100 words a day

My faith has been restored in our governmental system. 

I had my second random interview with the unemployment people.  Random interview, you ask?  Let me explain:  this is the way the Worksource folk check up on the people suckin’ on the great government’s teat. 

I arrived at 8:00 am (Don’t they know unemployed people sleep in until at least 11:00 am?) and waited.  Then out came Johnny. Not John, nor Jonathan. Johnny. 

He was upbeat, snapped his fingers and asked me how I was doing…and MEANT it.  He joked throughout the whole meeting, encouraged me and sent me off smilin’.

My husband is a software engineer.  While my laptop runs Word, Google, or 100wordsaday, his displays split screens crawling with English words that are not English.  All day long, he writes code, hacks, and interfaces. 

He calls his laptop da lao puo, which in Mandarin means first wife, while I am xiao lao puo, second wife.  This alludes to the fate of women in ancient China:  First wives did all the thankless laboring, while second wives were favored and pampered.  I thought his nomenclature endearing.

Until now.  He needed a second laptop to accommodate his research.  Third Wife arrived yesterday. 

Five years ago, I lost a ton of weight. I tracked my 1200 calories a day in a food journal and hit the gym for ten hours a week to lift weights and do cardio.  I kept most of the weight off until February, when I battled illness, injury, and vacations.  During the past few months I’ve tried to roll back the surge and was met with some success – I dropped ten pounds.  Today I saw that seven pounds have come back.  I don’t want to return to my tried and true weight loss ways, but I might have to.

My family tells me everyday I need to clear out my ears because I don’t hear them or misunderstand them.  Truth is my hearing has gotten worse the last few years, probably due to some food additives, construction noises, general B.S. or my affection for rock ‘n’ roll.

But every now and then my hearing is perfect.  Lately in our home I have heard quiet whispers and innuendos between our daughter and her Mom about a dear friend of mine who visits this time of year.  Daughter wonders about his validity and presence.

If you don’t believe – you don’t receive.

Over Peruvian food and sangria, the subject of boxers versus tighty-whiteys came up.  We are on a double-date with my friend and her husband, who is a loyalist of the latter.  He claims comfort, tradition, and fashion-forwardness for his proud choice, and after another gulp of sangria, adds that the holier, the better. 

My friend shakes her head and says, “I’ve tried to get him to make the switch, but he’s incorrigible.”

Her husband retorts, “Do I ever complain about your under-panty stringy things?  Fair is fair.  Speaking of which, how are you supposed to fold one of those anyway?”

I dread Dec 31.

Finding fun, inexpensive, single-friendly plans?  It’s really a crappy way to mark the new year. 
Last year, I stupidly decided to save everyone the trouble and throw a party.  My reward was that two acquaintances locked me out of my own bedroom.  When I pounded on the door to interrupt their white trash, frat party behavior, was greeted by the female acquaintance, now known as Miss Piggy, topless (a walking ad for a breast lift candidate, if ever there was one) who screamed in my face, “WHAT?”

Not sure how Martha Stewart would’ve handled that one….

We met at Starbucks and rode in his car to The Emerald City, freshly festooned in holiday garb.

We playfully chided each other down to Pike’s Place Market, sparse with shoppers.  We ate at the Athenian Inn where Tom Hanks filmed in Sleepless in Seattle; fish burger, mussels and candid conversation.  

We marveled at the talented Mexican carolers who entertained Westlake Shopping Center.  We strolled contentedly through William Sonoma, Nordstrom, Restoration Hardware and Fireworks.  He refused my repeated attempts to pay parking.

We croaked along with Christmas carols on Warm 106.9.  It ended with a kiss. 

He’s growing on me.

I’ve been reading about writing lately.  They say if you’re struggling with a character, it helps to cast an actor to play them in your mind.  It breathes color into characters that exist solely in the black and white text on your screen.  My protagonist has returned home after an extended self-imposed exile.   Her only support is the father of her long-lost love.  In this role I’ve cast everyone’s favorite older man, Butch Cassidy himself.  He exudes that powerful combination of worldly wisdom and charisma that every woman can seek solace in.

Plus, he makes a damned fine salad dressing.

My kids’ Mom is pretty much in charge of everything in their lives.  That’s a good thing.  She makes sound choices, good decisions and most times, has fun and adventure on her mind.  Her position as CPU (chief parental unit) isn’t easy.

Me, well my role is not so well defined.  I’m more or less a “cooler.”  A “cooler” is the guy who comes into a difficult situation and “cools” things down.  It’s not as important as the CPU. 

Mostly I’m the “cooler” for homework, school projects, broken things and tough questions.

Not CPU, but pretty important anyway.

He says he can’t spend Christmas with his family, and doesn’t want to spend it with mine. He wants to go on a ski trip to Switzerland costing $3,000. Some people we know will be there, but the only place where there’s still a room is this ludicrously over-priced chalet, 20 minutes from where our friends are staying, and a bus ride away from the slopes. For me, the whole thing is a crazy idea, out of the question.  

Why can’t he see that I just want to spend some time with him somewhere else? Why doesn’t he get it?

Some of the best conversations with our kids occur in a vehicle.  Someone sees something out the window or hears something on the radio which sparks a debate, some questions or just reminiscing.

Being the old guy in the car means I get to pass along my “vast” knowledge about everything on Earth to our young, knowledge-hungry children.  Of course they remind me “Dad, we’ve heard that one.”

The best part for me though, is what I learn.  Yesterday, the topic of kissing somehow came up and our eight-year-old explained in detail “fake out, make out.”

I learn something everyday.

“You’ve been vaccinated recently?”

“Yes, travel vaccinations,” I replied, listing all of them.  “Can I still donate?”

“Yes.  Tell me more about your foreign travel.”

“Argentina and Turkey.  Does that make me ineligible?”

“Nope.”

“Oh wait, I went to Costa Rica two years ago and traveled in a malaria area.  That always stops me from donating,” I said, packing up my stuff.

“It’s been more than a year so you’re fine.  Let me check your iron.”

My blood drop failed the test.  Whew!

“I’m vegetarian so…”

“We’ll run another test.” 

I passed by .3%.

They took my blood. 

I cried.

Last night I met up with Date #2, Steve, for the sixth time (see my post “3 Dates in 3 Days”: http://100wordsaday.com/?p=575 ).  

We met at Farrelli’s Pizza for a few drinks and some laughs.  That seems to be what dominates our time together; laughter, I mean.  He is so effortless to be around.

I’ve expressed to him that I’m dating others to thwart leading him on.  This didn’t keep him from overtly flirting.  It also didn’t keep me from kissing him for the first time in the frosty parking lot. 

Why am I still hung up on Date #3?

Our teenage daughter is every parent’s dream.  Great student, positive attitude, dotting sister, so on and so forth.  The fact she does most things incredibly well or with such sincerity unfortunately magnifies the rare occasion when she is not every parent’s dream.

Those instances are quite rare, but memorable.  Today, when she arrives home from school, I’m predicting a new memory.

In our hometown newspaper, she is interviewed on her opinions about websites for young writers.  There is also her picture in color.  A picture I chose.  She hates my choice. 

Her laptop broke this morning too.  Every parent’s dream.

It’s Sunday night, and all weekend I have been waiting for him to get in touch. Apart from a couple of text messages saying that, no, yet again he can’t see me on Saturday night, he has to work, there has been nothing.

I keep checking my phones. They are silent. I am constantly online, looking for instant messages, emails, but there is nothing. The icon by his name on my buddy list tells me with stubborn persistence that he is offline.

And I know this is not how relationships should be, and I wonder if it will ever change.

When it comes to verbally expressing affection with my mother, I am a bit awkward.  We don’t hug or kiss often.  Still, her love for me keeps finding ways to show itself.  I taste it in the empanadas she makes from scratch.  I see it hanging above the mantle, in the autumn forest she painted for my birthday.  I delight in it when she jokes with my husband even though they speak different languages.  Last week, she taught me a new knitting technique.  When I asked her why she enjoys knitting, she said, “Because it communicates how much I care.”   

I made her a painting for her birthday.   It was a parting gift; a beautiful Pollack original that sang this has all been wonderful, but now I’m on my way.  

She’ll claim ignorance, but this was not abrupt.  This was not sudden.   This came out of nowhere only for those with closed eyes.  I am not a subtle person, never have been. I don’t whisper, I don’t mince words, and I have absolutely no poker face.

Now she wants to talk.  And, uncharacteristically, I have no words.  I’m trying to live ‘compassion before truth’, but that only leaves me mute.

Thanksgiving is about family, and this year, I got to know a little more about mine. We found paperwork showing my grandmother’s genealogy. I’m the last descendant listed because the other eleven hadn’t been born when the information was collected.

I learned I have French origin, courtesy of Caspar Michel II (b. 1766). My “American” ancestors arrived on July 4, 1842, and my great-great-grandfather served the Union during the Civil War. Another relative was a ‘49er who found gold in California – but didn’t quite strike it rich. It was cool to see my family’s history interwoven with my country’s history.

I love movies and have since I was a kid.  My Father was and still is a walking movie historian and passed along all that useless information and affection for
Hollywood to me.

I rarely use the movies however to illustrate a point or make a reference. I’m more of a sports metaphor or music-reference kinda guy.  Last night as I “scanned the band” I notice the movie “Ghost” was on. It occurred to me right then, that movie describes me.

No one really sees or hears me, but my actions and presence is felt.

Except I’m not dead yet.

I didn’t have much greenback, but that wasn’t gonna stop me.  We rendezvoused at my place of residence at 0230 hours.   

The night air was bitter; our breath opaque.  Momma Hen, Coug, Bean, Sapphire and myself (Maverick) grabbed some grub before launch; nothing heavy, we needed to remain lithe.

Our primary target: JC Penny at 0400 hours.  We got in, grabbed the loot, got out.  Secondary target:  Toys R’ Us.  The line was extensive. We remained vigilant to line-cutters and burly women with children.  Our mission: Zune MP3 players.  Our source was fallacious.  

K-Mart.  Wal-Mart.  Target.  None escaped our ambush.

I come through the swing doors, nearly smacking into C, a manager, en route to the restroom.
“Look where you’re going,” she snaps.

Back at my workstation, I knock into my desk a little loudly, causing her to turn round and glare.
“For goodness sake! So clumsy,” she snarls.

At lunchtime, I forget I am meant to be covering the phones, and wander off absent-mindedly for a while. It sends her into orbit.

Later on, she comes up to me and apologies.

In the kitchen,  P takes me to one side conspiratorially.

“C’s giving up smoking, you know,” she says.

I have no agenda today, just wanted to put some words down before festivities began.  The day started with a long yoga class.  Body was tired and achy, and during final Shavasana, she lulled me to sleep.  Later, I am making a sautéed vegetable medley and savoring the house as my husband makes his apple pie.  But for now:  Sunlight through the study windows, though the canopied trees outside as their orange berries dance easily in the breeze.  Miso paws the keyboard to write her Thanksgiving thoughts.  In this stillness, there is clarity, and I remember again all my blessings. 

So, I’m laying on my chiropractic blocks this morning, right? It used to hurt like aych-ee-double-hockey-sticks but now that my spine is slowly molding into what a spine should be, it doesn’t so much anymore.

Right, so I’m laying there listening to the TV and staring at the ceiling and what do I see materialize in the popcorn coating it? The Fairy Godmother from Disney’s Cinderella. Way cool, right?

I’m inspired, so I peruse other parts of the ceiling for a while…AND FIND HER AGAIN! What are the freakin’ chances?

There must be a glitch in the matrix. Only solution.

Our eight-year-old son is a radio with the search channel button locked on hyper-drive.  He effortlessly changes topics, moods and temperament seamlessly at warp speed.

I rarely keep up.

During our night in Albuquerque he got to me.  In the Old West, I would’ve called him out for a gunfight, but in 2007,  I can only get angry – not even.  I went to bed mad and let him know it.

Then it happened…again.

At the Albuquerque Airport gift shop this morning, he had an engaging, animated conversation with the clerk, who bought him a toy “because he was so sweet.”

Our kids’ Mom had business in Albuquerque on Tuesday, so Monday night the Sharkboy circus went airborne.  We were home Wednesday for dinner.

In 48 hours we tore up the Land of Enchantment.

Tuesday morning Mom went to work while kids swam and refueled.  We all then toured an Egyptian exhibit on loan from Britain, drove to the Sandia Mountains, filmed a herd of buffalo and spent the afternoon in an eclectic mining town touring art galleries and boutiques.

We watched the sun set and moon rise; hit the pool, hit the sack and headed home – tired,  rich and fulfilled.

It’s early, just after I have showed up for work, and, lazy individual that I am, I simply cannot be bothered to walk up two flights of stairs to my office.

I press the button and wait for the elevator, praying that no-one will see me.

Too late. A door swings past, and up comes S, a knowing smirk on his face.

I give him my most radiant smile, wish him a hearty good morning, and head for the stairs. S says nothing as he continues on his way, but we both know what he just saw me almost do.

I couldn’t sleep on Friday night. Saturday, Sunday, or Monday. I rarely admit to being sick. You can’t make me.

I’ve been walking around in a haze the past couple of days, completely void of a sense of humor or any semblance of a personality. Monday morning I was greeted by a post-it note left on my computer from The Brit and I could barely muster any excitement.

It’s always the same: it starts in my throat, moves swiftly into my chest, then rises to my ears.  Until I’m better I can’t hear and I’m off-balance.  I haven’t missed this.

Today is the third day of my mother’s two week visit.  She has asked five times when she will have grandchildren.  Yesterday, she asked twice.  After repeating again that we haven’t decided, I told her we had a rule in our house.  The rule is people may ask for grandchildren up to once a day.  Since she asked twice, she used up her quota for two days.

That doesn’t stop her asking today.  When I remind her of the rule, she says, “I keep asking because you haven’t given me an answer.”  An answer she wants to hear, she means.

I had a driving test with the Postal Service today – Phase II in the hiring process. Classic Mike would have worried all night, entertaining the severest of possibilities. They may have involved a head-on collision and an injured instructor; or hours of waiting and a surprise written test; or worse: I MIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN TO PUT ON MY SEATBELT!

None of that occurred. I was personable with my instructor. I didn’t freak out that I couldn’t have the radio on or that I couldn’t speak with him while I drove. I motored sanely and confidently.

New and Improved Mike prevailed.

I’m still mourning my impending departure.  Autumn is my favorite season, and as I look at the beautiful foliage, I’m reminded that I won’t experience this season again for at least four years.  I’m realizing , though,that sadness is the other side of the thankfulness coin.  We’re sad when we lose things or people we’re thankful we had. 

I’m thankful that I’ve experienced thirty autumns, thankful that I get to live my dream of living overseas.  When I return home, I’m sure I’ll be sad to leave life overseas.  These mixed emotions are going to haunt me throughout my future. 

Caught in a pre-holiday Sunday afternoon Costco circus, my sister and I are approached by the man in line behind us. 

Taking off his glasses, he says, “Excuse me, can you tell me if my nose is red?”

My sister says a polite yes, but gives me this look like, this is random.

“You see, what happened was,” he continues, “I was testing out a mattress.  While I was lying there, a man knocks over a bunch of cans of Quaker oatmeal, which land right on my face.” 

“Oh, so sorry to hear that,” my sister says, “but Happy Thanksgiving.”

Recently I had a date with someone who, for practically the entire evening, kept saying how surprised he was that I was still single.

Which turned into a huge conversation where he made it his job to figure out what might be wrong with me. 

I began to really hate him, but stuck it out for the free booze.

Despite his request for a second date, I never heard from him again.  So, I guess I should have said, “One reason I’m still single is because sometimes, guys that I don’t even like, say they’ll call, and then never do?”

We’re running a bit late this
Holiday season.  The Sharkboy Family normally goes “Griswald” by this date, turning our home into something resembling Currier & Ives on steroids.

They’ll be seven fully-ornamented trees, 70-plus lighted village buildings including clipper ships, ski runs and a drive-in theatre;  moving deer, moose and flamingos in the yard guarded by a 15-foot snowman along with more than 200 “AA” batteries powering all kinds of Santa toys.

This massive 25-year collection includes precious kid-made ornaments and memories from around the globe.

The best part is our children truly believe and pray for world peace everyday.

I’m on day 17 of my novel.  It’s the worst piece of writing ever released into the ether and I’m ecstatic.   It’s a fool’s mission – a novel in thirty days, but you know that going in.  You leave behind your greatest expectations, your inner editor is exiled, and there’s nothing left to do but write.

My protagonist has three kids.  I’ve given them names, but no personalities.  I need to get rid of them.  I turn to a friend, “I’m thinking about killing all three kids in a fire.”  She looked immediately horrified.  “Okay, I’ll send them to summer camp.”

• My (female) boss commenting on my breasts. Exactly what gives her the right?
• Someone has parked in MY space outside my apartment. I don’t drive, but surely it’s polite to ask first?
• Discovering that my favourite sneakers have been stolen. (Unless there’s some other explanation for their vanishing into thin air.)
• The journey home last night, thanks to a bomb scare, involved two trains, a bus and much late-night waiting in the cold. I got to bed at 2am.
• I  have lost the remote control to my stereo
• Saturday, and he still hasn’t called.

I’m watching “A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila” - some trashy dating reality show that I like - with my best friend and her mother (who is like a mother to me). Her mom groans through her fast food at what she’s seeing.

Mind you, she watched the entire season of “Rock of Love with Bret Michaels”. Full of racy goings-on.

“You guys should DVR this so I don’t have to see it,” she says.

“You watched Rock of Love with us. What’s so different about this?” I ask.

“Girls kissing is gross and wrong.”

She knows I’m gay.

I’m going through a time of reflection and considering who I want to be and what it takes to change. Some issues are minor; others are more private than I’m willing to blog about.  One of my realizations is that I need more internal calmness when I drive.  Driving’s not a competition, I don’t need to teach people lessons if they’re driving terribly, and I’m not saving time by speeding.  So why do I do it? How can I change my attitude?  I think tomorrow I’ll take some deep breaths before I hit the road and will play classical music.

When I had no work to do at work, I had endless reservoirs of patience. I said hello to strangers, entertained ridiculous questions, tolerated inefficient, needless meetings, and was exceedingly grateful when someone was willing to chat.

Things have changed. I didn’t ration my year’s worth of patience and now I’ve run out.

I’ve become a tad snappish at work. I don’t like being impatient. I don’t like being so easily irritated. I pulled my little Buddha out of my purse and put it on my desk. He reminds me to be mindful.

I wish I didn’t need a reminder.

If not already obvious, I think my husband is pretty darn special.  We met sophomore year in high school.  He wishes his version were true, but he fell for me first.  Save some bumps when we were long distance, I’ve been loving him just about half my life.  Occasionally though, I dislike him.  Today was one of those days.  Dark forces aligned me into a funk.  It was a miserable day, by the end of which, I didn’t like myself either.

When we met up tonight, I tried Queen of Ice.  Worked for about 30 seconds before we cracked up. 

While I grocery shopped today, I saw a little girl pushing a small cart next to her mother.  Remember when we were children and thought grown-ups were so cool?   The most ordinary errands became interesting because grown-ups did them.We fought over plastic burgers and pretended to work at the McDonald’s drive-thru. 

We raced each other to the mailbox and hoped to get mail with our name on it, even though our parents’ complained of only receiving bills.  We wore Chapstick and applied Popsicles as giant lipsticks.  Nowadays, when I order pizza I think, “It’s good to be a grown-up.”

Another Saturday rolls around, and still he hasn’t been in touch about plans for the evening. He promised to call at noon – it’s gone 6pm.  

I send him a text.  

‘What’s going on?’

‘Sorry, babe. Gotta study tonight.’ 

Great. Another ruined Saturday night. I drink wine, watch TV, fume. I turn the photo frame with his picture in it back to front. This time, it’s over for good. Really over.  

Next day he calls, and, as soon as I hear his voice, I melt..

The picture is back where it belongs. And so we go on. Until the next time.  

It’s 12:47 pm.  The grey light filters through the dirty skylight above me.  I’m dressed and ready for the day ahead.  I smooth up my faux hawk and toss my orange peel into the trash can. 

My thoughts drift to the date I had last night with Steve (Date #2 from two weekends ago).  “He’s so cool.  I just wish I knew if I’m attracted to him or not.”

I glance at my phone to see if I missed a call from the Post Office.  $20.00 an hour?  Yes, please. 

Day 110 of unemployment.  Ain’t no one got me down.

My Mother raised three boys – my Dad, my brother and me.  She called us her “three wise guys.”  Mom also raised her two brothers.  There are a few differences between all of us, but for the most part we’re all products of Sharon, Inc.

We all learned to dance and give with our whole selves.  She taught us how to get the best deal and be generous till it hurt.  Sharon, Inc. was about family, loyalty, “what the hell, let’s do it,” and most of all love.

Mom would’ve turned 73 tomorrow.  Cancer killed her and it seems like yesterday.

STAFF WANTED TO DELIVER NEWSPAPER says the ad in the window at my local shop. I wonder - just how many employees are needed to deliver a single one?  

‘That’s a story,’ I think. ‘It just needs a second half.’ 

Couple of days later, one cold fall night, I call in for a late-night chocolate fix. Something smells good – a food aroma that’s rich, inviting, and warm. 

I comment on this and, before I know it, the guy behind the counter is sharing his chicken curry and chapattis.  

‘Hey,’ I think, cycling home. ‘That’s the second half of my story.’

The worst thing about this long-term job is that I won’t be able to take my own kids to school or pick them up from school for the most part.  I am so used to taking them to school, speaking with their teachers and being involved on a daily basis.  Now I won’t even be able to attend their holiday parties.  I feel like I will be letting my kids down or abandoning them.  I know it is only temporary, many people do it everyday, but for me it is hard to let go.  My mantra - It’s only temporary.

One of my most treasured objects is a thin necklace with a small charm in the shape of a fig leaf.  It’s an anniversary gift.  Engraved in tiny script on the leaf is the quote by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

I like putting the necklace on every morning, in that early stillness when everything seems possible, and feeling its weight against my clavicle through the day. 

Today, I wrote.  I got to know a new friend over tea.  I laughed with my mother.  I read poetry by Dorianne Laux, and I set up a new IRA.  Today, I wore it well.

I picked her up from the airport hugging and screaming.  All of her idiosyncrasies were the same.  She burped just as loud.  Her clothes hadn’t changed much.  Her eyes were just as blue and just as large.  Her laugh was as startling and as loud as ever.  She talked just as fast and her stories were just the same as I remembered.

She was here for 5 days, but it felt like 5 hours.  Some friends are seasonal, some are lifers.  Some you can pick up right where you left off. 

1,919 miles separate us once more; but only physically.

So, I agreed to work as a long-term substitute at a local middle school.  What was I thinking?  The money will be nice.  Substitutes don’t make very much but a steady three weeks is guaranteed money and it’s at one location so I will get to know all the students.  But middle school?!  And it is right between Thanksgiving and Christmas so the energy level will be high but the focus level will be low.  On the other hand this will be a great opportunity for me to decide if I want to be a full-time teacher or remain part-time.

My family, friends and I have spent the last few days really talking about global citizenship and the overall “health” of Mamma Earth.  We’ve talked about Iraq, Darfur and Pakistan.  Foreclosures, a plummeting dollar and the 2008 elections have been discussed in great detail.

Everyone in my circle, from our children to friends both young and old, has agreed with me when I said we need to treat one another with a lot more kindness and humility.

No one disagreed when I said we should be more sharing.

If this is true, why is it called MySpace instead of OurSpace?