100 words a day

I bet he thinks I’m the fragile one.

Call me what you will: sensitive, tender, empathetic, but what I’m not is delicate: I don’t break easily.

I can tell he’s been here before, siphoning his emotions through a narrow spigot, slowly and deliberately. I am more of a gusher; everything about me is messy. I’ve been following his lead and standing back patiently. Now I’m tired and frustrated.

Maybe it’s too soon to be honest. But by who’s standards? I don’t think it’s ever too soon to tell the truth. Even if you’re not quite sure what that truth is.

Outside of my window are these scraggly wind chimes.

They’re silver, hung with black thread on a bamboo frame and nailed to the house.  They’re not mine.

When the wind blows the right way, their notes ring sharply like ice cubes in a glass.  The same four notes of one of those little songs I used to sing with an ex.  It pulls me back in time so fast and hard I get vertigo, tearing the scab off what I thought was a healed wound.

I narrow my eyes and plan a midnight mission with pliers to change the pitch.

It’s an ugly little scene. I’m rushing for my evening train, seconds to spare. The cycle carriage is the other end of the platform. I’m stressed, and there are people blocking my way.

I admit it – at this point, I lose my temper, swear and shout. The guard doesn’t like this. He says I must wait for the next one: he doesn’t want foul-mouthed madams on his train.

I’m really mad now. The guard has leapt aboard, and is physically keeping me out. I jam the door with my bike wheel, but it’s no good. I have lost this battle. 

I feel someone watching me. Turning from the truck, I see an unkempt man wearing a hard hat and an orange vest.

“Hey, there. Can I help you?” He looks at the pavement and says nothing.

I repeat myself. He looks back up at me and just stares. Panic lights in my gut.

Then he speaks: “You are…y-you are…the mail man?”

The panic dissipates.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

His name is Chris. He talks only of church-going, the Department of Water and Power and God giving him a new brain one day. I know because he followed me for 7 blocks.

I pride myself on being far more polite and considerate than the majority of the population. 

However, tonight I was taken to task by a bartender for ordering drinks while fielding text messages, accused of not following ‘the golden rule’. 

Then, for some reason, he upped the obnoxiousness with “You don’t have kids, do you?” 

I pointed out that he was complaining about me while waiting on ten other people and I was texting only one.

He later came over with a drink.  “This one’s on me, honey.”

“Thank you, honey.  I’ll text you my appreciation.” and left it there. 

I’ve never seen magic eye pictures.  Everybody’d rave about hidden images, and I’d stare cross-eyed, feeling stupid and left out.  Same thing happens with poetry.  So in class when we discussed John Wieners’ A Poem for Trapped Things (http://stevesilberman.com/celestial/wieners/trapped.html), I listened, awed by brilliant interpretations while questioning the BS factor.  When we got to the last line, one student said the poet was horrified, another claimed state of amazement, while still another argued he was suppressing further articulation.  My favorite was when one guy said, “Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure the butterfly didn’t fly into his mouth.”

It has all the horrible fascination of a car crash. Suddenly, the parking lot outside my apartment is swarming with police.

A woman is standing out there crying, being comforted by an older man who has his hands stretched across his head in despair. I don’t want to be the nosy neighbour, but it’s too compelling – I just can’t help looking.

Later, a van turns up, and two men in dark suits remove a gurney from the back and duck inside the building opposite. Minutes later, they emerge, their grim bulky load on the trolley under its dark plastic cover.

I’m trying to listen to my heart. And my head. And all of the other parts of my body that are shouting at me. They are screaming at the same time in different languages and all I hear is noise.

I’ve tried isolating each one, relegating the others to white noise, and I think I am beginning to understand the messages:

Head: “Haven’t you been here before?”

Body: “It’s about time!”

Gut: “This is not what you want.”

Heart: “I’m terrified.”

I’ve leapt before I looked before, with no regrets. I’m just not sure I want to jump right now.

It’s Tuesday evening and we are sitting round in a tight little huddle at a local bar. The bottle of white wine is going down fast. As my boss says, it’s Happy Hour, and we need to drink up. We’re sending off a colleague who’s leaving.  

A few glasses in, and I say I was once dumped by an Italian guy in a pizza joint. (It took me Four Seasons to get over it…) This is met with howls of appreciative laughter.  

I wobble off into the night. It has taken the social glue of alcohol to bring us together.

Rather than go insane and hang myself, I’m going to start a few new websites.

First, there’s 87wordsaday.com, the place that 90% of my first drafts go to die.

Then, there’s 111wordsaday.com, for the times I’m feeling verbose, and will not be restrained.

Also noteworthy is 103wordsofpuregarbagethatmustbedeletedatoncebeforeIvomitonmyownshoes.com. Lot of content on that one.

My new staff of Manshark, Renzie, Eroz, Widgelit, Jezzika, and LingCh are setting up office space. We’ve got wifi, donuts, and an ocean view.

Webmistress Stacy, what can I say? I’d rather you didn’t think of it as competition. We’re just filling a niche that needs filling.

I attended a memorial service yesterday in honor of the mother of one of my good friends.  After four years of truly battling this disease, she finally relinquished her firm grasp to life.   After the service, I lined up with the others to encourage the family; some with whom I am close.  Clichés only sprang to mind.  I felt awkward and paralyzed.

Today, as I walked into the postal yard, I saw the unmistakable lights of paramedics and a fellow carrier on a gurney.  There were whispers of a heart attack.  I could not form words. 

I think I’m consolably-challenged.

My proposed new policy:  anyone who serves coffee as part of their job should meet the prerequisite of also being a coffee drinker.  It just makes sense.

For decades now I’ve been a “large coffee skim milk two equals”. 

For decades now I’ve been explaining to too many people that skim milk quantity is an expertise that too many people who earn a living serving coffee lack. 

Too little and the coffee is too dark (& undrinkable, by my standards).  Too much, and it’s too cold to be worth it.

Maybe I should just shut it and buy a thermos. 

I wake up early Saturday.  After making eggs, a fruit plate and toast, my husband drops me off and wishes me luck.  I’ve been a student many times, albeit not recently, and I still have the jitters.  The class is 35 or so, young and less young, writers and poets.  The woman next to me smiles and asks what I write.  She writes children’s fiction but like me was here to focus on creative nonfiction.  Six hours of orientation, introductions, writing exercises and craft seminars later, I am fired up about the next two years.  Gotta go do my homework!

I’m at a party, wrung out and useless after a fishing trip the day before.  I’m skulking in the corner sipping a glass of wine, when I get trapped by some guy who loves to hear his own voice.

His political views rival those on Fox News, and I’m considering throwing my drink in his face when he asks me “So, do you think we should drill in ANWR?”

I consult Personal Rule #7, which states: ‘Don’t talk politics with old people.’

“I’m young and disaffected.” I say.  “So I couldn’t care less.”

But for the record, I’m against it.

April marked my 12^th year anniversary of being a vegetarian.  People ask if I miss meat and without hesitating I say no. It’s been so long I don’t remember how it tasted or how it made me feel.  I know that it used to be a steady part of my diet and now it’s not. It’s that simple.   I don’t even think about it anymore.  

It’s amazing what you can live without once you’ve been living without for so long. 

I used to think I was living a healthier lifestyle because of it.  Now I fear I’ve only been hiding.

Saturday is Midsummer’s Day – the longest of the year. I’m at G’s, and, after dinner, he insists on going for a walk. It’s not a night, he says, for staying indoors. Once outside, there is something magical about it – the swans floating in an orderly line on the still, inky water, the canal boats where lights shine dimly behind cosy little curtained windows. He leads me down a grassy bank. Then, suddenly, he’s vanished. It’s kind of creepy and lonely out here, and I call his name.

Then he leaps out, shouting to scare me, and the magic is gone.

It’s been over a month, and I still don’t have the days of the week down. It’s not that they’re in Arabic, it’s the English words I’m tripping over. You see, the weekend here is Thursday and Friday, but my mind keeps thinking Saturday and Sunday. So when my friend said he was coming back from his trip on Sunday, I assumed he meant last night – our equivalent of Sunday night. But he really meant the real Sunday, which I think is tomorrow. But I’m not really sure. So I have to check my watch. Thank goodness for my watch.

When I first arrived, I sorted my recyclables. I soon learned there was no need. There is no recycling here. This makes it both easy to throw stuff away – it all goes in the same place – and also difficult because I get green guilt. Of course people here probably don’t feel it. It’s not like there are any rain forests nearby, or even grass, to save.

And the cost of fuel? Foggedaboutit. It’s about a dime for a liter. Seriously. I’m going to see if I can find some barrels and bring back souvenirs for all my friends and family.

I ordered pizza the other day. The delivery guy had a difficult time finding me because the compound I live on has a lot of twists and turns. I waited for him outside and chatted with him as I took the pizza and he fumbled for my change.

Later that night, he called me. And sent two texts. He called again twice the next day. Man, you really can’t be Midwestern friendly here. It’s taken completely out of context. That’s why most women won’t even look at men. It’s also probably why women wear black cloths to cover their faces.

I’m a frequent user of the custom RSS feeds on Craigslist.  As a result, I’m reasonably aware of anything being sold or going on near where I live.

Today a “For Sale” comes up.  Judging from this person’s frequent ads, they make part of their living raiding garage sales and attics of friends to find anything of worth to sell.  What are they hawking today?

“Crutches (like new), Commode brand new, Walker”

They go on to list reasonable rates.  I understand, I think.  But part of me wants to email them and say “Jeez, is the body even cold yet?”

Everyone wants to know how the date went.  Everyone that is, including me.  And I was there.

Even though it was undeniably good, I’m not convinced.  Something about it has me unnerved.  Is anything more absurd than dating a total stranger?

Now he wants to see me again.  Why?  He doesn’t know me.  I might bludgeon panda bears with bats in my basement.  I don’t have a basement, but he doesn’t know that.

Maybe I’m channeling my inner cynical child.  Or the one whose job is to stand guard outside my heart.

Or maybe I just need to grow up.

Last week a co-worker told me she could show me how to put on a hijab properly. Even though I never wear one, I’d like to know the right way to wear it. Yesterday I ran into her in the bathroom while she was putting on her hijab, a purple one which matched her shirt. She took it off and wrapped it around my head. She commented several times on how pretty I looked. Then she turned to put a different one on her head. I realized it was her way of trying to get me to wear a hijab.

I’m headed to Guatemala soon, where apparently children’s shoes are in great demand and we’ve been asked to bring some, even used. 

My sister offered to send some of what her kids have outgrown, and I tried explaining to my nephew that I would be recycling his for other kids, who need his old shoes.  I don’t know why I thought this would make sense to a 3 year old, but apparently Kyle hasn’t been hit with the philanthropy bug just yet.

Marriage is something I admire and enjoy, although I’m not very good at it, having done it twice and failing both times.  My kids’ Mom and I have been divorced 14 years, yet “wife” easily rolls off my tongue and most of the world still thinks we’re “hitched.”

We survive our relationship in dysfunctionland but still have hassles legally with everything.  Ultimately public opinion and the law are on our side.  Not so much if your relationship is same-sex.

Hooray for California and hooray for any two people who can finally claim some legal and human rights they’ve always deserved.

A five week relationship comes to an end, and I am Single Guy once more.

Single Guy is OK.  He’s got a lot of strengths that Relationship Guy doesn’t have.  He certainly has more money.

Mostly though, there’s the satisfaction that I’m not wasting any time trying to squeeze a round peg into a square hole.  I tend to pick girls who are useless without a man in their life, find myself making all their decisions, then come to resent them for it and start treating them like crap.

I spotted the pattern.  Changing the behavior is the next step.

The sky was like the opening credits of The Simpsons:  a smattering of doughy clouds on deep blue.  The temperature was that perfect combination of warm and cool.  I weaved energetically around the slow-goers on I-5 as the juice from my crisp apple dripped down my chin.

Yesterday’s McDonalds bag and I bopped along with The B-52’s as the Tacoma Dome came into view, a stark sphere amidst the emerald trees and concrete rivers.  

I was off work; my postal blue shirt stained murky, my feet satisfyingly achy, my smile affixed.  It was one of those perfect, happy moments.  Mortality-free.

He asks, “How is he? You know…” he trails off.  “As a father?” 

This isn’t the first time he’s asked this question and every time it breaks my heart.  These days I wonder what my heart is made up of more: blood and muscle or scar tissue. 

“He’s fantastic.” I reassure him, “He’s attentive and playful and loving.”  I’m describing my brother, but everyone at the table knows I’m describing my father too.

I’ve accepted the fact that there’s only so much I can do.  I don’t mind leading by example.  I just wish I knew there was someone following.

I have been a son for almost a half century and a father a mere 15 years.  So this Father’s Day, I’d rather think more about my Dad than my role as a parent.  Besides, not only is he more deserving of my thoughts; he’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know about what it really means to be a father, a partner, a man.

He was “Pops” to my brother and I, but he “fathered” a bunch of nieces, nephews, younger brother-in-laws, neighbors’ kids, our friends, girlfriends, wives, little-leaguers, scouts and roommates.

Celebrating him for one day seems so inadequate.

It’s prime time in the bay, and there are pleasure craft, sailboats, party boats, jet-skis, kayakers, and cigarette boats, all crisscrossing a channel where the fluke fishing is said to be excellent - but never is.  Today there’s even a helicopter buzzing the stern at 50 feet.  Throughout it all, the Captain is Icewater.

I take the wheel for a moment, and the next thing you know I’m slamming a thirty degree turn at twenty knots to avoid a crab trap float I never saw till the last moment.

Sheepish and wincing:  “Did I miss it?”

Totally disinterested:  “Yup”.

I had to be at work early today.  Since there was a bit of responsibility on my shoulders, I couldn’t sleep.  I woke up early and decided it was time to treat myself to Starbucks.  I called for a driver to pick me up and take me there. 

The Starbucks seemed like any ordinary one except that I had to use a separate entrance.  In many restaurants, there’s a men’s entrance and a “family section.”  There was a room divider separating the two halves of the restaurant.  I was the only woman there.  I got a latte and a croissant.

A close friend is getting married next month, and I’m a bridesmaid. Well, sort of. She’s Indian and is going to have a traditional ceremony, and there aren’t bridesmaids in her tradition. However, she bought saris from the motherland for her best girlfriends, and we’re going to take a slew of pictures together.

She sent me material from India to have a matching blouse made. I found an Indian tailor here, and he took my measurements. Unfortunately he must’ve converted the numbers from inches to centimeters. He promises he has the same material and can make me another blouse. Inshallah.

It’s Thursday night, we haven’t seen each other for four weeks, and I am not even sure if I am seeing him this weekend. He’s finished a course he was doing, so he should be free – but who knows? He’s online on Skype, so he must be home. So tantalisingly near, yet he might as well on another planet rather than a half-hour’s drive away. (And last night’s brief phone conversation was monosyllabic.)

If I call his apartment will he answer? If I send a message, will he respond?

What’s really going on? And is not knowing worse than knowing?

I have a few moonlighting gigs, but my favorite is working for a web-based company as an undercover restaurant critic.  I don’t get paid, but I get reimbursed for the cost of the meal.

The latest review I submit praises the excellent food, but complains of lousy service.  I get a call from the owner, apologizing and offering a free tasting menu whenever I’d like.

The review company finds out and tells me if I accept it, I’ll never work for them again.

Usually I insist on doing things I’m told not to do.   I’m trying to make an exception.

My only sibling checks off a decade past the halfway point of his life’s expectancy today. A fancy way to say middle forties.  He’s going to “celebrate” by heading to work then swimming with my kids in our Father’s pool.  His fun meter for birthday celebrations was punched-out long ago.

The gods should give him his next due half and add another 20 birthdays on top; he’s earned it.

He’s a No.1 son, devoted and committed.  My kids couldn’t invent a better Uncle.  Too many people call him best friend and mate.  He’s the only brother I could ever want.

I am not sure what’s irritating me more: the fact that he hasn’t called or that I’ve even noticed it.

My friends say it’s too soon; the predefined waiting period hasn’t elapsed yet.  Here’s the rub: the right person for me doesn’t pay heed to such ridiculous rules.  He lives with abandon and screams himself hoarse into the wind.

I refuse to be that girl, the one who waits and wonders.  This situation could be different.  We both know I have his number too.  The ball is in my court as much as his, depending on whose rules I follow.

I have a gripe with the USPS that’s not worth doing much about except write 100 words. Two weeks ago I sent a handmade card to an in-state relative. Absent-mindedly, I put a 41-cent stamp. Five days later, the card was returned to me with a stamp of a big pointy finger and notation underneath that 1-cent postage was due. Out of 1-cent stamps and too lazy to get one, I stuck a 39-cent stamp on the envelop, thinking 41 + 39 is enough and then some. Today, the card is returned again. I guess I need a new envelope.

It starts with a long and relaxing drive. 

We walk on the beach and eat at five-star restaurants.  We slum it at a party in the Hamptons.  We drink too much champagne and just barely dodge an epic storm.  We exchange naughty Haikus while watching a perfect sunset, and follow it up with something even better.

I come home and enjoy newly installed air conditioning.  I dine on a vat of comfort food. 

Today I don a brand new suit and go off to accept a big award for work.

You know, I deserve a lot less…but I won’t insist.

Our kids are heading up North today, taking our traveling circus on the road to
Chicago for Dysfunctionalpallooza.  Your own dysfunctions are your tickets.  Their Mom will be headed somewhere to save her airline and the two kids and I will see my sick father, celebrate my brother’s birthday and swim in grandpa’s pool a lot.

We’ll also be fed nine meals a day, see a thousand relatives, tell the same stories over and over and have a couple of arguments and secret conversations. 

Our children get doted on and spoiled.  Dysfunctionalpallooza is all about love, good intentions and learning.

It’s no news that I love simulation games.  Remember that temptress Rollercoaster Tycoon 2?  Well, her predecessor has arrived in the form of Sims 2 Deluxe!  

This game is ridiculously fun.  Absurdly.  It’s a micro-manager’s dream.  You tell your pixilated human when to eat, sleep, poop and make “woohoo”.  You have the power to fulfill their aspirations or realize their worst fears. 

Yesterday, I created this very attractive metrosexual single father, Laurent LeManse.  I had him scope out the neighbors and who did he find attractive?  Another male sim! 

I was up to 5 am trying to get him laid.

We regularly get a full night’s sleep.  We have fruit, cereal, and toast for breakfast.  We make dinners that contain most of the food groups.  I am the one who always insists on maintaining these habits, but when my husband is away on business this week, I averaged six hours a night.  I start the day empty and don’t pack lunch for work.  In the evening, I am too lazy to cook alone, so I scrounge around for leftovers, and when that fails, I make cup noodle.  Good thing he came home today.  I am no good at being single. 

Before I arrived, I looked forward to the call to prayer. I grew accustomed to it in Turkey and enjoyed its melodic sound. I was disappointed when it only faintly made itself known in my new environment.

While I don’t hear the sound as often, except several days at 5:03 a.m., I have felt its ramifications. Last week I left for a late lunch at 3:15. I arrived at Quizno’s, and it was closed. The workers were outside, and the shop was locked. I looked over at them. “Prayer time. We’re closed for half an hour.” No lunch for me.

We hang a number of flags and banners at our home.  We have a gazillion of them for every holiday and occasion except for today and lately.  We don’t have two red flags with black squares in the center.  Every mariner and coastal resident knows those two flags mean hurricane.  We need those two flags hung.

Our kids’ Mom is flying on planes, our daughter is headed to Broadway via some great university, our son is in cloudland or some parallel world and I am searching for a more southern latitude when I’m not screaming to leave my own skin.

Turning 40…not bad at all!  I actually always look forward to my birthday, however a few months ago I began having some “I’m Still Single!” themed panic attacks.

Once I made a plan for how to spend the day, I adopted a more celebratory mood, and the result was a fantastic birthday.

Dinner at the Rainbow Room with one of my sisters and ten of my friends, in the SW corner, 65 floors above New York City, 70 pounds lighter than I was at my 30^th birthday. 

It was impossible not to feel great, happy, healthy and very much loved. 

When I was younger my mom recommended the book Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk. I don’t remember the details but I remember the visceral reaction I had to it. Marjorie was an ingénue who spent most of her young adult life pursuing a stereotypical bad boy that I came to adore as well. By the end Marjorie abandoned her dreams and was content living a quiet life married to a Jewish doctor.

I was irate at my mother and the not-so-subtle lesson I thought she was trying to impart.

I met a Jewish lawyer tonight. My mother would love him.

I arrived back at the station two minutes before 7:00 pm, soaked completely through from the freak rainstorm.  There were dark clouds in my head as well as above it. 

I swiped in exactly at 7:00.  “A minute later and it would have been…” my supervisor gestured, slashing his neck. 

“What?”  Thunder rolled in my brain.  “Fired?”

“Yep.”  Lightning flashed.  “But I wasn’t sent any help for 7 ½ hours of mail!  That’s my fault?”  

I’m then informed that because I was last in, I would be meeting with the station manager on Monday for questioning on my work performance.

We have a great workshop with all the bells and whistles.  I also have the best apprentice in the world – my eight year old son.  There’s not a power tool I can’t trust him with.  He’s smart and safety-conscious.

Last night we were fixing a knick-knack with superglue and a nightmare occurred.  Our little guy opened the glue; it exploded and shot in his eye.  He screamed and instantly his eye was glued shut.  There were calls to poison control and ER.

Mineral oil gently applied by Mom and he was fine.  We were scared, but thank goodness, well prepared.

Summer vacation for our two kids means swimming, boating, travel, roller-coasters, late nights and basically no rules.  Summertime means the same things for their two parents with one added feature – homework.

Our teenage daughter now knows the value of all the summer reading, math tables and work sheets she did every June, July and August since kindergarten.  Harvard no doubt will know it too.

Our rising fourth-grade son however has a completely different outlook.  Today he was given his first math worksheet. What followed can only be described as nuclear, Linda Blair and postal.  Tomorrow there will be two worksheets.  

One in the morning, and I’m staring out the window at the ghostly quiet of my neighborhood.  At my elbow is the watery remains of a scotch and soda.

I should be sleeping because the day ahead is a full one, but there’s something about the slick silence outside that compels me to watch.  To bear witness.

I am the watchman that Frost was talking about, lifting my lamp to inquire on any travelers who pass.

I do what I can with the feeling - extracting its nectar, drinking my fill. 

Then I let it go and head to bed.

The saying goes that family is a blessing.  Recently I’ve been reminded how bad it can be when this is not true.  My in-laws have a habit of throwing curve balls at us.  Sometimes I manage to laugh it off.  This one involves demand for money, insults to my husband and me, and broken relationships that we can’t fix. 

He says he has to learn to communicate better and I have to learn to be as cool as a cucumber.  What I don’t understand is why being sincere, honest and respectful is not enough when it comes to these people?