Uncle Trevordomus

I had been predicting the birth of my niece, Dusty Sade, for some time now, but I was wrong every time. She came into the world this past Tuesday, February 22, so now I don't have to constantly ask my sister "have you had your baby yet?" I'm sure that's the least of her worries.

It's hard to describe just what's going on in me right now, other than the monster case of indigestion or whatever it was that almost kept me up all night and may or may not be related to the questionable nature of the hamburger steak that was served for dinner (the less you know about this, the better). In regards to my niece, I mean, it's odd because she went from being this abstract concept (i.e., there's a baby in my sister's belly) to a real, live, screaming and crying thing. I've held her twice now, and each time she stretches and squirms and makes horrible faces like she's about to cry, and I can't help but badger perfect strangers with the picture I now have on my cell phone when I first open it up, of her looking at me like I'm nuts. I love the little stinker.

And yes, I have indeed shown off the picture I took of her, she's just about the cutest thing I've seen. It's different than, say, when a cousin or uncle of mine has a kid (as has happened over the past six years now), I mean, those babies are cute and all, but this is different. My sister, whom I can still recall as a bald-headed little stinker, has her own now, covered in hair and sporting some tiny, tiny hands and feet. It feels like I'm closer to this one than to my cousins or whatnot.

In the past, I've wondered what it might be like to have a family of my own, kids that look like me but hopefully have better luck in social situations in which they have to talk to girls. Not being sexually active in high school did mean that I avoided the pitfall of having a kid right before graduation that could, in turn, derail my chances to have fun away at college, but then I didn't have much fun in college, either. Also, there was the whole "not being sexually active" part, which was not by choice. Anyway, I would like to think I'd be a good dad, perhaps because I'm something of an okay babysitter (who else would let his three-year-old cousin "ground and pound" him for her amusement while tears streamed down his face from all the pain she was inflicting with her surprisingly muscular fists?). Time will tell if I can land a girlfriend, much less a baby mama. But for the time being, I will try to be the best uncle I can to little Vanity T'Pau.

Arcade Fire Can Also Win Best Album

My sister is still, as of this writing, swollen with pregnancy, but I reckon she'll pop at some point soon because...okay, I just jinxed it, she's now going to carry the baby into March. Sorry, sis.

Anyway, before the birth of Jermajesty Beyonce, I will say that the past few weeks of waiting for her to arrive have caused me to wonder about my own fitness as a parent, should I be lucky enough to con a woman into loving me. I'm great with the cousins and half-cousins who have come through my grandparents' abode over the years for babysitting (that's not me saying that, I have testimonials that me taking a whiffle bat to the crotch kept Lil Satan entertained enough to allow the grands some much-needed bickering time), but the thought of my own kid, a little copy of me, somehow being born onto this planet and then asking me to clean up his or her shit, well, that's just a little unnerving.

You see, my experiences with women have been of the disappointing kind, sometimes I was the instigator of it or she was, but the result was usually the same; something that started off kinda nice devolved because one or both of us was too insecure to really think this might last.

So god forbid that I bring a child into that equation. Also, it doesn't help that, of the various couplings within my family (marriage-wise, I mean; no incest that I know of), only a couple are of the "romantic, isn't it?" variety. What I mean is, marriage and family are not conducive to happiness amongst my family, or if it is, it's aided by the abuse and misuse of alcohol and/or drugs. Depression seems to run in the family, as well as "playful" ball-busting that, for someone as sensitive as me, has sometimes come off as more mean than meaningful (see my thoughts on Thanksgiving).

But I always had an "out": my father's side of the family. Granted, I know next to nothing about them, but that's the point: I can come up with all sorts of identities for the man and his kinfolks. He could have been a hero, and his father before him, and they never spent any major holiday sitting around the table eying each other with mutual suspicion and ill-concieved contempt for some imagined past wrong. Not that my family is Swedish malaise personified, but let's just say Ingmar Bergman could have a field day with them (I've only seen a couple of Bergman films, but really, you see one and you get the idea. Plus, I read both of his autobiographies). But my father's side, the family I didn't know...they could be just about anything.

To this day, my efforts to construct what my father was really like, assuming he's not around anymore (I don't even know if that's the case or not) have failed, or I just haven't pursued them to the best of my ability. It's this lack of closure, maybe, that has something to do with my lack to be the kind of guy I could see having a family, and being there. Maybe, deep down, I fear I'd run away at the first sign of trouble (say, the part where my future girlfriend or wife says "we need to talk" and indicates that yes, my sperm is powerful enough to propogate the species), or I'd just plain suck at it. Maybe I should quit being such a scaredy cat.

Anyway, not to extend all this to my as-yet unborn niece, but I hope she gets none of the weird shit that the rest of my family has; I know I'll try my best to be Uncle Trevor for her, and not "weird Uncle Trevor who lives in the basement and never talks to women." I'll love her no matter when she's born, but I hope for my sister's sake it's before St Patty's day.

Trevor

Rapists Never Win...Except in the NBA

Wait, did I say that? Too soon?

Anyway, life has been moving along for yours truly, sister is still preggers though her due date is closing in (I'm ready to meet my new niece, Kajagoogoo Wham! Stewart; she doesn't know it yet, but my sister is naming her child after an Eighties pop music princess of the mall circuit so, to protect her identity, I'll refer to her as such here, varying the one-hit wonder or established Eighties act with each update until I become sick of such shenanigans).

Just now, I took the online Jeopardy test, nailing a few ("Camus," "McCall Smith" for the "author of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency") and whiffing on a few ("raining cats and dogs?" Gotta hate the slap-to-the-forehead-after-the-fact realization). This is the fourth year in a row I've taken the test, and I'm missing Glee for this (though to be fair, the recent season arc has been "you gotta be fucking kidding me" in terms of plot consistancy and/or development).

Things are certainly different from the first few times I took it; gone is the arrogant, "I totally got this" of my callow youth, though the rib-kicking I took emotionally and financially last year might have more to do with that than any general lack of information retrieval on my part. I gotta be honest, "Jeopardy" money is and always has been my "realistic plan to pay off student loans" since I started taking this test. Cats and Dogs will be haunting me in my sleep, even if somehow I manage to get through the gauntlet.

But that's the perks of being a smart guy, book-wise; you can't always apply that to the real world. In fact, it's safe to say that, in many ways, an education can be more of a hinderance than a help, considering what kind of education you're talking about. I know all about the French New Wave, the Beatles, the presidents of this here United States (like the author of "Decision Points," George W. Bush...the one and only time I'm glad I know that, thanks again Jeopardy), but applying that to the real world seems harder than I thought. In preperation for the Jeopardy test, I read the Ken Jennings book about his time on the show, and he made some very observant points while also writing a very entertaining book: knowing trivia doesn't necessarily translate as intelligence, though it can.

But hey, I tried, and that's more than I can say for a lot of people. Whether I get anywhere with it this year or the next (because, oh yes, I will try again next year), the fact is I took a chance on something that I might be good at. I'm gonna have to keep that in mind if a job opens up for which I am somehow qualified via my degree, because it's awfully easy to say "nah, they wouldn't give me the job anyway."

Okay, back to home and to catch the last little bit of Glee...though I predict that it will suck.