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It’s only late March – and here in New England, temps are holding steady in the high 30s/low 40s – but that’s not stopping some people from gearing up for a warmer, sunnier world.

(Sigh. Sorry, girls. Time to put your flannel PJs back on.)

1. Bob Mould live was… phenomenal. What a great, great show. As I e-mailed Mr. Big Dubya when I made it home late that night,

“One of the best shows I’ve ever seen. We stood probably 5 feet off the stage, maybe 12+ feet away from Bob, and watched him wail his way thru 90 mins of songs encompassing his entire catalogue — from Husker Du (Celebrated Summer, I Apologize, Divide & Conquer)
to solo (See a Little Light, Hanging Tree — which was beyond fucking intense, and one of the heaviest songs I’ve ever seen performed live) to Sugar (Your Favorite Things, Hoover Dam) and back to newer solo stuff….

Just. Incredible. 25+ years of song, performed live by a guy in his late 40s… and it blew everyone away.”

For the record, that makes two (2) live concerts I’ve seen in less than six months, after going concert-free for something like a thousand years. I think I like this turn of events.

2. We finally saw Gone Baby Gone last weekend, and to reiterate what you’ve already heard from everyone else who’s already seen it (which was apparently just about everyone but me) it’s fantastic. As someone who’s been a Dennis Lehane fan since A Drink Before The War first came out in the mid-90s, I had real doubts about Ben Affleck’s choice of his brother Casey for the role of Patrick Kenzie. Go figure: he nailed it… funny, personable, utterly believable as a Dorchester townie (duh) and able to segue into very credible violence at the drop of a hat. Next to Pan’s Labyrinth, this may have been the best movie of 2007. (For those keeping score, this also makes it a solid 2-2 for Lehane film adaptations… let’s hope Scorcese knocks #3 out of the park with his soon-to-begin-filming adaptation of Shutter Island.)

3. Have I mentioned my newfound love for Jesu? If you ever check out my little music thing (to the right), you’ve noticed that’s my newest crush — try on Transfigure for size and see how it fits you. Anyhow, last weekend – during my one brief moment of freedom – I decided to go for the gusto and… uh… well, let’s just say I came home with the entire Jesu catalogue.

Infectious shoegazer doom for everyone!

4. Butterfly was sick last week, and managed to puke on our dining room rug no less than three separate times. (Me: “Aim for the hardwood! Aim for the hardwood! Aim for the… ohhhhhh. Eeesh. Never mind.”) Which now means that our dining room rug has a smell that just won’t go away. (Uh… I guess that doesn’t actually qualify as positive. Although it does provide us with an excuse to get a new rug.)

5. Oh, yeah… I’m ditching my family! (This definitely qualifies as positive.) Late next month, I’m making my annual pilgrimage down to DC for a long weekend of hanging out with the Demoncrats and the Anguses (and, uh… their kids. Wait. Maybe this won’t be as relaxing as I anticipate.). If you happen to be at the Nats/Cubs game next month, be sure to look for me — I’ll be the guy with the look of temporarily-child-free-bliss on my face.

6. Thanks to everyone for your comments on my last coupla posts. Sorry I didn’t come up with any responses – per my usual m.o. – but know that I read everything and honestly appreciate the input.

7. It’s March, which means not only that it’s time for Spring Training… but also time for Fantasy Baseball! (Aaaaaand I’ve just lost my entire readership.) My league had its draft late last week (that’s right: layoffs, concert and baseball draft all in one week. And you wonder why I don’t get any sleep.) and I once again enjoyed 2+ hours of online trash-talking and quick thinking in anticipation of a long summer of stat-watching, half-assed trade offers and the inevitable, slow slide of my team into mediocrity. Anyone else got something similar going on?

(The good news: I was able get my hands on both Jose Reyes and Ryan Howard. The bad news: two of my aces – John Lackey and Scott Kazmir – have somehow managed to injure themselves grievously between last Thursday night and today, and will both begin the season on the disabled list. Faaaaantastic.)

8. Only a few more weeks until my grill comes out of hiding. Who’s up for some flavorfully charred flesh?

Well. That was interesting.

So here’s the thing: I work for a small company. What we do is immaterial – let’s just say we specialize in making seal-clubbing equipment, and leave it at that – but we’ve had a pretty good run over the past few years. What started up as two guys with a stupid dream and me as an unpaid consultant stopping in for a beer once a week (ah, the glory days of the post-dotcom bust) has miraculously transformed into a somewhat viable business model. A start-up that started up in the worst possible business environment… but that actually translated into something real.

Go figure.

One of the best things about my experience has been that, as guy #3 in the company, not only have I had the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of something worthwhile (and honestly… our seal-clubbing equipment is pretty badass) and build a business, but I’ve also been able to help shape a corporate culture. Over the years, that’s meant we’ve grown by bringing in people who don’t just get the job done, but who we actually enjoy hanging out with as well.

We’ve all worked at jobs that suck. (God knows I have.) But this was a chance to build something different — a place where we feel good about what we do (usually), where we’re respected for what we bring to the table, where a summer day where TheCEO walks in wearing something other than paint-splattered shorts and an old concert t-shirt (both of which are usually well-ventilated with assorted tears and holes) is extremely unusual, and where if you need to bring in a kid or a dog – or leave early to take care of the same – it’s generally not a big deal.

Plus, we get our drink on. A lot. It’s all very sociable, and we generally have a good time.

But.

Nothing stays good forever. Especially in business. Sometimes… things don’t go the way you planned. Sometimes, you plan and anticipate and prepare for good things to happen… and they don’t. And there are consequences.

On Friday, after we finished up an internal meeting, I stayed behind to talk to TheCEO, El Presidente and the NewVP to talk more about what we’d just finished talking about (because what’s a meeting without a good post-meeting?) when they suddenly closed the door and said, “We’re having layoffs on Monday.”

Fuck.

I guess there’s a first time for everything. And to be clear, this isn’t the first time I’ve been involved in layoffs. The thing is that every other time I’ve been in a layoff situation, I’ve been on the other side of the table — one of the helpless victims, left dumbstruck as I suddenly tried to envision my life without a paycheck. And… well, it sucks. It really, truly does. You understand that it’s a business decision, but at the same time it’s hard not to take it personally — because, clearly, the effect on your life as an individual is profound.

But I’ve never been the one to drop the axe. I’ve never had a pleasant conversation with someone, watched them walk away, and then had to say, “And tomorrow, I’ll destroy your hopes and dreams.”

We’re not a big company. And in the grand scheme of things, three people isn’t a lot. But that’s 10% of our workforce — three people I’ve seen and known and worked with and had beers with and laughed with and laughed at and been laughed at by over the years. Three people I thought of as friends, as much as colleagues or – god help me – employees.

We were letting three people go. One of them – Eeyore – worked upstairs, helping to manage some of our larger seal clubbing accounts. Two of them worked in the pits with me, designing and producing our customized clubs. There was Barbarino, a guy with the self-confidence to wear a Yankees jersey around the office… and the sense of humor not to take any of the crap we gave him about it personally. And then… there was Sporty.

Sporty. Christ. Someone I’d personally hunted down, interviewed, and offered the job to a year and a half ago. The first person who’d ever called me “boss” and actually meant it as anything other than pure sarcasm. Someone who’d alternately made me laugh as hard as anyone has ever made me laugh… and who, sometimes, I just wanted to kill. (Working with me is fun.) Someone who’d gone through a troubled time late last year – to the point that we actually had to do the sit-down, “written warning” thing earlier this winter – but who was rebounding admirably and I thought was actually going to pull off a real comeback.

Fuck.

I walked out of that brief discussion and returned to my office. Two minutes later, Sporty popped her head in. “D’you wanna come grab some lunch with us?” she asked. I just started cackling… it was like my brain short-circuited and I just didn’t know what to do. Finally, I gathered myself to the point where I could drop my head into my hands and say, “Uh… no, thanks. I’ve got some errands to run.” I’m sure it was very convincing.

(On a peripheral note: I did actually run an errand. Suddenly feeling a pronounced need for more wall-of-sound-shoegaze-doom metal (to match the roar of white noise in my skull), I ran out to Newbury Comics and picked up a copy of Nadja’s The Radiance of Shadows. Subsequently, my kids have really enjoyed the past few days in the car with me… especially all 23:26 of Now I Am Become Death, The Destroyer of Worlds. You can dance to it, too.)

Anyhow. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, trying not to make direct eye contact with any of the damned — lest they see the conflicted guilt in my eyes and use one of our finely crafted clubs on my skull before I could harm them first.

(Conflict = feeling wrenchingly awful about laying people off vs. trying to keep the company afloat, 20+ other people employed, my mortgage paid and my kids fed.)

The day ended. The weekend… largely sleepless. I never – never – dream about work. But I had layoff dreams. Dreams of watching hearts break in slow motion, like Ralph Wiggum at the Crusty Anniversary Special. Dreams of people crying.

This is the first job I’ve ever had that I don’t hate. And with the unnatural number of children I’ve produced, I actually kinda look forward to most Mondays — it’s a chance for me to get free of tiny, sticky hands and pretend to be clever for a few hours. But this past weekend… I dreaded Monday. (Just ask Jonniker how many e-mails I sent her on the topic, most of them involving energetic and colorful usages of the word “fuck.”)

But, as happens almost every week, Monday arrived. So: I took a deep breath, got my game face on, and headed in to the office.

I arrived early. El Presidente had beaten me in, so we talked for a while… mostly, talking around what was going to take place, beyond the heavy sigh and shake of the head we exchanged when I first walked in to his office. A little while later, TheCEO joined us and we talked about… well, really, we talked about nothing at all. Trying to avoid the subject, I guess. Nobody felt anything close to good.

Then I returned to my office, and waited for the carnage to start.

From my office, I face (in part) a glass wall, through which I can see a part of my local cube farm. And as I sat there, looking at the clock, watching the minutes tick away, I saw Kitty walk over to Barbarino’s desk, and place a small bag in his chair. Not a plastic bag; one of those nice bags that you put gifts in.

Uh.

I was just starting to feel even more uncomfortable – which I hadn’t realized was possible – when my young colleague Bouvier walked into the office. Carrying three mylar balloons. With pictures of cakes with candles on them.

Oh. Sweet. Jesus.

My e-mail exchange with Jonniker, in the moments immediately following:

Me: We just discovered that today is the 40th birthday of Barbarino. Who we’re going to lay off.

Jonniker: I just gasped out loud. Oh fuck. FUUUUUCCCCK

So… this was going well. In the minutes following, both Sporty and Barbarino walked in for the day. Both waved me a friendly hello, and Barbarino saw his balloons and the gift and started accepting birthday thanks and talking about the celebratory birthday lunch that apparently had been planned for him for later in the day.

Fantastic! I started looking for blunt objects to bludgeon myself with. My stapler seemed pretty heavy. That might do the job. At worst, I could always just jam a Sharpie in my eye.

I watched them mill around for a bit, talking about their weekends, contemplating the week ahead, completely unaware that today a few of them would be playing the role of innocent, helpless baby seals.

And then it was time! Hooray! Let’s destroy some people. So… well, whatever: one by one, we brought them in, gave them the bad news, made it clear there was nothing personal in it, and sent them back to pack up their desks, share the news with their cube-mates, and leave. Forever.

(It sucked. That’s all I want to say about it. It. Sucked.)

Since Sporty was under my auspices, I stood by as she packed. I wasn’t sure what would happen — if she’d just throw everything into a box without saying a word and just leave, if she’d lose her mind and start lashing out, if she’d follow my earlier line of thinking and try to brain me with a table lamp… I had no idea. People react to this kind of news in lots of different ways. There’s no way to really know ahead of time what will happen.

So. She packed slowly. I sat nearby. We talked. Occasionally she teared up a bit. Mostly, I made her laugh. I made it clear I’d be overjoyed to do whatever I could – references, resume help, whatever – to help her find something else. I mentioned that I’d actually looked online over the weekend, and I’d noticed some jobs available for someone with her seal clubbing experience. I tried to give her a reason not to feel like crap. I think, to some degree, it worked.

Occasionally, I’d walk over to Barbarino’s cube and check in on him. At first, he was completely shellshocked. (I can’t imagine why.) But then, something else happened.

He decided – we, all of us, decided – to go ahead with taking him out for lunch. Despite the falling axes, we were still friends, and we wanted to do it for him.

So, just past noon on Monday, approximately two hours after we laid them off, about 15 of us went out for Tex-Mex. Sporty, Barbarino and Eeyore were all there.

As soon as we sat down, I ordered three pitchers of margaritas – with Patron – for the table. Fuck it: if we weren’t getting loaded at this lunch, what was the point of going on?

I sat next to all three of them. All things considered, they were holding up pretty well. (The margaritas seemed to help.) (As did the next round of margaritas.) (And the next round after that.)

We talked. We laughed. Barbarino made the joke that if TheCEO had joined us – with his long hair and beard – this could be a pretty good recreation of The Last Supper. Only, you know, with more tequila.

In a lot of ways, it felt like many other similarly-lubricated lunches we’d had at this restaurant. For 90 minutes, everything felt normal. And then, when the margaritas were drained and the plates were cleared away, we were left with slowly melting ice in salt-rimmed glasses, and the realization that it was coming to an end. It was all coming to an end.

So. We came back to the office. A few final items were put in boxes, and that was it. We exchanged hugs, and promises to keep in touch. People put on brave faces.

And then they were gone.

Last week was almost overwhelmingly stressful, and just as I thought I was about to get out intact… I discovered that those stresses were only a warm-up for the good times Monday holds in store.

I won’t say that Monday will be the worst day of my life (not even close, actually), but it’s definitely going to be a new and different kind of low for me.

So. This is the part where I take a deep breath. Focus on something good (see: small creature w/umbrella). And prepare myself for the reality of waking up tomorrow, putting on my game face, and doing what needs to be done.

A particularly touching e-mail exchange from this weekend with my insane friend KK:

KK: Thank you for Asante Samuel.

Me: Fuck the entire city of Philadelphia.

Oh boy! Another stupid music meme! Fault here lies with Darren… place all blame accordingly.

So. The rulez:
1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question.
4. NO CHEATING.

Shall we begin?

Q: What does next year have in store for you?
A: Is It Really So Strange? by The Smiths
Morrissey moaning “Why is the last mile the hardest mile?” = more good times for me. Terrific.

Q: What does your love life look like next year?
A: Beggar’s Blues by Mark Lanegan
Quoth the prophet Lanegan: “Well I’m draggin’ lonliness and it’s ten miles long/I thought I heard you scream baby/In the wheels of a train that crawls…” In other words, it’s romance time at Castle TwoBusy!

Q: What do you say when life gets hard?
A: Comes A Time by Nada Surf
“I can’t believe that we’re really all good.” Yeah, that sounds like me.

Q: Song that reminds you of good times?
A: Swamp Thing by The Chameleons
“The storm comes… or is it just another shower?” Great answer. Thanks, iTunes.

Q: What do you think when you get up in the morning?
A: June in Her Frost and Fur by The Autumns
“The truth is never quite so near as in dreams” Can you argue with that? Neither can I.

Q: What song will you dance to at your wedding?
A: Hold On To Me by The Cowboy Junkies
I swear, I’m not cheating. This is getting eerie-good. “I’ll hold on to this gift we share/It is as slippery as it is rare.” Damn, that’s appropriate. (Almost good enough to make me wish we’d actually danced at our wedding.)

Q: Song that reminds you of your first kiss?
A: One Good Reason by Bob Mould
Ah, now we’re back into angry territory. “But I’m a fool… I’ve been known to play the fool.” This one’s historically accurate, too. Hooray!

Q: Your favorite saying?
A: Sunshine by Low
An achingly sad cover of the children’s song. “You’ll never know dear, how much I love you.”

Q: Favorite place?
A: Futures by Zero 7 (pulled from an old Flux=Rad compilation)
“Just let me know where we go after the fall.” Apparently, my favorite place is Hell. Good for me.

Q: Most Missed Memory?
A: Who Was Around? by Bob Mould
Aaaaand we’re back to Bob. Funny how he’s becoming a recurring motif around here this month. “Why’d you abandon me? Maybe it’s not for me to know.” This is a very twisted way of answering the question, but it may not be entirely wrong.

Q: What song describes your best friend?
A: Parallel by Bad Religion
Not even remotely accurate, but a great song nonetheless. You haven’t lived until you’ve grooved to a Cornell Paleontology Ph.D. singing, “Staggering like birds against a hurricane/and trying all the while to stay out of each other’s way…”

Q: What song describes your ex?
A: Disgustipated by Tool
“It was daylight when you woke up in your ditch.” Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Q: Where would you go on a first date?
A: I Don’t Believe You by The Magnetic Fields
“So you’re brilliant gorgeous and/ampersand after ampersand/You think I just don’t understand…” In short, it’s doesn’t matter where we go — you’re clearly out of my league, and this is doomed to failure. (What self-esteem problem?)

Q: Drug of choice?
A: Someone Out There by The Cowboy Junkies
Apparently, my drug of choice is skepticism. “But what I want to know/Before you save my soul/Is who gave this power to that fucker up there?”

Q: What song describes yourself?
A: Accident Prone by Jawbreaker
I’ve talked about this song before — you can hear it here. It also happens to be a completely appropriate answer to this question. “What’s the closest you can come to an almost total wreck/and still walk away… all limbs intact?”

Q: What is the thing you like doing most?
A: O My Soul by Big Star
“Come on, you know it’s alright/we’ve got all night/you’re driving me mad.” Make of that what you will.

Q: The song that best describes the president?
A: Earlier Than Expected by The Posies
This is a song about a child being born prematurely, so I’m dubious about how it fits the question — although “Prepare, prevent, defend, define now” has kind of a Homeland Security ring to it.

Q: Where will you be in 10 years?
A: What Holds The World Together by American Music Club
One of my favorite songs of all time. This answer suggests that I’ll be very much where I am right now. (All things considered, there could be worse responses.)

“Land ahoy — I fill my weak lungs with this joy
Dizzy on the deck… I hope I last until we land
With an envelope burning a hole in my hand
Bearing the names of the winners who walked away
From the games that the slaves love to play
To replace the air and the sea
Leaving you no way to fly to me…”

Q: Your love life right now?
A: Numbered Days by The Meeting Places
Uh oh. I don’t think I like this answer. Can I try again? “Hey, I’m nothing by myself…”

Q: What is your state of mind like at the moment?
A: Deserter by Early Day Miners
“Everything you chase/is empty without faith…” That’s funny, in a really depressing way.

Q: How will you die?
A: Me & My Lover by Matthew Ryan
No surprises here: TheWife will kill me. Thank you! Good night!

(p.s. Tag: you’re it.)

Assorted detritus from another February in New England:

* You’ll all feel relieved to know that my beloved snowblower finally roared back to life, following its near-fatal injury in December and subsequent long (and expensive) rehabilitation. We got about 10″ of snow on Friday, prompting civilization as we know it to come to a crashing halt. The next morning: a couple of squirts of gas, a gentle tweak of the throttle, and suddenly my baby was roaring like a lion and purring like a kitten — effortlessly generating a carefully-directed geyser up and away from a driveway that had become too-accustomed to the gentle strokes of my shovel. (I’m pretty sure I wept with joy.)

* On a less joyful note, my escapades in the snow provided TheWife with a stroke of inspiration: “Let’s take the kids sledding!” So: 20 minutes of chasing them around the house was followed by 20 minutes of loading them into the truck and driving them to a local hill, then 15 minutes of unloading them and the sleds, then hauling the aforementioned sleds across a long field while the kids sat like lumps of angry stone, then 10 minutes of trying to haul the laden sleds up a hill where 10″ of powder sat on top of a thick sheet of ice (causing me to go down on my ass no less than 7 times), before we finally reached the top and looked down upon the sled hill in all its splendor… only to have 2 of my 3 kids immediately begin crying and screaming: “Aaaaaaah! It’s too big! I’m too cold! I hate this! I want to go home! I! Want! To! Go! Home!”

(Only Rabbit was brave enough to give it a go. Damn, I love that little girl.)

Anyhow. That was fun. We’ll have to try it again next year. You know, after I’m dead.

* Speaking of fruitless attempts to have fun in the snow, please join me in wishing my imaginary friend Jonniker happy travels as she and her husband load up the truck and move, Beverly Hillbillies-style, from the tropical hell of SW Florida to the slightly less tropical but also significantly less-hellish wilds of Vermont. The good news: Vermont offers fewer gators, fire ants and murderous psychotics (at least, on a per capita basis). The bad news: I don’t think she owns winter boots. Or a shovel. Pray for her.

* Did I mention that TheWife went to NYC with her sisters over Presidents’ Day Weekend? True story. Which means I was locked in my house for two days with three bloodthirsty children. Result? Approximately 270 viewings of The Little Mermaid, and no casualties. A miracle.

* I fucking hate The Little Mermaid, by the way. 16-year old, bikini-clad redhead decides to defy her father and go chase after a sailor/prince? Faaaaantasic. I love the precedent this is setting for my girls.

* Although King Triton? That dude is ripped. Much respec, yo.

* On an unrelated movie note, we enjoyed Eastern Promises last weekend. A bit more Viggo than I needed to see, sure… but Cronenberg/Viggo is the bomb. Not quite as earth-shaking as A History of Violence (an all-time great), but worthwhile. (TheWife, for her part, thoroughly enjoyed her Whole Lotta Viggo. “Can we watch that scene again?”)

* It’s been five long years since I last wore glasses, but an inexplicable and complete bilateral shredding of my last pair of contacts yesterday left me wandering around today in proud Mr. Magoo style. (New contacts should be arriving via mail later this week.) Fortunately, this step back in time was greeted by a pair of wonderful compliments. The first came from Butterfly, who remarked as I held her hand and walked her downstairs this morning, “Your glasses look very handsome, Daddy.” And then I melted.

The second came at work, where my early-twentysomething colleague Bouvier walked in to my office, discovered me squinting at her through a pair of outdated specs, and said that I looked “cute.” I was initially too surprised to respond, so she continued by clarifying, “They make you look more… intellectual.”

“Oh.” I got it. “You mean, I look slightly less stupid than usual.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “But my way sounded a lot nicer.”

Twenty weeks. Given that the generally accepted gestational period for a human being is forty weeks, twenty weeks – a full five month investment in the ongoing clusterfuck that is pregnancy – is generally accepted as pretty far along in the process.

And so it was at twenty weeks – back in the long-ago, far-away time that I like to think of as early February, 2005 – that TheWife and I drove to her friendly OB/GYN practice for our first ultrasound on kid #2.

I had just returned from a weekend away in DC, where I’d attended a wedding shower for my own onetime best man Demoncrat and his terrifyingly brilliant and much-too-cute-for-him bride-to-be. It was a great time, not only because it began to provide me with inspiration as to how to sabotage my friend at the altar in the same way he’d sabotaged me, but because it was also my first weekend away on my own since kid #1 (that’d be TheHurricane, for those keeping score) showed up back in 2003. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t savor every tender moment with my wife and child… but it felt pretty damned sweet to get away for three days free of any responsibility above/beyond that of “do I have enough cash to buy another beer?”

Anyhow. I returned to my growing thermonuclear family with a smile on my face and love in my heart, believing that it was actually possible to balance this whole kid/family thing with something resembling a fulfilling adult life. TheWife was flying through knock-up #2 with flying colors, as all previous pregnant chick check-ups (I know there’s a proper term for ’em, but keep in mind that I’m not too perceptive) had offered nothing but thumbs-up and intimations of good times ahead.

And so it was that I left the craptastic offices of my fledgling company (remind me to tell you sometime about what happened to those offices after we moved out) to pick up TheWife and head in together in for our first ultrasound, which we hoped would provide us with more thumbs-up, hearty pats on the back, and perhaps even definitive word on whether our son was destined to have a little brother or sister. All bets were on “sister,” and our name options to that point were weighed heavily on the girl side (in fact, we’d already basically decided on a first and middle name if the answer was “girl”), but ultimately we didn’t really care about anything beyond the “everyone’s healthy” thumbs-up itself.

We checked in at the front desk, then sat our asses down in the uncomfortable and too-narrow chairs that, ironically, seemed to define every OB/GYN office we ever visited — as if OB/GYN office managements region-wide had come to the strangely embittered decision to select office furniture custom-designed to make legions of pregnant women even more uncomfortable than pregnant women generally are. We looked nervously at other women at various stages of knock-up, wondering how far in they were and how they were doing. At the same time, we felt ourselves being looked at nervously by women clearly there for a GYN visit alone, as if by peering at our darting eyes and squirming, chair-enhanced discomfort they might somehow gain insight into the strange and terrifying world of pregnancy that might someday become theirs.

We looked at our watches a lot. OB/GYN practices – especially busy ones located on hospital grounds – always run late. I took a lot of deep breaths, and tried not to think too much about what we might find out at our visit. TheWife was mostly quiet, thinking deep and inscrutable pregnant chick thoughts.

(To clarify: I would never dream of referring to someone who I don’t know as a “pregnant chick” or as being “knocked up,” but when it comes to friends, family and/or someone foolish enough to marry me, sarcasm and suggestions of shotgun weddings are well beyond inevitable.)

After a looooong, uncomfortable wait, they were finally ready for us. The ultrasonographer led us down a winding hallway to a tiny room, which held barely enough space for a stool, desk and computer (for the ultrasonographer), one of those OB/GYN table things (you can guess who that was for), and a small round stool for me. She gave us a moment alone so TheWife could change into one of those stylish johnnies, and then we all hopped onto our respective pieces of furniture.

The ultrasonographer dimmed the lights, asked TheWife to lift her johnny north to expose her not-insubstantial expanse of belly, and then said the words that all women in that position love to hear: “This may be a little cold.” And with those magic words, she squirted a clear (and apparently chilly) gel onto TheWife’s abdomen – industrial lubricant? mango chutney? nutrogena conditioner? I have no idea – and then pulled out her magic U/S wand. And with no spoken Freudian implications… we were off.

Things proceeded more or less as we expected. The ultrasonographer moved the wand all over TheWife’s abdomen, took some pictures, typed in some data and measurements, and didn’t say much of anything. TheWife and I stayed quiet, trying not to disturb the tech’s concentration or somehow jinx what was, we deeply hoped, a fairly standard and thumbs-up-resulting ultrasound exam.

It was dark and quiet. We stared at the screen and tried to understand what we were looking at — as if we might somehow, suddenly, magically decipher a leg or a hand or the soft beating of a heart among the shifting gradations on-screen. The room was quiet, except for the steady click of the computer. We watched, listened, and waited. Click. Click. Click.

I don’t know how long it was before she finally spoke. But when she did, it was words I would never forget.

She turned to us, chart in hand, and said, “There’s something wrong here.”

The world dropped away from us. I felt like all the blood drained from my body, and all the air left the room. I couldn’t even think to look at TheWife — I just stared incredulously at the ultrasonographer.

She continued: “My paperworks says one, but I see two.”

(You know those moments when your mind goes totallly blank? This was one of them.)

She looked at us. We looked back at her. There was a loooooong moment of awkward silence.

Eventually, TheWife summoned the energy to respond. “What?”

The ultrasonographer clarified: “Well, I mean I only have paperwork for one baby, but there are two on-screen.”

I think it was at this moment that my jaw actually bounced of the floor. TheWife’s expression must have been similarly… uh… surprised, because at that point the ultrasonographer’s expression changed substantially.

“You do know you’re having twins, right?”

We stared at her for a moment, and I remember slightly shaking my head – and it took all the concentration I had at that point to manage that feat – and say, “No.”

We could see the gears turning in her head as she processed this. She took a moment, cleared her throat, and then said, “Um… I probably could have told you that in a better way.”

My head shake turned to a nod, and I murmured, “…Yes.”

She nodded her head strongly in response, said decisively, “I’m going to give you a moment to absorb this. I’ll be right back.” Then she stood up, and before her embarrassment could overtake her she fled the room.

I wish I could tell you what happened next, but honestly it’s something of a blur to me. I’m pretty sure I fell on the floor and curled up into a ball. TheWife just kept saying over and over again, “I can’t believe it. Twins.” She asked me a couple of times how something like this could happen, but my position on the floor – and shared understanding that we had no family history of twins or fertility drug stuff at work to make this even an assumed possibility – prevented a relevant response.

I’m pretty sure I said something to the effect of, “We’re so fucked” seven or eight times. But that was probably obvious on my part.

Eventually TheWife’s OB/GYN came in, rained congratulations down upon us, and talked us (somewhat) back down to earth. She gave us the good news that everyone seemed healthy, that all systems still seemed pointed toward a successful launch, and that this was still a thumbs-up scenario — just one involving more thumbs than we’d anticipated. I don’t recall specifics, although I was able to eventually climb back up onto my stool.

At some point, TheWife got dressed, and we left the office. As we got into our car and started heading home, TheWife started thinking about how we should tell our families the news. Apparently (I’d forgotten this until TheWife recently reminded me), I suggested something to the effect that we shouldn’t actually tell anyone — as if, the twin thing wouldn’t really be real until we started to tell people, and that if we kept it to ourselves maybe this whole thing would turn out to one of those crazy, ultra-vivid pregnancy dreams.

Yeah, that… uh… that didn’t work so well.

Anyhow. We came home, made some calls, shared our bewilderment, and finally I went back to work.

According to my colleagues (as they now tell it), I walked in as white as a ghost. I didn’t say a word to anyone — just walked back to my desk, sat down, and stared into space. They just looked at me for a minute or two, and then finally started asking questions.

TheCEO: “So? How did it go? Everyone healthy?”

Me: (long pause) “Uh… yeah. Everyone’s good.”

ElPresidente: “So — boy? Girl?”

Me: (long pause, then deep breath) “It’s a girl…”

Everyone: “That’s awesome!”

Me: (continuing) “…and another girl.”

Everyone: (stunned silence)

TheCEO: (after a minute) “Twins? You’re having twins?”

Me: (still staring into space, then finally nodding)

Everyone: (hysterical laughter, accompanied by lots of finger-pointing and then more hysterical laughter)

Honestly, if it hadn’t been me… I would have been laughing at me, too.

(Note: The first and middle names we had in mind as we walked into the medical office that day? Each girl ended up with one as a first name.)

(Open curtain on the dining room at Castle TwoBusy)

TheWife, Rabbit, Butterfly and your man TwoBusy are scarfing down a nutritious breakfast as they wait for the Sunday Globe to arrive. Suddenly, TheHurricane comes marching into the room.

TheHurricane: “What rhymes with duck?”

TheWife: “Huh?”

TheHurricane: “FUCK!!!“

TheHurricane marches happily back off to the living room, while TheWife looks incredulously at TwoBusy, who is busy choking to death on a mouthful of Cinnamon Life.

(Close curtain)

As the prophet Bob Mould once howled, “Now I’m a little bit older… and I’m not a hell of a lot wiser.”

Nevertheless, a few things I learned over the course of year 36:

* Two-year old girls can be extremely cute. Then you notice the bony protrusions from their foreheads, remember they’re demons, and move on.

* I love my 42″ plasma TV. Sweet god, I do. I can’t even remember what my life was like without it. Did we even have a TV? Was the world in color? It’s all a blur up until last January.

* I love my snowblower. Which is now fully repaired and safely back in my garage, waiting to be unleashed at an unsuspecting, date-TBD winter storm. Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers on this matter.

* Going to see live music is fun. Which I’d kind of forgotten, given that I was so busy procreating and dealing with the results thereof that I hadn’t been to a concert in something like an eon (give or take). Which makes it even cooler that while I was just starting to type this (on company time! gasp!) my friend and colleague Koko walked up to my desk, said, “Happy birthday!” and handed me the gift of two tickets to see Bob Mould (who not only did I mention above, but in fact am listening to on iTunes right now) next month. Which is a pretty neat bit of synchronicity.

* On a less-savory work note, it really sucks when someone you work with/manage starts to lose their mind… and you have to deal with the fallout. More to come on this later.

* Sports suck. Except when sports rule.

* Some problems just don’t go away, no matter how hard you work or however many sacrifices you make to whatever god you believe in. Honestly, it’s just fucking exhausting sometimes. This isn’t a new lesson, but it’s something I find myself learning over and over again.

* I’m so far beyond lucky to have a hot, funny, charming, elegant and sophisticated wife that it just defies description. It’s a very rare event when she isn’t the most beautiful woman in any given room, and the fact that she’s hanging out with a jackass like me makes absolutely no sense at all. (Which is also not a new lesson, but one that I’m delighted to find myself learning over and over again.)

* Having a job worth enjoying is a rare thing. Which makes me very lucky.

* I spend too much time being angry. I need to be better about this.

* I need to find ways for my wife and I to spend more time together as real people — independent of the stresses, hassles, logistics and ongoing headaches and nightmares that tend to define our daily lives. We’ve lost entire years doing just that, and it’s not healthy. So: this year, we’re actually going to take a family vacation. And take more hooky days off from work together. And get out to dinner together (and by that, I mean dinner at places with tablecloths and linen napkins and candlelight and no talking animals on the walls) more than quarterly.

* I need to find more time to be a real person on my own. I’m learning that if I go out once a month for a couple of beers or dinner or a movie with a friend, it’s okay — my kids will survive, my wife can deal, and the world won’t end. And it actually makes me feel good. Which is nice.

* Did I mention how much I missed my snowblower? Welcome home, baby. I’m so glad you’re feeling better.

* I’m actually quite grateful to you – yes, you – for periodically checking out this online exercise in futility. Honestly, I probably enjoy whatever back-and-forth I have with imaginary web people like you more than I should… but there you go.

So. Onwards. Bring it on, 37.