100 words a day

At first I was giddy.  I loved the idea that I could ‘run away’ from my problems.   All of those little messes I couldn’t quite resolve? Those would soon become somebody else’s sleepless nights.

At least that’s how it seemed.

Truthfully, it wasn’t joy I felt first.  It was hurt.  And disappointment.  And betrayal. I’d been traded.  Another team requested me and my team let me go. What did those negotiations look like?  Was there a midnight stalemate ending in my manager’s tears of exhaustion, “Fine! Take the best we’ve got!” Or were the “t”s crossed before it ever began?

The scout motto “Be prepared” is something I take seriously.  I’m rarely caught off guard because I make plans and pack accordingly.  I do homework and have the right tools at hand.

I have people in my life who are entering new territories and it’s driving me crazy how ill-prepared I think they are.  Not enough money, not enough boxes, too much this and not enough that.   Why aren’t “they” prepared?

Looking at myself differently; how prepared was I for divorces, rehab, going broke and flying way too close to the sun?   No one is ever really ready for anything.

Most of what I write (aside from blog entries and social networking updates) is non-fiction, science fiction, or poetry.  However, I think my best short story is a piece of literary fiction, and it’s currently in the queue at a fairly prestigious literary magazine.  I suspect the end result will be a rejection letter; I’m prepared for the worst.

I’m okay with the prospect of rejection.   Success and its resulting reader expectations scare me, though.  How do I maintain quality output?

An alternate Me just whispered in my ear: “Trust yourself.  Satisfy your own expectations and your fears will dissolve.”

My father could always make decisions and then make those decisions work.  He’s an engineer whose thought process has always included precise calculations and utilized his vast knowledge and prior experiences.  He designed things that worked well and stood the test of time.  His decision-making didn’t take a great deal of time because he was always did his homework and was supremely confident; facts which also made him one deadly poker player.

Cancer is creeping up on him much too quickly now.  My father isn’t having a tough time making decisions; he just doesn’t seem to care about making them.  

My daughter was instrumental in forming an administration-approved Diversity Group at her school; no easy task considering she lives in Dixie’s Bible Belt where diversity is a dirty word.  Her group promotes knowledge, awareness and tolerance for individuals with different ideas and lifestyles.  I’m proud of everything she does, but this commitment is special.

Starting an organization to promote acceptance and kindness is absurd; we aren’t born mean-spirited, closed-minded and rigid.  The Diversity Group should count the entire student body as members, but it doesn’t.  Some student sheepeople are listening to their parents listening to Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh.

I’ve said and heard the Serenity Prayer a million times but I don’t always listen to the words as closely as I should.  Listening or reciting the prayer can become mechanical and sing-song when I don’t pay close attention; plus I have a few “issues” with prayer in general.  I found a different version of the same powerful idea from a Mother Goose poem and it works for me much easier.  

“For every ailment under the sun there is a remedy or there is none; if there be one, try to find it; if there be none never mind it.” 

Sanctuary is a word my daughter understands and has used wisely for years.  She’s been able find refuge in all the right places to keep her safe.  I on the other hand have found all the wrong places when I needed a break from the chaos I usually caused.  I searched high and low for some peace and stability and always ended up looking for daylight from the bottom of another hole I dug.

Getting some help, listening more and being aware gives me my sanctuary.  The safe place I’ve been looking for has been within me the whole time.

My father is 25 years older than me; always has been.  Throughout our lives that difference has fluctuated.  In grade school, my dad was the oldest man on earth and in high school I treated him like one of the guys.  In college he tried to treat me as an adult but I still had too much kid in me.

When I was running my life into the ground I thought my dad was out of touch and didn’t know anything.  I got better and I know he’s the smartest man alive.  My wiser voice just turned 75 years young.

Non-dessert menu items that include the words “foam” or “mousse”.

On Sunday, I told my friend I loved the pedometer she gave me, that it stayed put and never fell off.

On Monday, squeezing into a crowded subway, something flew off me and people scrambled around to see what it was.

Inside, I realized the pedometer didn’t make it.

Stepping back out and reaching down, I heard the doors close as someone kicked my pedometer, and someone else grabbed at it.   

My hand tangled around an ankle and when I stood up, the doors opened back up.    

I hopped in, looked at my dirty hand and my pedometer in it.

My son will finish fifth grade this spring and head off to middle school.  His yearbook order is due (the need for grade-school annuals baffles me) and I can celebrate this academic milestone by purchasing a dedication in this important keepsake.  Five bucks gets me 25 words and $20 gets me 50 and a picture.  A bargain price to forever let him know how proud I am.

Years from now, sitting in his CEO or Senate office, my son will pull this yearbook off a shelf with countless other yearbooks and diplomas and say to himself “Was my Dad nuts?”

A wise voice said “if you get far enough away, you’ll be on your way back home.”  That’s the best description of my own journey this past year.  I have learned most of the things I should’ve already known and I see daylight every day.

I’m aware of my place as a father, son, brother, friend and companion.  The roles I play in each of those relationships are nothing like I used to imagine.  I know everything has a consequence and cost and I’m keenly aware of my value.  On my way back home I know everything has a price.

My parents weigh heavily on my mind.  Dad turns 80 in a couple of months; he had emergency triple bypass surgery three years ago.  Mom, almost 75, fell and broke her hip in November and can’t climb the few steps to her bed.  She sleeps in a recliner.  They live two states from their nearest relatives and refuse to move any closer.  When I call them, I can hear the fatigue in Dad’s voice and the creeping senility in Mom’s.

I used to be proud of them for being so independent; now, I just wish they would move back home.

My two kids are no different than the rest of their generation when it comes to things they want or “really need.”  Christmas meant Wii games, cooler iPods, cooler phones and other tech goodies they can’t seem to live without.

My two kids are also way different than the rest of their peers because they can’t live without books.  They asked for, gave and received books for the holidays.  Given a choice, Border’s will beat Best Buy every time.

I offered my daughter a Kindle and she said “How are you supposed to curl up with an LED?”

Good point.

I don’t want to make a resolution this year.   There’s only one I have left to make and I’ve been putting it off for years.   It’s nearly impossible, but it’s the only thing I want.

In one word: reprioritization.

It means bypassing the carrot that’s in front of me and going after the one I truly want.   It means stepping back at work, taking myself out of the fast lane: a career in upper management wasn’t my dream.  Futures we stumble upon ought not to be binding.

It means writing more.  It means dating more.  It means leaving at 5.

Amid a chorus of voices deriding the last decade and 2009 in particular, it seems I’m the only one who feels otherwise.

When the year began, I had only one promise to live up to, that this year would be better than the last.

And although the world saw it’s share of strife, my life improved.  I found the girl of my dreams, enriched relationships with friends and family, and came to terms with who I am, and who I will strive to be.

So, 2009 - we hardly knew ye.  But thank you for all gifts great and small.

2010 is here, more or less and that’s what I’ve been thinking about – more and less.  I plan next year and next decade to be full of more good stuff and less full of bad.

I’ll have less baggage, clutter and bullshit.  I’ll shed idle time, indecision and worrying over things I can’t fix or control. 

I plan more time being one of the guys again with my lifelong friends and even more guy time with my father, brother and son.  I’ll look through women’s eyes more, especially my daughter’s.

More time on the water and more time for love.

In the past, I’ve blogged my New Year’s resolutions and invariably set myself up for failure by making huge lists.  This year, it all fits in less than 100 words, but it’s still lengthy.

1.  Clean the litter boxes regularly.

2.  Start publishing fiction.

3.  Publish more non-fiction.

4.  Finish my webOS app.

5.  Strengthen my back and neck.

6.  Eat no McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches in 2010.

7.   Make (and meet) more reasonable goals at work.

8.  Streamline our finances.

9.  Read for enjoyment.

10.  Blog regularly.

11.   Transplant my Variax guitar electronics.

(At least the list goes to eleven.)

I watched part of Freaky Friday yesterday, and when Lindsey Lohan was punished by having her bedroom door removed, I was reminded of my own childhood.

My dad used to do that, shouting “You slam it, you lose it” as he carried the unhinged door down the stairs.  I called him to laugh about this policy for keeping five daughters from slamming doors.

He laughed and said, “Not you so much.  The third one and the fourth one, all the time.  You slam it, you lose it!”

“Did you just call Kate and Maggie by numbers?”

Sheepish laughter.  “Oh.  Yeah.”

My entire discussion with both my children and anyone else for that matter concerning Santa Claus last about five seconds.  If you don’t believe, you don’t receive – period.  Santa Claus is the simplest thing in the world for me understand and explain to anyone else.

I believe in Santa the same way I do about love, family and friends.  Belief in Santa describes my future and explains my past.  I think about that more than ever this Christmas.  My kids are a thousand miles away and they keep me at an even greater distance.  Believing in and receiving from; simple. 

My name is Mark and my best friends are Debbie, Andy, Kevin, Mike, and Kim; fairly common names. Throw in Eugenia, Clayton and Skippy and that’s as exotic as the list is.

I was last-minute Christmas shopping and saw personalized ornaments, coffee-mugs, sweatshirts, key-chains, license-plates and everything else with a name on it under the sun.  There was no “Cyndy” or “Becki” or “LaQuesha” or “Jaymes.”  I thought – “what were parents thinking when they gave their children unique/trendy names that sounded so good at the time?”

My children have names from Irish mythology and Sioux legacy.  What was I thinking?

“There is great disorder under heaven-and the situation is excellent.”

It’s sub-zero here in Chicago.   My father’s kidney cancer hurts him and he’s scared.  My daughter is waiting on college admissions and she’s probably scared too.  My kid’s Mom lost her career and her Mami’s health is in dire straits and I know she’s really scared.

My brother is single for the first time in his life and he’s scared beyond belief.  My sweetheart is scared for me and about us because she knows everything about everyone and everything.

I’m not scared at all.  I know where my heart is.

One of my few NYC complaints is riding the subway and fortunately, I’ve usually been able to walk to work.

Lately I commute to the West Village, Hoboken and the Bronx, and ride it a lot.
The other night, some vile little thug wannabe was on a tear using filthy words…the f word, the n word, just refusing to shut it.

Then his friends started telling him it was offensive.  To everyone else and to him. 

He tried defending himself and then asked if they were all getting together over the weekend.

“No.  We’re not”. 

I liked those other guys.

I catch “Jeopardy” every now and then on television and I’m a pretty good player for two reasons; I had great teachers in school and I read a lot.  When I come up with the answer to someone’s obscure question I usually joke “I’ll take useless crap for $400, Alex.”

Lately I’ve realized how much I do know and how many things I just instinctively “know” how to fix, figure out or make better.  I have a large library of answers at my disposal all for one reason – my father.  His gifts are my responsibility to pass along and share.

Dear 100 Words A Day,

I have sadly neglected you. I cant pretend this will be the last time, and if you read back through my posts you’ll see it’s not the first time I’ve come crawling back, ashamed.

I have no good excuse: I haven’t been stuck on a deserted island without internet access, nor have I been in jail or laid up in the hospital. I’ll chalk it up to lazy and lack of self-confidence, if I’m really being honest.

And that’s one thing I have always given you, my dear 100 words, is honesty. Scout’s honor.

I’ve had way too many people and way too many things living in my head – rent free for way too long.  I’ve allowed people and things to clutter my thoughts with worries and despair and I’ve ended up making so many wrong decisions.

The space inside my head is valuable.  Allowing people to live there without returning my feelings and concerns has been the single most destructive force in my life.  My head and heart have been rent free for so long I didn’t know any better; until now.  There’s a rent increase and eviction notices have been sent out. 

Today would’ve been my Mom’s 75^th birthday, but cancer took her a few short years ago.  Those years seem like minutes.   My Dad will spend today worrying about starting a new chemo drug; a powerful one designed to help his cancer from spreading.  He’ll spend it missing his wife more than usual – if that’s possible.  No one asks for cancer.  My parents certainly didn’t sign up.

I think my Mom would have liked to have celebrated three-quarters of a century today.  She was always up for a party with friends and family around.  Happy Birthday; we’re glad you’re always here.

Rehab and recovery are a lot like tides.  There’s constant ebb and flow along with brilliant moments of stillness and the uncertainty of impending storms.

Poetic words for explaining something un-poetic.  Recovery from ANY addiction is hard.  The success rate is lousy and almost –ALMOST every addict I’ve ever met has either slipped or flat-out lied about using again.

“Progress, not perfection” is the oft-repeated mantra which carries a great deal of wisdom.  Problem is that wisdom is usually only understood by other addicts.  Well-meaning supporters don’t always understand why addicts just don’t “Just Do It.”  We try; every day. 

I knew an over-the-phone breakup wouldn’t do, so we agreed to meet at my place after he got off work.

“I have some things to say, and besides there’s something I’ve wanted to do with you for some time,” he said.

He arrived amid rain showers and strong winds with an improvised plan; laid out blankets in my living room and set up flashlights inside a box pricked with holes.  We communicated with words and with silence under the ersatz stars.

He vented and asked questions. I tried to answer them.

I fought urges to hold him.

I fought tears.

Loved: the architecture and detailing, the enormous scale of Chateau de Versailles, the pyramid at the Louvre right alongside the older wings, walking everywhere, Nike of Samothrace, that wine and cheese were so inexpensive, Pere Lachaise Cemetery, the double-decker dessert with the chocolate inside, almost every piece of art inside Musee d’Orsay, finally reaching the top of the hundreds of stairs at Notre Dame right after yelling, “I HATE THIS”.

Didn’t love:  that meal where I thought I was getting steak frites but instead got a giant slab of seared ground beef, bright red and still cold in the middle.

I did not wake up this morning planning to break up with my boyfriend, but I suppose I knew it was coming.

Chris and I have been together 6 months.  He has been the most mature, communicative, easygoing boyfriend.  I recently got back from an enchanting week in Hawaii, and when I returned home found myself in a weird place. 

I didn’t miss him.

Not like a boyfriend should miss his boyfriend, but like a friend would miss a friend.

22 minutes and 29 seconds on the phone solidified the transition.

Why do I feel like I’ve made a mistake?

I spent the last two days agonizing over National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.)  During that time, I wrote exactly zero words, which put me about 3,300 words in the hole.  In an attempt to kick-start myself, I re-read the story inspiring the novel and became even more depressed and discouraged.

The story has potential.  But stressing about NaNoWriMo is not going to get it written.  I need to write it over a longer period of time, with less pressure.

To my fellow NaNoWriMates:  Forge ahead and meet your goal.  I’ll be waiting at the finish line to cheer you on.

My father always said the only doctors who know what they’re talking about and tell people the truth are coroners.  Forensic doctors are the only ones who can say for certain what made a patient sick.

 My dad has cancer and my mother died from it and in both cases, the truth is really just guessing.  Most people have the same experience from their physician whether it’s the flu or something more serious.

I was lucky.  My surgeon saved my life a few years ago and always told the truth.  Halloween was my surgery anniversary and he remains my friend.

I know something is wrong before she says hello.  A daughter can read her mother’s facial expression, even over the phone.   Then she uses the word diagnosed in the same breath as grandmother.  My legs go numb.  Time slows and it feels like I’ve lived two lifetimes by the time she finishes the sentence.   When she does I feel the blood return to my legs.  Parkinson’s.  I know little of it other than Michael J Fox has it and is trying to fundraise his way to a cure.

I feel guilty I’m relieved; I thought the news would be worse.

One of the most important rules I tell myself each day is “there is your version, my version and then the cold hard truth.”  This rule applies to everything from politics and government to relationships and getting through my day.

No matter how many times I recite those words, I can’t reconcile the situation my teenage daughter and I are in.  A year ago I was building the set for her one-act-play competition at school and discussing colleges.   This year I’m not invited to the competition and we haven’t spoke in months.  She needs no father.  I need my daughter.     

I feel boring lately.  Hence, the silent keyboard.  I can’t even remember what I used to do that was so exciting, but for some reason can’t seem to think of things to talk or write about lately.

I leave for Paris in fifty-two hours which is actually very exciting.  Today I passed not one but two former employers on the street, found $20 in the pocket of my jacket that the cleaners missed or left for me, “christened” my new library card and picked up four books for the trip.  Tonight I’m meeting my friend Hope for dinner at Blockheads.

I’ve been through parenthood, rehab, jail, marriage, college, graduate- School, fatherhood, work, worry, heartache, massive surgery, depression, poverty, wealth, goodness, badness, joy and the sheer joy of being grateful for no particular reason.

I’m grateful today for particular reasons.    

My best friend and brother escaped the grips of ties that have bound him for too long.  He’s been caught in a rotten relationship that left him in the hospital this week.  He’s out, better and stronger.

He’s going to have to listen to too much crap.

He is a victim of domestic violence.

Domestic violence whether physical or mental matters.

I stand behind dozens of firefighters in their dress blues; I wear an embroidered polo with my name and the Federal Heights Fire Department logo.  His casket bears his name: Joseph Eugene Grein.

I am not a firefighter, but I knew the firefighter they are honoring this day.  I didn’t know him well, mind you, just as a work acquaintance.  But I know he would have helped me in an emergency, and for that, I will always be grateful.

I am honored that I am allowed to stand with his peers and say goodbye from the fringes of the brotherhood.

I love the show “The Office”.  Every single thing about it. 

I wasn’t so psyched that Jim and Pam were getting married though.  I thought that, like the show Friends, it would eliminate the air of mystery as in the case of Ross and Rachel getting together.

But that wedding.  I loved the reference to the YouTube wedding.  I loved Dwight kicking that girl in the face.  I loved Angela clutching her purse and walking up the aisle like a scared old lady at 7:30 mass.  My fave was Erin dancing up the aisle with Andy clinging to a walker.

I never thought this would be the case.  

I’ve played with thoughts of how intimacy with another man would be.  I’ve seen tenderness and passion.  I’ve seen the kinky and the taboo, as well as the connection and the closeness.  

In my imagination, there have been costumes and roles to play.  There have been screams of ecstatsy and guttural grunting.  Up against a wall, in a shower, on the floor and in the bed.  Even…outdoors.

Now that it’s happening, I’m disappointed.  I couldn’t figure out why I’ve been “failing” in the bedroom.

I can’t live up to my own expectations.

Baby-Doomers are a lot of fun unless you “own” one or have to live with one or work with one.  Most of my friends and I “own” Doomers, meaning our children collectively don’t mow lawns, don’t say thank-you and think sleeping and grumpiness are entitlements.

I met a group of Doomers at a party this weekend hosted by Boomers.  The Doomers huddled round the television while the Boomers hung around the outdoor fire pit (where the party was supposed to be).

Doomers –first in buffet line, video games, in one room together, clueless.  Boomers – cooking, cleanup, conversation, mingling, totally aware. 

I look up to see the top but all I see are the Canyon walls.  My brain taunts me, “You can’t get there from here” and I assert right back, “Well then how did I get down here?”  My breathing is labored and audibly concerning, but I don’t let my feet stop.  My legs are pumping with a ferocity I didn’t know they had.   My clothes are drenched with sweat, yet I’m shivering.  I wonder if dehydration is lethal.

When I finally reach the top my shirt is obscenely transparent, my hips are on fire, and I can’t stop smiling.

Every generation in history has had complaints about the generations which follow.  My father’s generation thought my music was too strange and loud.  My hair was too long and how dare I should question my government.

I myself have zero complaints about the generations following mine.  The people from 16 to 30 do not bother me at all; in fact, they have my envy.  I’ve even given them my own nickname – the “Baby-Doomers.”

I’m a Baby-Boomer; the generation that changes things.  The “Doomers” are waiting for even more changes from us Boomers while they sit at big screens and LOL.

I looked down, and bills were flying out of my sweatshirt pocket. 

I grabbed a fistful of air, realizing:

“They’re blowing around in the middle lane on Second Avenue”

“That was $22!  RUN!”

I took off in a zigzag pattern, chasing them like I was in a game show wind machine.  I got close enough to read the denominations; stomped once, twice, three times.  Finally, landed on the $20.

Bending to grab it, praying traffic wouldn’t plow over me.

Let the other two singles go and then heard a helpful stranger calling to me after he caught the other $2. 

I’m sitting here staring at the screen, trying to dust off my thinker.  I feel that this should be easier.  I pull various slides from drawers in my mind; peering at them closely, squinting while holding them up to the light.

I want to write about something positive, but I just can’t seem to find anything in that department.  All I see right now is joblessness, pain in my body, anger, frustration, unfulfillment, a foreboding sense of fear about my future…

Who is this person?  Where did I go?  Why does the trophy of writing look so tarnished and lackluster?

I build these one-of-a-kind deer made from logs and tree branches and have been told how “unique” they are.  I give them as gifts.  This weekend I sold them at a local craft fair for the first time. 

One woman made my day.  She bought two deer and came back two hours later with her husband and purchased two more for friends in the hospital.  She told me the deer would make a difference in her friends’ spirits.  I wouldn’t take her money, yet she insisted. A while later they came back with their adult daughter and purchased eight more.

As Ahmadinejad pulls his nuclear saber another inch from its scabbard, my Cold War anxieties return.  My dreams become a series of nuclear scenarios.  A nuke hits downtown Denver, the stem of the mushroom expanding to encompass my house.  A failed attack results in an Iranian Saegheh aircraft exploding on 16th street during Christmas season.

None of this is reasonable; if (when?) Iran is ready to use nukes, Denver is not a likely target, and I don’t think there’s any way a Saegheh fighter jet could make it to middle America.

But then, saber-rattling isn’t intended to produce rational results.

My unemployed/overweight slump has been going on for awhile now, but I knew eventually I’d snap out of it.

A favorite author (who’s become a friend) hosted a book party recently.  I put on makeup and a cute outfit, and felt a little better.   

She asked if I’d been running lately, as she signed my book.   (“Labor Day” by Joyce Maynard)

Later, I read her message.  The writer who inspires me to no end had written, “For Rose, the person who has inspired me to someday run a marathon.”

And I’ve been feeling like my old self again, ever since.

My son turns 10-years-old tomorrow which means 90 more years in double-digits before he’s lucky enough to reach 100.  All celebrations of your birth are important, but the first one of 90 more is significant and for the first time in his young life I won’t be spending it with him.

This indeed makes me sad, but it’s not “my” day.  I remember every one of his and my daughter’s like it is happening right now.  I remember every other single day and moment of their lives; it’s my only solace for not being included.  Happy birthday my dear son.    

A small portion in the 44^th principle of Tao states “Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are.  When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

My whole world doesn’t feel like it belongs to me; my daughter has become unavailable.  The rare times she does touch base, I’m reminded that I “bother” her too much.  I’m being a parent; she’s the smartest-teenager-in-the-world.  That combination doesn’t elicit “rejoicing.” 

I realize with more sadness than I’ve ever felt I’ve lost more than just a child.  My heart is missing its biggest piece.