100 words a day

We catch up over lunch.  It was one of those days.  She says she’s going in circles and doesn’t know what she’s doing with her life.  Equally clueless, I eat my salad.  Maybe we’ve grown complacent, I say, maybe we should do more. 

And so I have to take this shirt back to the shop where I bought it. It’s one of those wraparound affairs, and, the other evening at dinner, it unwrapped itself at quite the wrong time and place.  

The clerk handles it with suspicion. She points accusingly at various icky-looking dark splodges, which (genuinely) I hadn’t seen before. No, I can’t have my money back, she practically snarls. No way.  

Wow, she must think I think she’s really stupid, I think, as I slink away, my tail between my legs. I’ll just have to wear something underneath it next time.

I’m unraveling. It started last March. I’m descending into the unknown, ascending to the sky, and I’ve been smiling the entire time. 

Every person has two stories: the one that’s written for us, started by our families, and then there’s the one we pen for ourselves. My parents began a beautiful fairytale for me, though they couldn’t maintain it. I couldn’t either - I never wanted to be the princess. My brother has continued his nicely, living the suburban 1950’s dream complete with an unironic white picket fence.

 Me? I’m savoring my story; I just don’t know where it’s going. 

This is getting embarrassing, even for me, and I have, let’s say, a different embarrassment threshold to most people. Every weekend, I go to the same supermarket bakery, there to treat myself to a Sunday afternoon cake.  

Problem is, it’s the same woman behind the counter each time. What kind of a glutton must she think I am? She puts a polite gloss on it, of course, smiling indulgently as she hands over my treat.  

“See you next week,” she says with a wink, as I pop the confection in my basket and shuffle away, burning with guilt and shame.

Writing can be cathartic sometimes, but reliving events may re-inflict damage.  So I’ve remained silent during the past two stressful weeks, de-toxing.  Apologies.

For starters, I cried in my Arabic class.  I was frustrated because my new teacher’s style does not match my learning style, and when I told him I didn’t understand, he told me not to waste his time.  Ouch.

I also learned that my departure date is up in the air, and I may not have a place to live after February.   And my manager won’t return my calls.  Plus, I have another Arabic test coming up. 

My mother-in-law is well-educated, modern and attractive.  We get along, but we don’t share the same views on certain things that matter.  When I see her, once or twice a year, I find myself getting worked up over petty things.  It is ridiculous behavior, but I can’t help it.  I am still learning to understand her and relate in a way that makes sense.   

When she saw us off at the airport, she lost her usual grace and wept uncontrollably.  As I held her tightly and she me, I realized, for a brief moment, that none of our differences mattered.

In the gathering dusk, I walk down the lane to my friend’s house. It’s slightly creepy along this deserted, muddy lane. Then I catch a glimpse of them through the window. Such a cliché, yet they look so happy in there, in the warm glow of the lamplight.

They muck around for a while, not letting me in.

Inside, the food and drink flow as freely as the banter, jokes and gossip which only old friends can exchange.

For a few hours, the warm shield of friendship is a protective barrier from the caress and drudgery of the outside world.

Since our two children were old enough to understand, I’ve instilled in them it was their duty and right to always question authority.  Additionally, I’ve been pushing for another simple idea which relates well to relationships, sibling rivalry and now more than ever, politics.

There is your version.  There is my version. Then there is the cold, hard truth.  Pretty simple idea.

So how do I explain to them the three hours last night as a president stared America in the face and gave his version, then the other guys gave theirs?

Somewhere in between is the cold, hard truth.

Me:  I know that you need attention right now, okay?  You’re making that painfully obvious.  

Malfunctioning Tooth:  (throb)

Me:  Do you remember when I took you and your brothers and sisters to the doctor to get you checked out?  

Malfunctioning Tooth:  (throb, throb)

Me:  Well, he couldn’t help you because Papa doesn’t have the money right now.  But, I’m starting a job soon…

Malfunctioning Tooth:  (throb, shooting pain, throb) 

Me:  Don’t interrupt me!  I’ve already taken away ice cream.  You keep acting up like this and I’ll take away peanut butter, too. 

Malfunctioning Tooth:  (…)

Me:  Now go to bed.

I’ve never been the first to find a dead body, and I really feel for anyone who has.  I don’t know what I’d do if I did find one.  Scream, puke, call the police, run away, faint, freak out, go to the nearest bar, or what.

But calling an Olsen twin?  I just can’t even begin.  Stuff those kids back into the womb so they can finish cooking…they still look “born early”, all these years later, and they bug me. 

If Heath Ledger had lived, though, I might be writing about something else right now…. like maybe hot Uncle Jesse. 

SAT testing, science club, Spring musical rehearsals, out of town business, chorus practice, birthday parties, mountains of paperwork, homework, busy work, pediatrician visits, conference calls, cattle calls and close calls fill up my family’s calendars since 2008 rang it’s opening bell. My two kids and their Mom are so busy being busy they have to actually make room for fun on their schedule.

This frantic pace finds our daughter seeking refuge the way teenagers do; internet and cell phones while her Mom has no such luxury.  Refuge for her is a peaceful night’s rest without calls, kids, dogs and me. 

We are living in historic times, my friends.  I am certain the next president will rightly earn their face on a stamp or a 5 dollar coin (which will surely replace the underappreciated penny).  Our children will ask us about these days.  Did we know greatness while we were living it?

How great is it? 

We’re still embroiled in a war we’d sooner forget.  The economy is taking a swan dive and hasn’t hit the water yet.  And my oh-so-wise investment of a home is looking less than sage at the moment. 

Is it greatness or utter desperation for change?

M, with whom I once happily, platonically shared a house for a couple of years, picks me up at the station. He moved away, and now I have reason to be in his part of the world. He drives me to where I need to go, a long drive as it turns out, more than an hour. I haven’t seen him since 2004, and he’s as wonderful as ever. 

We arrive, eat quickly, and then he drives off into the night, and my heart aches with the sadness of not knowing when, or even whether, our paths will cross again.

I called the dental clinic at 9:00 am. I wasn’t getting up early and trudging the twenty miles only to find out they were booked for walk-ins…again.

“There’s only one person on the list. Can you come now?” I’m rollin’ 20 minutes later, shower skipped. Four hours pass. My name’s called. I wait another hour in the dentist’s chair.

X-rays and exam unveil the need for a root canal. “That can be up to $2,000 without insurance. I’ll refer you to a specialist.” I overdraft paying for the bad news.

Driving home, I discover I got the postal service job!

Here I am, on a New Year detox of electronic communication while staying in the country. No TV, no phone, no texting, no email or Internet. To get a cell phone signal, I have to trudge 10 minutes uphill.

So far, just the one relapse – when I emailed G. (I called once, from the payphone, and couldn’t hear a word he said, making for a mutually frustrating ‘conversation,’ so figured the email was justified.)

I am not missing the outside world much. The peace and quiet, the freedom from interruptions, have been deafening. But it’s been kind of wonderful, too.

I used to fantasise about him a lot, lying in bed, dozing in the half-hour before I needed to get up. It was especially nice in summer, with the sun slanting in through the windows, highlighting dust motes that twirled and whirled their way to the floor. I would dream about him, and wonder what it would be like if we were together.  

Now that we are, there’s just one problem. I have no-one to fantasise about any more. Try as I might to conjure up images of George Clooney in my early morning dreams, it’s just not the same.

Next morning, I am back at the beach.  Instead of playful, the tide makes aggressive advances.  My afternoon hunt had been relaxed, a delight over every find.  This morning, I am on a mission, and no shell seems good enough. 

After a futile hour, I retreat with only a couple finds.  I clean them at the basin, carefully this time.  In the bright day, something shimmers at the bottom.  Reaching in arm-length, I retrieve a shell, one of many from yesterday.  My hair and head get soaked, but I don’t care.  I laugh at myself as I recover them all. 

Sunset over Jimbaran Bay, and the Indian Ocean has me ankle-deep.  The tide is a tease.  In her flirtatious dance, I harvest colorful gems:  spotted cones, a purple hunchback with an orange eye, ridged fans.

At the edge of the beach, there is a deep stone basin trickling fresh water and a bamboo ladle for cleaning sandy feet.  I drop my treasures into a ladle of water.  My hand still over the basin, I notice an exotic multi-legged creature crawling up my arm.  I jump and by the time I hear my scream, the basin has swallowed the shells whole. 

When the first rumours start whispering around the office, I am in denial. It can’t possibly be true. How can we possibly have lost the contract, one of our biggest, our flagship contract, dammit? We’ve held it for nearly 12 years, we must have won it again. Then, finally, the Managing Director’s secretary confirms the bad news. Someone else has won the contract, for the next five years.

It’s all over, and lives will change as a result.

By 5pm, the office is all but empty. People have slunk home, preferring to feel sad there rather than at work.

I’m not a photo person.  I’ll pose if someone shouts “cheese!” but I’ll never take the picture.  I own a camera, but it’s largely ceremonial. It’s at home, covered in layers of dust, fed by a dead battery.

My ex took issue with this.  He was a picture person.  Actually, both exes were.  It’s not that I don’t document, I just don’t do it pictorially.  I do this.  Writing is my darkroom; my words, my chemical fixer. I try to capture the essence of a moment before it disappears forever.  My journals take me back better than any time machine.

Anne, who I can’t stand, has asked everyone from our walking holiday to London for birthday drinks at the weekend. She’s academic, arty and attractive, therefore just G’s type and so this excursion simply cannot be allowed.

I badly don’t want to fight about this with him. I can barely even stand to mention it.

In the end, when Friday comes, he is too sick to leave his apartment, never mind travel to London.

And yet, still, this thought keeps gnawing away at me, and won’t go away. Has he emailed her? Does he want to see her again?

I’m going to write the following segment without using the backspace key.  Th e only time I will is to adjust the amount of words.  Thi s is an important lesson in risk.

Consider how integral the backspace key is in constucting anc voeying proper communication.  We all take it for grantd.  Imagine life without it.  Emails would be illegible.  NOvels would be cumbersome to read.  Clerical positions would advertise for applicants who make very little typing errors. 

Each day is a backspace key.  Whatever errors were made the previous may not necessarily be erased, but can certainly be rephrased.

I might be the only person in the world to think Las Vegas is an educational experience.  I always leave it wiser than when I arrive.    Last year I culled some important life lessons:

• You can’t win by watching
• You must risk in order to gain
• If you play long enough, you can (and will) win at craps.

This weekend did not disappoint.  Again I find my mind ablaze with new epiphanies, ideas, and plans.   As for the lessons of my trip of yesteryear, I still believe in the first two.  The last one is utter crap.

Anne was on a walking holiday G and I did last summer. I took against her almost immediately, not liking her or the way she cosied up to G. I hated the way she made me feel Fat, Ugly and a little bit Stupid. I didn’t like how she seemed to pop up every meal time, or the way she caused me to cast sideways, jealous glances as she and G walked side by side, deep in conversation.  

I thought, with some gratitude, that after the holiday, we would not see or hear from her again.

(To be continued. ..,)

Sadly, I’m now in the process of church-shopping.  I won’t bore you with why. 

I’ve visited a church near my house four times in the last three months.  Mind you, the times I visited were sporadic.  That’s important to note.  Every time I was there the Pastor asked the congregation to break into groups of 4-5 to pray saying, “this is something we rarely do.” 

Every time I was there they did this rare activity. 

My friend, Sheila, who attends regularly, says to me, “Seriously, he only does this when YOU come here.”

Ok, ok, God!  I get it, alright? 

I’ve never stuck to New Year’s resolutions beyond January in my life.  This year, my friends and I have gone so far as to start a Resolutions Club, where we’ll meet monthly to discuss our progress.

This year, I tried to make them “manageably difficult.”  A fitness one, a weight loss one, a financial one, a professional one, and then the one about writing more often. 

Miraculously, the fitness one is soaring along, ask the guy at the gym at 5:00am. Shouldn’t that be the difficult one?  The writing…well, you see these entries aren’t as often as they should be…sorry…       

“And the best part about Lipozene is that users weren’t asked to change their daily routine.  It’s THAT powerful.”

“Lipozene is the final answer.” 

“Now you can lose pounds of body fat and weight without changing your life.”

These are all actual quotes from an advertised dietary pill currently airing on television.  Since when can you see results with ANY endeavor in life without changing your current habits?  Bull@*%# like this really sets me off. 

Even if there were some holy grail of a pill that could solve your problems for you, the byproduct would be sellouts with flaccid souls.

We were surprised with snow here in Dixie; annoying for drivers and lifelong Southerners and delightful for kids of all ages like me.  Our family grabbed boogie boards and tubes normally reserved for boating and took to Mt. Sharkboy, which usually serves as our front lawn.

Our kids are used to snow and experts at all things regarding any accumulation.  They can pack it, throw it, build it and make excellent sculptures and snow angels.  A face or two full of unexpected snow and getting wet are part of the experience.

They’re growing up Southern, but are “Nanooks” at heart.

The ink well has run dry.  I’ve been trying to write for four days.  I have many first sentences of dull stories and unremarkable epiphanies.  My thoughts have been irritatingly loyal lately.  It’s when they run away that I can actually conjure something creative to share. But these days they’ve been tame.  They’re staying closer to the subject at hand than I’d like.  All my attention has been focused on work and artificial deadlines.  Maybe I just need to get away, to clear out my synapses and reboot.

I think a weekend in Vegas is exactly what the doctor ordered.

With the start of the new year came another new Arabic teacher. This one doesn’t bring any materials to class and expects us to just talk about current events. We struggle along, and nearly every sentence is incomplete for lack of the right word or synonym. Our teacher happily obliges by scribbling a new word on the board, and by break time, the board is covered in scribbles. How am I supposed to remember dozens of new words each day?

To make matters worse (or, in the long-term, better), he constantly corrects pronunciation. I leave class with a tiny ego.

I awake to find saturated sunshine dazzling my giraffe collection.  I also find that the pain in my teeth has increased.  I then think of Steve and how wonderfully drama-free he is. 

A lukewarm shower, a brief nude dance and cinnamon pecan cereal kick off the day.  The cold soy milk infuriates a nerve and I spend the next hour clutching and cussing until my Ibuprofen in shining armor slays the pain.

Today’s To Dos:  Return socks, workout, find 2 dubious job leads, watch American Idol.  

Day 172 of unemployment.  I know the government is thorough, but c’mon, Postal Service!

What did I learn after spending three weeks with middle school students?  I learned that many students cheat on tests, even the bright ones.  I learned that some parents will back up their kids no matter what – even if the student was caught red-handed.  Which is sad because those parents really give their children a disadvantage and the real world will be quite a shock when mom or dad aren’t able to fix everything.  I learned that kids are into sex and drugs very early.  And I also learned that there are many respectful kids who try hard to succeed.

One of my favorite authors knew a lot about relationships.  The author said on many occasions the secret to a successful partnership was a “good deal of time spent together and a good deal of time spent apart.”  Mark Twain was a smart person; no doubt the beneficiary of first hand knowledge.

Our family is stuck with Twain’s advice but we’re not so successful.  I fail far too often in the time spent apart category.  Another favorite observer, George Carlin said, “They say you never know what’s next.  Well, sometimes you do.”

I usually do.  That changes right now, today.

Anyone who knows me knows my birthday is a big deal.  Or at least it was.  I can’t remember when I stopped, but I used to send reminders three months in advance.  Then two months.  Then one.   It was a giant countdown, and even though I was teased for it, I think my friends secretly found my proclamations to be hilarious.  Sometimes the e-mails would include links to my birthday registry.  It was a joke – mostly – but I did receive some gifts.

I’d also wear a tiara to work.   I wonder what my new colleagues will think if I do.

I’ve begun reading my novel. It’s really funny. Unintentionally. Because there was no editing process, I never reread the previous days writing. I started afresh each day. Reading it now, it’s clear that an amnesiac penned it. Character names change mid-chapter. Plot lines are forgotten as instantly as they were typed. Conversations are repeated, sometimes on the same page.

I’m not ready to give up on it though. I’m in love with the skeleton of it. Each character is some gross caricature of me. At least, I hope they’re gross. Otherwise, I’ve got bigger issues than a horridly written novel.

Gifts have been prepared.  The bags are packed.  Miso will be taken care of.  We’re ready to go. 

What do you do when you have a toothache, no medical insurance and no job?

Four days ago, I awoke with a throbbing pain in one of my teeth. Like a true man I ignored it, secretly hoping that it would be nothing but a transient nuisance. It did go away.

Later that day, however, it appeared again before bedtime and kept me up for 2.5 hours. I awoke the next morning with its ghost.

My BF told me that cold sensitivity was most likely a sign of needing a root canal. I awoke this morning with Pain’s bedfellow, Worry.

Lately I’ve noticed that I give out my address way too often.  When I go to pay at a bookstore, I am asked for my address.  I am at a yoga studio purchasing a gift certificate, I am asked for my address.  Same goes for the yarn store, the skincare place, even a swim shop.  

Be great to figure out a polite, chill way to say “I don’t know you, what makes you think I want you to know where I live.  Quit asking like it’s perfectly acceptable and just let me pay.” 

Or maybe, I just oughta stop shopping.

I am currently on a conference call.  They’re talking about something very specific that doesn’t involve me. I’m tempted to hang up, but my name is on the agenda at the very bottom.  So I sit, with my phone perched perilously between my shoulder and ear, trying unsuccessfully to be patient.

I am not paying attention.  My skills of distraction have been honed over the years. These are not skills I am altogether proud of; it’s turned me into a horrible listener.  I tune out everyone.  Including myself.  I can’t help it; my mind has a mind of its own.

Not having movies was the least of my problems.  Yesterday my temperature spiked to 103, and the doctor told me I had the flu.  Luckily, I went in time to be prescribed Tamiflu.  Unluckily, I couldn’t keep it down.

I’m happy to report that today, however, I’m fever-free and doing fine – relatively speaking, that is.  It’s great to finally have some energy back, even if it’s just enough to shuffle from my bed to my couch.  I’m hoping to return to work tomorrow.  Three days without Arabic class, after a two week hiatus, means there’s a lot of catching up.

Every night before I go to bed, I do something very specific.  It’s part of my rote and regimen.  It makes me feel productive in this season of unemployment.  I position my orange Post-It pad to make a checklist for the next day.

I was trained by my mother to side with the benefits of organization.  That’s one very positive thing that stuck with me.  But, I find myself becoming hesitant to deviate from the scribbled To-Do’s.  

Though lately I’ve had such important tasks as “Watch American Gladiators” and “Buy Peanut Butter”, I believe the big picture is maintaining sanity.

We usually prepare dinner together.  Today I lose my temper when he doesn’t help.  Apologizing, he says he got stuck doing something and lost track of time.

Later, we plan our trip.  We’re seeing his parents soon, but they haven’t told us the logistics. 

“Typical,” he says, “They aren’t good about communicating.  My dad especially, he gets wrapped up in his own thing and forgets the bigger picture.”

 “Annoying,” I say, a little too pointedly, “My parents always communicate, and they stick to a plan.” 

“True,” he says, then adds gingerly, “they’re almost perfect, except for your dad’s wicked temper.”

Being sick is a miserable feeling, and people at work probably think I’m playing hooky.  After all, today’s weather was sunny and 70 degrees.

I’m stuck inside, going through tissues and looking like Rudolph’s doppelganger (minus the antlers).  And I’m bored.  I live by myself so there’s no one here to entertain me or take care of me.  Plus, not only do I not have a TV, but the Bourne trilogy that just arrived doesn’t work on my laptop because they’re HD DVDs.  So I’ll sit here and refresh the New York Times web site and watch the poll results.

January 8^th is unique for our family.  The day marks the birthday of my Dad, our kids’ Mom and Elvis.  My Dad will celebrate quietly, missing his wife and grandkids.  Our kids’ Mom will go to work, dream about skiing and make a wish or two.  Elvis will appear at a number of locations.

For my Dad, I wish he sees tomorrow.  For Elvis, I hope he’s met Jimi and Jannis.  For my kids’ mom, my wishes are endless and challenging.

The “women I cannot explain” deserves a year-long spa, a staff, comfort and peace.

She is absolutely that cool.

I’ve always gazed upon New Year’s resolutions with a fond eye.  I didn’t always take the initiative to retrieve them from the pedestal and cradle them close, however – until a few years ago.

My first serious resolution was to take charge of my spiraling health.  I’m now on a steady, self-motivated exercise program. 

My next resolution was to finish my book.  I didn’t, but that doesn’t matter.  I didn’t stop working on it.

Following that was to make a list of things I wanted to do before I die.  I’ve since checked a few off. 

Growing up sure is rewarding.

I am 38. Not an age at which leaving my parents’ place following Christmas should be a big deal. And yet. And yet. As G and I drive off from the familiar driveway after the holiday is all over, I feel a lump rise in my throat as my eyes mist over. Maybe it’s because this was always the hardest vacation to return to boarding school from when I was younger. Or maybe it’s the overwhelming feeling that, as old age beckons with increasing urgency for my parents, there aren’t so many Christmases left like the one we just enjoyed.

When it comes to dealing with pregnancies, I am “The Man,” both literally and figuratively.  Literally, I’ve been there for the starting gun and finish line, but reduced to spectator the nine months in between for both our kids.

Figuratively, I’ve been a solid, helpful and compassionate support system.  When it comes to the subject of gestation experience, I give myself an A-minus.

Why then am I an absolute train wreck about puppy possibilities?  Our High-dollar terriers have punched their “fun” tickets again and we wait as our girl lactates, nests and hides.  She’s worried and fooled us twice before.

Last night I felt young again.  Two parties, two bars, a jumbo pizza slice, and an after-party meant I didn’t arrive home until 5 a.m.  I slept in until 9:30 today and then reality set in.  I’m not young.  I felt  the effects of the wine, Irish car bomb, Jell-O shot and beer. 

I don’t know why I partied hard core last night, but it felt good to know I could still do it.  Of course, it would have felt good tonight to know I  accomplished my goals for the weekend – homework, the gym, and errands.  There’s always next weekend.

I walk into the kitchen, my hands full of dirty plates. She’s standing at the sink, doing the dishes. She says quietly as I approach her, “Would you mind leaving me an article of clothing.” “What?” I respond, because I couldn’t hear her and because I could.

“An article of my clothing? Why?” She almost can’t say it with a straight face. Some part of her knows how completely absurd her request is. “Prayers,” she says, unironically. I’m tempted to be speechless but I can’t let this request go. “Absolutely not,” I respond, then leave the kitchen and go downstairs.

Today is the last day of our kids’ 16-day Holiday vacation and as usual I have mixed feelings.  Yes, it’s time they went back to their “jobs” as students in school although I suspect they learned a lot more at home these past couple weeks.

The everyday bickering and pleading for more “stuff” has gotten stale and annoying; although impromptu Q and A sessions, late breakfasts and unsolicited hugs in the middle of the day are pretty special.

We love our kids.  We also happen to like them as people.  Back to school though.  We’ll miss them home, kind of.