I've been trying to write over these last few days, but it hasn't been working out. I have no thinking time, time to sort wheat from chaff, unless I'm in the steam room. And I can't hold any ideas because I can't write anything down. Bullet trains of thought stop at my little dendritic depot, but by the time I get home they've shot off into the distance and are time zones away, serving dinner in the club car.
Then's there's the distraction of my wife, stretching and grunting to her exercise video about five feet from this desk. She's facing the TV, so I see a lot of her keister in skimpy workout pants. This is an especially appealing view, now that the boys are in the Bert Sanctuary and we have been reunited in our marital bed. It's great, but it also feels a little strange, like she's staying over or something. It brings back memories of when we were co-workers dating on the sly and taking great pains not to arrive at the office at the same time. I'd usually arrive after her and have to play it cool when I walked by her desk. "Good morning. It's good to see you again after all those hours away from you, and I can assure you I have no idea what color panties you're wearing."
[Yes, ladies, I called them panties. Because that's what they are.]
Labor Day Weekend was long but mostly relaxing, since I got to celebrate the end of so many weeks as the family bellhop by staying put. (You can go far in this life by counterprogramming the masses. Zig when they zag, baby.) The boys and I mostly hung out at the playground, and it's a whole new ballgame now that 1) Robert can bike like a motherfucker and 2) TwoBert likes to runrunrunrunrun. Parents of two fully acceleratory boys need to develop independent ocular orbits, like those lizards have, to keep tabs on things. The boys' paths rarely intersect; rather, their trajectories usually recall those word problems about trains leaving Chicago and headed in near-opposite directions. You had to use the Law of Sines, and factor in the curvature of the earth, and it was all just a real mess.
Hm. Another train reference. I may be a tad oversexed.