My wife and I like living in Wisconsin. People are nice for the most part. Winters are rough, but spring, summer and fall are glorious. The pizza is acceptable. The pace of life is pretty good. Seven years in and we're not tired of our adopted home state. It's pretty cool living somewhere that we want to stay -- we don't think about our next house, we think about things we want to do with our current house to make it more comfortable.
This all being said, my wife and I have a back-up plan. Well, not really a back-up plan as much as a back-up concept. If I ever have a bad day at work or she has a bad day at work or either of us has a rough night at home with the kids, we say that we're "moving to Oregon". Oregon's a big place. I don't think we know exactly where -- maybe Bend or Eugene. Possibly Portland. Not sure what we'd do when we got there other than drink a beer and admire the beauty.
I am writing this blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose would say) at 3:30 AM. I don't particularly like writing blogs at 3:30 AM. But I have been awake since 2:15 AM as my darling 10 month old daughter does not want to sleep in her crib. 20 minutes sitting up with me in a chair fast asleep only to shriek as soon as back in the crib. Repeat this cycle x1. Now we are Ferbering -- that is, she's crying it out, and I can't go back to bed until she's fallen asleep. So now I am blogging.
The state of Oregon (the mental state of Oregon, that is) for me is the Gray Havens or the Promised Land or Zion or California or Oz or moving out west to find ourselves some intuh-net. It's the place where Peter Gibbons stayed after the hypnotist died. It's a place where the problems of the day no longer exist.
"Moving to Oregon" is the mental version of having a lock box with a large red eject button in it. The kind of lock box that takes two keys to open. The kind of eject button that two participants have to agree to press because the consequences are so drastic.
I hear that in Oregon, babies Ferber themselves. I also hear that in Oregon toddler sons don't drop-kick their Dads in the balls on an almost daily basis. Rather, I hear that these powerful sons focus on developing a curveball, slider, change-up combination from a young age that becomes Dad's insurance policy in old age. I have yet to confirm that, though.
Oh look, it's 4:11 AM and my daughter's gone to sleep. She's so beautiful and peaceful. My paternal genes are already transcribing neurochemicals that will erase the frustration and pain of these last two hours. Baby daughters are enchanting creatures. There are definitely baby daughters in Oregon.
I hear that in Oregon, pointless 7 AM work meetings do not exist. I have yet to confirm that, though.
This all being said, my wife and I have a back-up plan. Well, not really a back-up plan as much as a back-up concept. If I ever have a bad day at work or she has a bad day at work or either of us has a rough night at home with the kids, we say that we're "moving to Oregon". Oregon's a big place. I don't think we know exactly where -- maybe Bend or Eugene. Possibly Portland. Not sure what we'd do when we got there other than drink a beer and admire the beauty.
I am writing this blog (or "blah-g" as my friend Rose would say) at 3:30 AM. I don't particularly like writing blogs at 3:30 AM. But I have been awake since 2:15 AM as my darling 10 month old daughter does not want to sleep in her crib. 20 minutes sitting up with me in a chair fast asleep only to shriek as soon as back in the crib. Repeat this cycle x1. Now we are Ferbering -- that is, she's crying it out, and I can't go back to bed until she's fallen asleep. So now I am blogging.
The state of Oregon (the mental state of Oregon, that is) for me is the Gray Havens or the Promised Land or Zion or California or Oz or moving out west to find ourselves some intuh-net. It's the place where Peter Gibbons stayed after the hypnotist died. It's a place where the problems of the day no longer exist.
"Moving to Oregon" is the mental version of having a lock box with a large red eject button in it. The kind of lock box that takes two keys to open. The kind of eject button that two participants have to agree to press because the consequences are so drastic.
I hear that in Oregon, babies Ferber themselves. I also hear that in Oregon toddler sons don't drop-kick their Dads in the balls on an almost daily basis. Rather, I hear that these powerful sons focus on developing a curveball, slider, change-up combination from a young age that becomes Dad's insurance policy in old age. I have yet to confirm that, though.
Oh look, it's 4:11 AM and my daughter's gone to sleep. She's so beautiful and peaceful. My paternal genes are already transcribing neurochemicals that will erase the frustration and pain of these last two hours. Baby daughters are enchanting creatures. There are definitely baby daughters in Oregon.
I hear that in Oregon, pointless 7 AM work meetings do not exist. I have yet to confirm that, though.