life as understood

When something so poignant happens like you become a father, you're not really sure what to write about. This has been my dilemma for the past two and a half months. I could say it's because I'm busy, and I am, but that's not it. Honestly, I've just been struggling to figure out how to place these past 10 weeks into some sort of readable perspective, for myself as much as anyone else. And while I feel no closer to any real conclusions, I feel as though it's time to try, and fake it.

Maybe that's all any of us ever do anyway.

I watched Adam come out--literally watched it happen. And I didn't faint or become nauseous. He just slipped out, after a bitter struggle, and then he looked each of us, his parents, in the eyes before being pulled into a room in the NICU for 16 days. We lived there at the hospital with him, and each night after work--once I went back to work--I boxed up a few things from our little apartment where we'd lived almost our entire married life together, just the two of us. The morning I drove Sarah to the hospital in labor was the last time she saw it before it was gutted.

He was a month early, but really more like a year or two. And the more I talk to people, the more I realize how common that is. In fact, almost every pregnancy I've heard of recently is a year or two too early. I never realized how many of us, the population of earth, made surprise entrances, but it seems to be the case, and maybe entire human race owes its existence to it. Maybe I just know the wrong people.

It's strange that so many of us fear it, as I did, because it's such an incredible thing. People always say it is, but nobody seems to believe them, or else they wouldn't be so surprised when it happens. He's a little squirt who gets us up in the middle of the night and doesn't mop or anything, but we don't care. I don't care. I would do anything to keep him from sadness. I know I go to work and offer the customary responses: "oh, you know, good except for the lack of sleep." But I don't really mean that. It's just what people say for some reason, because we've decided that this most universal of shared human experiences should include that touch of cynicism, as if the pure elation is somehow embarrassing. What I honestly feel, even if my bloodshot eyes don't show it, is this: "things literally couldn't be better."

Room 206 in the Public Relations and Marketing Office on campus might have the best view in the entire gorgeous valley I live in. Since I began occupying said office two months ago, I've actually been approached by a number of colleagues from other buildings who say they've always coveted it. I'll have to get a camera in there as proof, but for now, these probably-copyrighted images will have to do.

When I sit at my computer, in the office's southwest corner, this is what I see, without moving. The left photo represents the view from my left window, only I'm much closer to the historic tower than this.


Appropriately, the right photo represents the view from my right window, also without moving from my computer. It's even better in real life right now, since the mountains are still snow-capped, and the sky, lately, has been bluer. Truly, the sights, and everything about this job and this office, have been pleasures to greet me each day upon arriving in 206.

The truth is that I've been living a professional fantasy life at work for the the past two months. I fell into this wonderful station when a colleague of mine left on maternity leave, and I rose like a spirit from the basement to occupy a place that was never really mine. Over the course of the past nine weeks, though, I've successfully deluded myself into believing that it truly was mine. I printed off a picture of Sarah and taped it over the two tow-headed boys in the frame. I filled it with my music, held meetings, and answered the phone authoritatively. Hello, this is Jeff. I did her job and mine, and did it well.

I almost forgot this day would come. My boss informed me that Maren is returning from maternity leave early, on the 17th. One final week in the corner office, and then the dream is dead.

All along I've known I didn't earn it, such a coveted place, but I worked as though I had. And as I drift back down from whence I came, the basement will likely feel all the more dark, sterile, and lonely, even than it did before. In fact, my former office is no longer available, so I'll finish up my last three months at the blessed place in either the conference room or the kitchen--far from the heights I achieved in my mind, and from the people who held me up in my finest hour simply by treating me as though I belonged.

This final week in the corner office will be a somber one. Who knows how long it will be until I regain such a position. Maybe it'll never happen again. So you'll forgive me if I work longer hours this week. If it's any consolation, you can stop by and see me anytime. I like to be pictured this way.

Yesterday was a month since Sarah took her last step. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, I guess. She walks back and forth from the bed to the couch to the bathroom quite a few times a day. And we have doctor appointments every Monday. And we go on wheelchair walks around the block once in a while, and even went to Walmart a couple weeks ago and put her on one of those little carts. It was fun. But the whole thing has certainly been taxing, even for me, and it can't compare to how she feels. But my wife is bedresting like a champion, and has already absolutely saved our son's life. She is a literal hero, and I miss being able to bask in her standing shadow. I find I really look forward to Mondays because we get to be out together for a few minutes, even if it is just the hospital.

While she's on bedrest, Sarah isn't allowed to cook or clean or ever stand up unnecessarily, so it's been a particularly busy time for me, though we have had some help. In all honesty, though, this experience is probably needed preparation for me prior to becoming a father. In a couple days or months, I'll have my partner back to full strength, but there'll be another little dude running around, and I'll be just as busy and tired as I am now. Forever. The easy life is past.


All this musing, though, brings me to my real point, which is that I made the tastiest omelet ever last night. I should have taken a picture of it--it's seriously the best thing I've created in some time. It was Sarah's idea to make one, because she knows how much I value a good omelet. And then I realized, one at a time, that we currently have in our kitchen every single ingredient necessary for the perfect one: eggs, cheddar, ham, onion, green pepper, garlic, ranch, and Tabasco. It was the perfect storm of omeleteering. On a normal day, we might literally have two of those ingredients, but never could I dream that all eight would occur at once. Man, that was fantastic.

Sweet fancy Moses. I just realized I still have enough of everything to make another one.

Call it a lifelong quest to self-legitimize.

I've never thought of it that way, but I imagine Freud would. Basically, I'm obsessed with place. This obsession manifests itself in spatial things, like how I gravitate to architecture books in Barnes & Noble and how a good percentage of my dreams feature me discovering new rooms in my own house.

Mostly, though, my interest is geographical. I knew the 50 states and their capitals when I was three years old. I still peruse maps whenever the opportunity arises. And above all, I'm fiercely loyal to and proud of my home country, state, and especially city. Actually, this deep love extends to my university, church, and pretty much every other institution that makes me who I am. I defend each of them voraciously. This is where it gets Freudian, I imagine. One could easily say that I'm just attempting to combat an innate sense of inferiority, especially considering that my state, city, university, and church could all be considered backwards by the mainstream public. That's probably a little bit true. At the very least, the obsession is traceable, logical. I love what's mine because it's mine.

And then there's another place: Russia, and more specifically, Siberia. I loved that long before I had a reason--long before I took it as my own. Since I was 11 or 12 years old, I've been inexplicably fascinated. I have theories for how it budded, but nothing obvious comes up. Growing up, I studied the language, geography, history, and culture to the extent I could with limited resources, and then in 2004 I went there. For two glorious years, I lived and served there, and the interest exploded further.

I haven't talked much about Russian things in this venue for some reason, but I probably will now, because I'm about to start a master's program in Russian Studies. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with the degree yet, but I suppose this mini-opus is my attempt to make verbal sense of all of this. While I may still not know what the future holds, as far as I can tell, professionally speaking, I was put on this earth to study and utilize this very knowledge.

Those who know me well know that this has been a long journey, to which I'm pleased to announce a landmark development. After more than a year of deliberating, applying, waiting, hearing back, and deliberating some more, I have accepted an offer to pursue this degree at






Stanford University.

Sarah and I couldn't be happier about the school, program, people, or location. Plus, they made us an offer we'd be fools to turn down. It's going to be different living in the most populous and popular state in the union, in a huge and cool metro area, and studying at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, but I tell you what, I'm excited. We both are. I won't go so far as to say that this is my moment of legitimacy, but I do feel like this is the beginning of something new, in a more wide-ranging and profound way even than it appears on the surface. We'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, party in California.

I need to blog now. I need to blog now because I'm starting full-time work tomorrow, and I'm not necessarily going to have a ton to do just yet. Blog now, no temptation to blog during work tomorrow.

On a related note, does anyone have any ethical concerns with me attempting to scare a pregnant woman into early labor? How about ideas? No, not Sarah. She's got a few months yet. It's a coworker of mine. You see, on the day after I submitted my last grad school application (that was today), I'm beginning full-time, 8:30-5:00 adult work partially because a coworker is leaving on maternity. So this has all worked out rather nicely, actually: same wonderful job in the same great office with the same fun people. Just doubled. Bonus. But here's the thing: though I begin full-time tomorrow, I don't actually get to assume my coworker's responsibilities (or more importantly, move into her awesome corner office) until she actually has the baby. The due date is March 17th, but it really could happen any day. Until it does, though, I'm stuck in the basement for 8 hours a day with 4 hours worth of work.

So again, ideas? No?

I guess I can ride it out for a few more days. Even when she comes back in June, I get to remain at full-time (with a modest pay increase) until we head off to grad school in August. So it really is a pretty sweet deal. Thank goodness for my wonderful office. And say goodbye to the prospect of knocking doors for the U.S. Census for supplemental income.

Snapshot of America. Ha. On the grad school front, though I did just turn in my last application today, I've already heard from three schools. Four more to go. You'll forgive me if I don't discuss the specifics here, for obvious reasons. When we hear from everyone and make a decision, we'll have a nice signing day ceremony or something, and I'll put on a hat. Probably not an authentic hat, though. Probably my Washington Nationals hat with a college-ruled Sharpie logo taped to the front. Hats are expensive.

Ten years ago today, at 14, I stood outside in the snow with my parents' bulky video camera, with nothing to film. I had received some video editing equipment and software for Christmas--the most expensive present I'd ever asked for--and I was desperate to create something poignant and beautiful. This would be the beginning of a burgeoning creative career, I was certain. Slinging the protective bag over my left shoulder, I cocked the camera up to my eye and traipsed the road between the two houses, looking for meaning. By the end of our family's 10-day holiday party, I had captured a few snow football games, Brooke falling through the frozen pond, and the grand countdown to Y2K. Blips of excitement in otherwise listless footage.

Upon returning home, I installed the software and spent numerous hours cutting and compiling everything into a story to be distributed among the family--if nothing else, an hour-long memory of a good time. In the end, though, our dated computer wasn't compatible with the technology to output to videocassette. The footage remained unused, and my expensive present rendered useless. I continued to make movies on a school computer and with my best friend, but his superior equipment and talent soon rendered me obsolete as well.

Over the past week or so, I've ingested decade reviews courtesy Newsweek, Time, CNN, and others. By all global accounts, the '00s have been remarkably crappy. September 11th, Hurricane Katrina, the Asian monsoon, myriad wars, growing distrust of leadership, disdain for the US, a reign of "reality" TV, overshadowing and drought of quality creative work and entertainment, and a major global recession.

I'm not sure how history will remember this decade (or what they'll call it), but I suspect that I'll remember it as the decade in which everything happened, and nothing changed. In the '00s, I started and finished high school, and started and finished college. I moved away, learned about death, love, had my first kiss, won state, gained a sister, partied until morning, served a two-year mission in Siberia, and got engaged, and then married.

This morning, I awoke late in Sun Valley, and leaving my pregnant wife in bed, stepped out into morning on the snowy road between the houses. Slinging the bag over my left shoulder, I opened the screen on our newest, most expensive Christmas present--a JVC digital video camera--and pointed it out into the snow. Still nothing. It was a flailing, futile attempt to close the decade with greater structure than it began, and it failed.

On that very day ten years ago, I began to write in a journal, inaugurating a process that saw the abandonment of moviemaking as my principal creative activity. Now I consider myself a writer, and despite a few publications and a degree, I still don't know what I want to write about. In fact, I still don't know I want to do in general, other than that I want to create something poignant and beautiful. The specifics, through the lenses of both my video camera and my life itself, continue to be withheld from my sight.

The great essayist William Safire, who passed away this year, extolled the importance of people everywhere recording what they see, citing a widespread lack of first-person history in our cultural awareness. I didn't see the hurricane or even the recession, but I did see the road between the two houses. So I guess I'm doing that, recording what I see, but to what end? I certainly never found an answer in this decade. The '10s, though, will be the decade in which the majority, if not all, of my children will be born. I imagine then I'll have something to write about, and something to film.

Even on a macro level, maybe the snow football games and babies are still all that matter. Maybe I'll never get to unfurl a grand global creative insight on the world, but maybe that's ok. After all, despite all that's happened on the outside, and despite my own futility to synthesize it into anything poignant or beautiful, this was a pretty great decade for me. Maybe that's something.

This is longest blog drought in some time now, but that's not without good reason. By the way, I'm resolved to begin each post with a reference to the fact that it's been a while as a punishment to myself for letting it be a while, lest you poo-poo my lack of variation.

Here's the thing. Sarah, my wife, is knocked up. I know, I know, there are probably better ways to say that, but chances are, most caring readers know by now anyway. Sarah posted it on her blog quite some time ago. If this comes as a shock to you, it's because I'm horrible at spreading big news. There are a number of people quite close to me who surely remain in the dark, including pretty much everyone from high school. Well, now you know.

This miraculous development in our lives came as a shock to us as well, actually. I know that's the question everyone wants to ask, especially after they hear me too-adamantly proclaim that "no, we're waiting a while." Well, we were, but Carr Jr. evidently didn't get the memo. But I tell you what--we're excited. It's kind of like when you forget to invite someone to your birthday party, but then they show up anyway and everyone has a good time. It's a little awkward at first, but that's mostly my fault for not inviting him (or her).

The due date is June 8th, so after Sarah graduates, but before we take off for grad school. This means we're just at the end of the first trimester. She's been sick pretty much 24/7 for the last six weeks, and that is hopefully beginning to subside. It's all been fairly surreal so far, because the two of us have just been spending each waking moment trying to keep her from honking. She's also taking 18 credits and working more than 20 hours per week. She's quite the trooper. Needless to say, we probably haven't had ample time to really take it all in. But what we have processed so far is that this is going to be quite the special experience for the next few decades or so. Possibly eternity.

I'm a recent graduate of Utah State University, a current university employee, and I have a Sustaining Alumni Membership there--each of which attributes provide certain material benefits--but the only thing that can get me into Aggie basketball games for cheap is the fact that my wife is a student. I always suspected she was my most valuable asset, but it's nice to have quantitative proof.

I guess I need to figure some things out, for my own sanity.

So, they say that history repeats itself, and that ideals of cultural identity and the political climate in America swing around in cycles. I, for one, am too young to have witnessed many, or any, revolutions of said cycles, but I'm sure it's true. Correct me if I'm wrong, though, but I have to assume that a few scary things that I'm witnessing in the political world today are brand new. They're new due to the evolving nature of the media, which is itself new.

If I was writing a dystopian novel (and I may someday), I think I'd spend quite a bit of time studying the precise rhetorical methods of mainstream media today. Heck, an overly manipulative media was Orwell's greatest fear, and that was in the '40s. Now, I don't like bringing up the subject of media bias anymore, because the issue turns immediately to Fox vs. CNN, left vs. right, yada yada yada.

Ironically, the fact that the discussion immediately turns there encapsulates what actually scares me: Compartmentalization and oversimplification of inherently complex and vital-to-life issues. And nowhere is this more evident than in the infantile pitting, in the media, of the two major American political parties against each other.

It seems like people have woken up to the pitfalls of cable news stations like Fox and CNN, but I wonder if many lessons are being learned. Obviously, the two parties have opposed each other forever, which has resulted in idiotic outbursts for decades (see Preston Brooks). But what's the purpose of the intense polarization that's taking place now between the two parties? No informed citizen could ever honestly say that they believe in every policy of a certain party and loathe every policy of the other. The party stances are completely counter-intuitive to their perceived philosophies on a lot of things. And it's not like one's good and one's evil. As Thomas Jefferson said, "Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle." The parties themselves aren't that simple, so our responses to them probably shouldn't be either. But I digress.

So why the drama, then? Why are the parties drifting irreconcilably apart? As far as I can tell, it's for the lofty ambition of selling advertising space. Perfect archetypal battles between good and evil are the most gripping stories on TV, and in this case, you can even choose which side is which! The media, for better or for worse, is a business. Each year, in order to accommodate our impatient lives, complex arguments are reduced to smaller and smaller soundbites and simplistic party assignations to the point that no actual knowledge is disseminated on the news. Then we get this:

Dude 1: "The Republicans' health care plan is terrible!"
Dude 2: "What part of the plan?"
Dude 1: "Uh, you know, prices are too high, and they want us to pay for it ourselves."

As if that's the entirety of the issue. MAYBE we understand 10% of it, but no more.

The print media, thank goodness, doesn't always follow suit, but in all honesty, dramatic magazines and newspapers sell better than boring, accurate ones as well. Of course, it's not like this is the media's fault, per se. As a business, they pander to the interests and pocketbooks of the consumers. This phenomenon, to me--the oversimplification and lack of focus on real knowledge and solutions--seems like a product not of the media, but human nature (but what isn't, I guess?).

I guess the scary implications to me is this: that such a culture will continue to affect the way actual politics are done, i.e. increased emphasis on party solidarity and antagonism rather than actual attempts to solve problems collaboratively. Please see this hilarious recent Onion article as a satirical, but all-too-sadly-true example of the same. (PS--you could substitute one party for the other in the article--it doesn't matter.)

It seems to me that it's because of this oversimplification that choosing ultra-adamant opinions has become no longer the extreme, but the norm. Saying something loud has become an acceptable substitute for reasoning out a measured response. This, I suspect, is not entirely new, but I fear that with our technological capabilities at this point, the media isn't going to become any more attentive to those measured responses anytime soon. We're not getting stupider as citizens, but I fear we trample on our own beloved democratic rights by limiting our thinking to only two possible options for each issue--the liberal or the conservative--as if the spectrum really is that one-dimensional.

But then again, what do I know? I'm subject to the same soundbites as everyone else, and this progressive-sounding cynicism of mine doesn't make me any more knowledgeable than anyone else with opinions. When someone says "Hillary Clinton is a ______!" and can't back that up with a single quantitative piece of evidence, it's easy to say they're ignorant. But aren't all of us who aren't on the senate floor or in the intelligence meetings pretty darn ignorant about the actual implications of these issues we care so passionately about? The existence of a whole spectrum of opinions, including a center, is what makes democracy work, and keeps us from the brink of destruction. So why are we so adverse to the idea?

My often-cynical buddy Blaine came home from a congressional internship last year with a renewed faith in the people that actually make our decisions. I've always had a probably-unwarranted faith in our politicians and the fact that they're the right people for the job, but it's a faith I continue to cling to. They know the issues, and due to our own apathy, we only pretend to. One one hand, it's good that they know the issues more intimately than others. On the other hand, though, doesn't increased knowledge and participation on the part of the populace theoretically lead to greater freedom and prosperity? I fear we may never know.

These are extremely nebulous and fairly simple issues I'm treating here, but to me they're fascinating. And I suppose they're issues I don't hear talked about a lot, so I thought I'd try to help fill the void, at least to a small degree. But I'd love to hear your opinions on these things. What is to be done about the oversimplification and shrouding of real issues in America? Should anything be done? Do these things affect real politics already, or just cable news politics? Am I crazy to be worried about this? Please weigh in and let's talk about this--if for no other cause than my sanity.

I've been thrown off. I haven't been writing as much lately, and I've been wasting time in the interim. This is a sorry state of affairs for me, and one that can be attributable to one thing and one thing only: one of my organs has exploded.

Yes, nature's li'l whiner, the appendix, paid me a nasty visit last Saturday. It decided it was done doing whatever it is it's been doing for 24 years, and it burst, sending toxic fluids into my abdomen and onto the benevolent residents thereof. This was, by far, the worst pain I have ever felt. For you ladies out there, the level has been compared to that of childbirth, so you can hold your high horses about that. Anyway, fortunately, this occurred at home on a Saturday afternoon, and Sarah was home, so she was able to take me to the emergency room.

Between throbs of screeching pain, I asked her to take me to InstaCare instead, since my health insurance ran out a month previous, after a lifetime of expensive inactivity. (In fact, I'd never had any health problems to speak of in my entire life--no broken bones, no stitches, hospital stays, or even unscheduled doctor visits.) Had I been in my right mind, however, I would have recalled that InstaCare is worthless. I brought in my buddy Erik who was near death when his lung collapsed, and all they could figure out was that his rib was broken. Anyway, at about 1:00, Sarah drove me to the emergency room.

At about 5:00, I was informed that Mr. Appendix was in fact the culprit, and it was removed (with lasers!) about an hour later. They didn't know it was the appendix, or even particularly suspect it at first, because I had zero pain on my right side, where the little turd is known to hang out. It turns out mine was in the middle. So anyway, they took it out, yada yada, I can't wear pants now.

I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore.

I hate hospital stories, which is possibly because I never had one. I've been obligated to relate this one numerous times over the past week, but I am done. I'm ok now, and that's all that matters. My printing of the story here signifies the end. Sorry if I bored you with it. I realize its complete lack of literary merit. If I was a freshman, I'd make this my personal narrative for English 1010, thereby confessing to a totally meaningless existence, but fortunately, that stage has passed (inside joke). Maybe that's what made me a good writer in college--I never had any stupid hospital stories to fall back on. I had to flail about for meaning when being a frightfully austere WASP with no injuries and a loving family quashed my chances for an easy out.

So here's the question: is my writing going to get lame now that I've been an inpatient? This posting isn't exactly a harbinger of doom for the future, but it's not real promising, either. This was pretty much just a series of ad-lib Dave Barry-esque jokes and simple, fairly obvious observations. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but...

Having an excuse for laziness sucks. It's actually breeding more real and abiding laziness. There's something to think about.