100 words a day

“You’ve changed your Mother’s face now, she’s happy twice now all the time.

You’re her lighthouse off some distant shore…and forever you’re her sign…”

Lines from something nice I wrote about our son the day he was born. Thank you for such a wonderful boy.  He has captured your heart (and mine). Another seeker to admire.  He is your gift to have, hold and adore.  Thank you for sharing.

“…a sign that love is in her children’s eyes, and those eyes look to her heart.  Like a lighthouse and an ocean, you’ll never be apart.”

Happy Birthday our dear son.

“The day after the night before.”

My son started saying that a few years ago and suddenly he’s nine.  I’ll wake up tomorrow the coolest Dado of the coolest boy on the planet.

He doesn’t sport team colors, but proudly displays T-shirts from exotic places.  Can’t throw a touchdown pass but knows a stingray and shark up-close.  “Reads too much.” 

He’ll engage anyone about anything if your face says “OK.”

He probably knows more about the issues of the day than his teachers.  He’s sneaky and clever and way-way-cool.

“The day after the night before.” –A good way to live.

A bar in London. Eight or so women near the end of their thirties. Many have given up their family Saturday to be here. One has even come over from Portugal especially.

The conversation at first is stilted and excessively polite. But then, as the wine and chatter flow, laughter bubbles up as old times are relived and memories shared. There is a genuine delight in each other’s company.

After all, it’s been ten years since the last school reunion, and it will probably be another 10 until the next one, so you have to make the most of it.

“There is great disorder under heaven and the situation is excellent” – one of my favorite sayings which pretty much sums up my life, especially yesterday.

The day started with preparing for our son’s birthday party next week, which morphed into a shopping trip punctuated by more than 100 panicked-cars at the gas station.  A biscuit-breakfast reward followed with the huge bonus of heckling a McCain rally.  The truck blasted “Waiting on the World to Change” as we waved signs and drove by a modest five times.

Arriving home we tore into 17 boxes of Halloween stuff and went nuts decorating.

Every year around now, burnout sets in and I forget why I’m training for a marathon.  Then, I see the first of the advertising for the NYC Marathon, and get a big boost.

Yesterday morning, on a bus on 57^th street, my first sign.

Yesterday afternoon, my MRI results are in, from the excruciating knee pain 2 weeks ago that has since disappeared. 

Convinced whatever it was is cured, I’m confident.

Then I peek at my chart, see the words “stress fracture”, and that bus advertisement flashed through my head.

Fortunately though, no continued pain means I can keep training.

When I started this job, I couldn’t even drink legally.

That, more than anything else, helps me to find a waypoint in ten years of drudgery and toil.  It helps me overlook the fact that it took me a decade to accomplish the amount of work I probably could have done in two years.

The anniversary brings with it a raise.  A boost to the already obscene amount of time I get off.  A certificate and a pin that are quickly disposed of.

Sometimes it’s good to be a Fed.

Today I just wonder what else I could have been.

In Starbuck’s, waiting to pay. 

Absentmindedly “sample” the Belgian waffle that’s on the counter near the register.

I don’t usually take samples of food.  It seems unsanitary.

Should’ve stuck with that policy:  as I put the piece in my mouth, the woman ahead of me picked up the plate.   Apparently, it was hers!

What was I thinking?!  They don’t sell Belgian waffles at Starbucks!

I offered her $10, out of humiliation.  (she didn’t take it).  My coworker was with me, didn’t seem to notice.  I thought I could avoid ever telling anyone.

But she said, “Hey-where’s that waffle?  I want some!”

It was here for two weeks.  It is every year.  It’s the Puyallup Fair.

There are Krusty Pups and Elephant Ears, immense people buying two baker’s dozens of the buttered and jammed scones, screams ringing from the Extreme Scream ride, the Exotic Animal Barn with such strange creatures as the Ze-Donk and the…goat.  There’s the Hypnotist’s show, the countless booths of trinkets and treasures, the dilapidated wooden coaster and the dairy barn with free chocolate milk samples.

It is the only event that brings the colorful Seattlites to Puyallup and the one I miss the most when it is gone.

In less than two minutes flat, she breaks into my wireless network and changes the router password to something naughty.  In response, I telnet into her laptop and make every web page display upside down and backwards.

When two hackers fall for each other, the results are not pretty.

We debate computer specs over dinner and argue intellectual property law over dessert.  We discuss the latest line of netbooks and smartphones.  She teaches me how to code in AJAX and I teach her how to overclock a graphics card.

We discover that kissing is impossible when we’re both wearing glasses.

I’m not a big fan of horses.  Don’t get me wrong; they are magnificent beasts of incredible beautiful and amazing power.  The horse has been the most important piece of the puzzle which forged all of Europe and Asia and is largely responsible for opening up all of America west of Plymouth.

I have fed them, rode them and unpleasantly made their quarters stand tall.  Despite their history in battle, exploration and even racing, horses, in general are not that smart.

Yesterday however, I met an extremely clever one.  Our computer was introduced to a Trojan horse.  I hate horses.

We sat alone in his car.  He glanced over and smiled that dazzlingly dimpled smile of his.

Moments later our lips touched, our breath met.  He smelled of skin, of cotton, of hair product.  At first it was a hunger, a suppression released.  It soon became an exploration.  I kissed down his neck, along his Adam’s apple and felt the delicacy of his ear with my tongue.

He kissed my face, my hair, my collar bone.  There were moments of stillness where we leaned on one another, hearing each other exhale.

An hour later, I drove home drunk on him.

I’ve met a lot of fathers in my day.

Rarely is it more nerve wracking than when you’re dating their daughters.  It gets worse when you’re on the wrong end of a somewhat pronounced age difference.

I dress very well.  I stand up straight until I see how short he is, then I make an effort to stoop.  I call him ‘Sir’ and shake his hand firmly.  I use the game show host voice, the G-rated one with pleasant overtones that oozes respect and tries hard to sound like a 30 year old virgin.

And I think he bought it.

I broke my mother’s heart. Again.

She’s wanted me to get someone to clean my home for years.    First I couldn’t afford it.   She dismissed my excuse (she’d pay!) but I refused.  Then I had the money but chose not to outsource my vacuuming.   I chose not to vacuum at all.

This summer I folded, unlike the laundry living in my dryer.  I found someone to pick up the place.  I liked it but not enough.

I emailed my mom and told her I was letting my cleaning lady go.  She took it personally.  Her response had one word: “Ouch.”

So, during my fantastic vacation this summer, my laptop contracted a Guatemalan virus.   A friend helped by getting the hard drive rebuilt so it works if I get an old school wireless card.

Then my ipod broke.  In figuring this out, I realized that the rebuilt hard drive wiped out my itunes library.

(Replacing the computer plus the value of the itunes library adds about $1,500 to the cost of my trip).

Then, during a race on Sunday I hurt my knee so badly I could barely walk.

I guess “The Summer of Rose” is over and there are repercussions!

I see you out there.

Don’t think for a second that I don’t see you.

Mr. Love, showing up on horseback with that lopsided grin.  Eyes glaring with feeble hope.  Waiting for me to talk first.  Thinking I forgot our last dance, which left me broken and bewildered, screaming profanities at the ocean for reasons I can’t recall.

Were you expecting open arms?  Pats on the back?

I don’t want you here.

I swore you off.

I invented a 12 step program and burned things in effigy.

So as of right now, you’re trespassing.  Don’t make me get the shotgun.

Lately I’ve been having fantasies about my wedding day.  Not about the as-yet-unidentified man, or the dress, but about having that one day when I am somehow entitled to be as unapologetically self-absorbed as I choose, a day when I will be immediately forgiven for showing absolutely no regard others’ feelings.

I rarely ask my family for anything, but there is one thing I want and I’m not sure how to accomplish it without my wedding.  Or my funeral.  But I’d like to be there to see it.

I want them all in the same room at the same time.

There’s nothing like cleaning up your own vomit on a beautiful Sunday morning.  I mean, it’s just unbeatable.  Especially because it wasn’t a surprise to find it there considering you were the one who drank that magical amount of alcohol mixed with that magical amount of food to cause your stomach to rebel, propelling the unwanted concoction all over your beige-ish carpet

Yes, friends.  Rolling out of bed naked to find your bed no longer at a right angle with the wall and a chunky mass of stomach excrement near it is just tops.

Guess I’m not going to church…again.

“Do you want four more years like you’ve had these past seven?”

“There is need for serious change here at home.”

“She was for a bridge once, but not any more.”

“He started with a budget surplus and now we’re in the biggest debt in our lifetime; one our children will be forced to pay.”

“Can she be both an executive and a good parent?”

“He’s too old and his promises are more of the same.”

“It’s time to get out, now.”

These aren’t campaign quotes and misleading rhetoric.  These are happening in our house.  Our futures are at stake.

The cakes in the office fridge are left over from my colleague S’s birthday. She offered me one yesterday, so surely she won’t mind if I have another?

Hell, she probably won’t even notice!

I prise it from its box, and left the sponge and almond taste fill my mouth.

I haven’t quite finished when P strides into the kitchen. He sits opposite S, and knows exactly what I am doing. There’s no pretending I haven’t blatantly stolen the thing. I smile guiltily, brush away a few crumbs. P grins back and says nothing. Let’s hope it stays that way.

I’m cycling home when my bike chain collapses on me. I can’t pedal my machine an inch forwards or backwards. I push the thing instead. I stop a few people and ask for help, but they shrug their shoulders, mumble vague apologies.

The fourth guy I ask stops. He turns out to be something of an expert. He turns my upside down. We need a lever: no problem – he grabs a metal bar by dismantling a nearby restaurant sign.

I am riding off into the evening in minutes, marvelling again at a random act of kindness from a total stranger.

Seven years ago my kids were eight and almost two, so youth is their just excuse.  Most college freshmen now were 11 or 12, so the “I was too young to recall” justification is somewhat valid.  What about the rest of us?

With the exception of a few East Coast papers, the headlines across our country today concern us with lipstick, swine, sex with oil execs and Ike; with only casual reference to three of the worst moments in our history.

I can’t wait for my kids to come home from school.  I’ll bet anything today’s anniversary wasn’t even mentioned. 

Seven years later, I take a long hard look at the state of affairs.

The wars are still raging on.  Despite bipartisan assurances, we’re no more or less safe than ever.  We sent more people to their deaths than we hoped to avenge.  We have lost any claim to moral superiority.

The ‘City Upon a Hill’ is on fire.  And instead of putting it out quickly, we’re arguing over what type of water to use and whether we should all be wearing flag pins.

Today they’ll read the names again.

A little softer than last year.

With fewer people listening.

He initiated contact with me on myspace.  After perusing his profile I figured I’d respond.  I became cyber-smitten after only a couple emails.

He was visibly nervous when we first met up.  So nervous, in fact, that he locked his keys in his car with his radio on.

A few days later, I decided to visit him at work.  Being a nutritionist, he pointed out which toothpaste was best for me.  I was so twitterpated, I walked out of the store without paying for it.

In his car, we kissed for the first time.  It was like remembering to breathe.

She comes out of the bedroom, and stands there blinking.

I take in the picture.

She’s wearing my shirt, the one she refuses to give back.  Her jet black hair is everywhere and the dim light streaming in makes her skin look clear.

She comes to me, soundlessly, and leans into the hug.  My hands find the small of her back and pull her in close.  I marvel, as I always do, that our bodies contain most of the same organs.  She must have gotten the miniature versions.

“Pancakes or waffles?” I ask.  She smells my neck.

“Coffee,” she mumbles.

Insignificant, little things are just that; until of course they’re no longer a part of you.  Then they become overwhelming points of importance, taking on bigger more dangerous roles than you ever imagined.  Everything in the plus column which helped define you has sunk into a red balance sheet and suddenly you find yourself busted and utterly bankrupt.

Grasping for the familiar, even the most basic human needs and desires are so far out there you look twice around and the scenery has changed three times.  You know the road, you check what you’ve always packed, but your bag’s empty.

She emailed and asked if I was upset. I cursed myself for having the opposite of a poker face; I have a heart that bleeds through my clothing and all over the floor.

I couldn’t decide how to respond.  Which is worse:

Telling someone you are upset, making business personal when you know you shouldn’t.

Or.

Telling someone you are not upset, even though you obviously are, reassuring her that everything is fine, causing her to apologize for being overly sensitive.

I typed out a very honest answer. Then I deleted the entire thing and told her I was fine.

Our lives are changing. He’s looking at new houses, and I’m searching for a new job. A job that could be anywhere. The only certainty is that things will not be the same in six months’ time. Change is in the air.

But now, right this minute now on Sunday afternoon, there is the comfort of a drink in a pub garden, after a walk in the park. The sun has come out, and slants through the grey clouds. We smile, clink glasses and hold hands under the table. It has stopped raining. And, for now, all this is enough.

“Second star to the right and straight on till morning.”  These directions are a big part of me and I’ve used them to take my Wendy and her kids away a million times.  The trips are less frequent (for them) and more necessary (for me) lately.

I’m content knowing my son is a real pirate and my daughter can teach Tink a thing or two about cleverness and mischief.  I also know my Wendy still wants to fly, just in a different direction.

Fear fades every day.  “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”  Ah, for some pixie dust.

“That’s impossible!” That’s what people always exclaim when I tell them I’ve driven over 31,000 miles in 14 months.  I glance towards my odometer and raise an eyebrow.  “No, it isn’t.”

Then they race to mathematics.  They pepper me with questions to begin their calculations.  How far is your commute? How often do you drive to New York? How have you not gone insane?

30 miles - one way.
About every other month.
I’m not sure I haven’t.

Their eyes roll skyward as they add the numbers, carrying the one and the one again.

I sit and wait, then drive away.

I know.  It’s been a while.  A lot has happened since we last chatted.  I don’t really know where to begin.

I lost my Bible.  I used to sleep with it by my bed, remember?  And that church you brought me to, well…I’ve stopped going there.  Oh, you know.  Well, I suppose you would.

Man, remember all the prayers I sent to you about fighting homosexuality?  Things are so different now.  Hypothetically, if I were to get married – y’know, to a guy - would you come?

I guess what I’m trying to get at here is that I miss you.

Last night I dreamt I was running the NYC marathon, among the elite women runners, except the race consisted of running flights of stairs in a building near my office.

I developed an injury and went to see the doctor, who worked in one of the fabric showrooms in the building.

He was eating a grape which he popped out of his mouth, rubbed on my ankle and instantly healed the injury.

I resumed the race and then noticed I forgot to put my sneakers back on.

And I realize that revealing this makes me sound like a raving lunatic.

Most evenings our family sits down over dinner and each of us details the events which shape our days.  Mostly it’s just raw information being passed, but over the years an awful lot of emotion and matters of the heart are shared across the table.

Yesterday’s subjects included rumors of book banning in Alaska, “God’s” role in public policy and jailing people for exercising free speech and assembly.  Add to that a discussion about a black student hugging a white student at our high school and the ensuing parental uproar.

I glanced at our calendar.  Yep, 2008.  Not damn 1955.

I’ve been robbed of Summer. 

He came in flourishing cameos only to be upstaged by the veteran thespian, Rain and her cohort, Cold.  Don’t get me wrong.  I absolutely adore Autumn for that is where Rain and Cold truly shine.  

But I had to use my space heater last night when I was getting into bed.  I wore a wool coat when going out with friends. A WOOL coat. 

I’m just not ready is all.  What happened to the dripping popsicles and sunburns?  Sea Fair and The Meeker Days Festival?  Warm summer nights! 

Screw you, September.  You’re jumping the gun.

I feel you in the wind most of all.

It started a few days ago, each evening’s twilight getting a little nippier, a little breezier, a little more noticeable.  You start to get those little shivers on your spine whenever you’re outside, and the air has a…meatiness…long forgotten.

Soon you’ll be starting and ending my work days in complete darkness.  Sending hurricanes helter skelter like brimstone.  Starting to turn green into brown, wherever you can.

You are Mother Nature’s henchman, cloaked in shades of orange, here to get the ball rolling.

Don’t let me stop you. 

I’m a big fan.

Our kids went back to school in early August and FINALLY over Labor Day holiday learned some things.  Camping and the beach were the subjects, with lessons in snorkeling, wildlife, shells, solitude, exploring and everything outdoors.  We headed south to Mexico’s Gulf.

Ghost crabs, stingrays, nibbling amberjacks, blue crabs, herons and miles of sugar-white sand put permanent marks on their education.

So did – pulling up camp abruptly in a thunderstorm, watching the power of Gustov and pitching in to secure our safety.

The road home north was packed with Louisiana plates and worried folks.  Our children learned an awful lot.