I was reminded of a fact that I can’t quite fit into my world view. I dress in clean clothes, I bathe every day, I do my best to present a pleasant (or at least neutral) demeanor, I lack disfiguring scars and tattoos and piercings, I use deodorant, I don’t take up that much space. So why is it that nobody wants to sit next to me on the bus or train?

This morning, for instance, two people in a row stopped at my bench on the MAX, crouched a bit as if they were about to sit down, then apparently thought better of it and moved on. Most of the time on the bus, if I happen to be on the last bench with a free seat inside the entire vehicle, it’ll remain unoccupied while people stand in the aisle. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.

What gives, Portland? Why don’t you want to sit next to me? I don’t bite. Honest.

(For the record, I don’t mind having elbow room. I just feel bloody damned conspicuous as the only person on the vehicle who’s sitting alone.)

The highlight of the weekend just gone by was spending some time at one of the local “laser tag” emporiums, Ultrazone down in Milwaukie, to celebrate the kids’ birthdays. (It was sort of a joint party, one a few days late and the other a month or so early.) After a bit of cake, ice cream and soda we all trooped into the blacklit arena and zapped one another with laser beams.

Originally the teams were going to be Boys Versus Girls, but a gender imbalance meant that it became instead a Boys Versus Girls And Grownups affair. (The alternative implication is that I spent part of the afternoon as an honorary girl. Pish.) The G-and-G team chose the red equipment both times around, and we stuck with the same suit numbers as well.

Something Ultrazone changed since the last time I played there is that the three available sets of equipment have themed character names assigned. Our first round consisted of Spider-Man Characters versus Autobots And Decepticons, and the other game added Star Wars Characters to the mix. (Ultrazone threw in another small group who wouldn’t have been able to muster enough for two teams and their own round otherwise. We didn’t mind much, as there’s nothing quite like a target-rich environment to make things interesting.)

We all had fun, nobody got hurt, and I was pleasantly surprised by the improvement in my scoring ability since my last visit years ago. In both games I took a commanding lead on the scoreboard, helping (but certainly not carrying) my team to victory. There’s also something to be said for being on a team in which everyone’s very good about avoiding friendly-fire.

Hey, being the top dog (or hobgoblin, if you prefer) earned me two free game coupons, so I suppose that counts for something. Right? More importantly, of course, I had the chance to say “neener neener” to my kids.

I’m fairly certain that’s in the job description for fatherhood. Trust me.

Dear Marie Callender Pie Shops Inc.,

For many years I’ve enjoyed your Fettucini With Chicken And Broccoli frozen entree as one of my favorite alternatives to spending too much money dining out at lunchtime. This classic dish, topped off with a few sprinkles of pepper (from the provided packet), has improved many an otherwise-dreary workday. And yet, I’m afraid that your product now disappoints rather more than it pleases.

The first change was the exclusion of the pepper packet a year or so ago. I mourned the loss, but I suppose to some extent it makes sense. Most workplace kitchens have pepper available, yes?

Your new packaging and recipe, however, won’t do the job at all. What used to be Alfredo sauce could now be better described as Alfredo soup. Seriously, almost none of it is sticking to the pasta or broccoli or chicken. Since the whole affair is now a slippery mess, it’s almost impossible to eat the meal without making a total mess of things. And, while I like broccoli well enough, there’s now so much of it that the so-called sauce is almost more green than white thanks to bits of broccoli floating around.

Feh. Here I am, trying to save money on my workday lunches, and this is the treatment I get? To hell with that. I guess I’ll be stocking up on those nifty Stouffer’s panini sandwiches instead.

Yours, etc,

Me.

I’ve been a parent for fifteen years now. This blows my mind. Luckily both of my kids are turning out pretty darned well. The oldest can currently be found either gaming (on console, computer or handheld), pursuing advanced mathematics or indulging his newfound love of theater. (His mother is thoroughly delighted about that last item.) He’s also a fair bit taller than I am, thus taking after his mother’s side of the family. So far the expected teenager’s angst and attitude have been kept to a reasonable minimum, though I wonder what’ll happen when he decides to express an interest in dating…

But anyway: Happy Birthday, Alexander. I hope you like your present!