100 words a day

Today is Halloween and my family goes full-throttle; costumes, treats, tricks, company, laughter and the sugar-induced euphoria of sorting through the spoils of a successful hunt.  The day means fun tickets are punched until the tickets disappear.

Halloween is also the anniversary of my life being changed and saved by Dr. James Chappuis.  A few years ago, Jim spent more than 12 hours October 31^st fixing my spine.  He put more titanium in me than most satellites have.  A month later he repaired my knees.

He’s my angel, my friend and the reason I’ll have a normal trick or treat.  

I’m reading this book that I recommend to all the ladies in the house: Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts, by Regina Thomashauer. It’s about pursuing your pleasure and just doing what you want and what makes you feel good. The first exercise is checking in with yourself each hour, assessing how you feel, and saying aloud “I feel ______ and that is a right feeling.”  My first affirmation was “I feel sleepy and that is a right feeling.” And so I let myself just take a nap, and it felt so fucking good. Midday, lots of shit to do. Naptime.

Six blueberry-pomegranate carbohydrate gels.  Duct taped orthotics in my shoes.  Pace bracelet with mile goals needed to finally beat five hours.  Bib # 40128.  Pep talk to self.  My nephew’s essay:  “The Family Member I Admire the Most”.  Filofax page from a particularly horrible day in 2008, where I made a list of “How to Feel Better About This”:  “Guatemala trip” and “Totally emotional finish line on November 2.”  (As of today, one down, one to go!)

Mental baggage and annoyance from the last year, to dump off the side of the 59^th Street Bridge and get on with things.

The first time I see her cry, I get a little pissed off.

It’s not my fault, but I want to find the guy whose fault it is.  I want to tie a rusty chain around his ankle, and use my car to drag him down the Long Island Expressway, doing a buck ten, slowly letting the road grind away at him until there’s nothing left but the chain and loooooooong red streak.

Instead I crack jokes and offer to make the world’s best chicken soup while she drinks heavily.

It’s not as satisfying, but it does the trick anyway.

Airports aren’t fun places anymore.  They’re filled with TSA Gestapo and genuinely rude people too self-absorbed to be nice or friendly.  We spend enough time at airports however, that even my kids can navigate the terminals and trains along with knowing where they can recharge laptops and ipods.  Airports are just second-nature for us.

Today my Dad is flying to see us.  He used to be a million-mile-club member on a couple carriers and knew flight crews by name.  Not anymore.  He’s fighting cancer and traveling solo without his wife who is now an angel.  I’m worrying until he lands.

You think you can out-nerd me? You’re on.  I’ll go first.

I spend most of my days in meetings.  I write status reports, project plans, and agendas.

But then some days I get lucky:  I get to code.

I put my headphones on and it’s just me, the data, and the code.   It’s not about personalities or political strategies or team-infighting.  It’s about numbers.  A proc here, a semi-colon there, and I’m almost invigorated.

I hit the “run” button and wait, expectantly.   When the results come back, they’re beautiful.  Without thinking I raise my arms rise above my head.  Touchdown.

Honestly, who out there actually likes looking at pictures of themselves? Supermodels? Because in pretty much every picture that I ever see of myself, I can point out at least one flaw that makes me want to head for the delete button (I was going to say “tear it up” but nobody has paper pictures anymore.) And somehow, that ruins the memory for me. I could have been having a fabulous time, talking and laughing with friends or doing something silly, and when I see the photos posted and I hate how I look, the memory is sullied. Sick? Sick.

Donned in prosthetic horns, a lace cravat and a red cape, I pull him away from the throbbing party.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” I breathe as I slip my hands into his blazer feeling his toned alabaster chest.  Our mouths meet hungrily.  I have a few drinks in me, but not enough to render me ignorant of the guests able to walk in any moment.  He’s sober and enticing in his pirate garb.

The hostess’ father appears on the landing.  We pull apart, smiling wryly.  I feel 19, rebellious and alive.

I return to the reveling throng desiring a sequel.

I usually consider myself pretty relaxed, but discovering that a massage stresses me out, perhaps I’m wrong. 

I worry it’s going to hurt.  About what’s coming up next, or that she’ll bump into the candle and set the whole place on fire.  Or that the loud ringer on my blackberry or phone will ring, startling her and she’ll slip and snap a vertebrae.  Then when she does something that sort of hurts, I feel stupid that I didn’t speak up sooner.

And upon realizing I was calmer during a root canal, I start to worry about what my problem is.      

This week is Homecoming at our daughter’s high school.  The festivities include a theme everyday and today’s theme is oldies dress-up.  Our daughter couldn’t decide which “ancient” decade - the 90’s or 80’s, to pay homage to.  She opted for 80’s Madonna; using her Mom’s leopard skin tights, leather skirt, vest, lace gloves, scarf, white boots and too much makeup.  I recalled her Mom looking like that when we met and I wondered how our children were ever conceived.

I looked in my closet.  Dockers shorts, 501’s, Sperry’s, Tony Lama’s and 100 aloha shirts, ready for any and all decades.

“I can’t believe you’ve never done this before,” she says, straddling me on the toilet with her face four inches from mine.

“That’s probably because it really hurts,” I tell her, wincing as she moves again.

In her hand is the tweezer, which she uses on my eyebrows like some sort of assassin.  She searches and plucks and pulls with glee, as I moan and groan and consider crying.

Finally she’s done, and I look into the mirror cautiously.  A few dozen eyebrow hairs, and my face looks five years younger.

“You look much less creepy now,” she tells me.

Phone System: “…for payment and billing, say payment and billing…”
You: “Payment and billing.”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. To go back, say back. To speak to a representative, say representative.”
You: “Representative.”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. To speak to a representative, say representative.”
You: “Representative. REPRESENTATIVE!”
Phone: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. Let me transfer you to a representative.”

Wouldn’t it be great if you could just call on a representative at any time? Lost your keys? Spilled coffee in your lap? Cut yourself shaving?  Having a shitty day?

REPRESENTATIVE!

According to Yahoo today, the “Four Guys You Shouldn’t Date” are: 

• The Workaholic Hotshot

• The Adrenaline Junkie

• The Nice Guy with a Chip on His Shoulder

• The Smooth Operator

Who does that leave me?  Not much, after those and the other hotshots I’ve been through: 

• “I Have Viral Conjunctivitis”  

• “Let’s Be Friends, Maybe I’ll Feel Chemistry Toward You After a Year or Two”

• “I Know it’s Early (two dates) but Can I Come Over and Meet Your Family?”

• “Let’s Get a Drink! But I’m Actually Moving Out of the Country.  Next Month”

I hope I’m missing a few other categories…

Any weekend when I have to use a plunger goes down as a ‘not-so-great’ weekend.  It’s one of the side effects of solo homeownership, the fine print I ignored when I signed up for a 30 year commitment.  I break things myself.  I must fix things myself.

My mom has a guy for these sorts of things: her trusty handyman Francisco.  She paid him thirty dollars to change her air conditioning filter (don’t even get me started on that).  He provides all the services a woman living alone might need.  All except the one I think she needs the most.

First, I’m politely asked not to eat lunch until our clients leave – which sometimes is 4 p.m.  Today I was scolded for coming in late – at 9:20 a.m.  On ordinary days, I arrive before 8 to meet clients, and I work 10-12 hours.  (Not to mention the weekends I frequently work.) 

But today was a client-free day, when we can supposedly catch up on all our other work.  Since no one’s waiting, I assumed there was flexibility as long as I worked 8 hours.  I actually worked 11.

Her comments were unnecessary and demoralizing.  Does she have to micro-manage everything? 

My list of character defects is long and entertaining.  My list of character attributes is way too short but I’m proud of the few qualities my family, friends and I agree upon.

I listen fully and sincerely.  I am keenly aware.  I do my research and usually know the subjects I talk about.

That being said; my character defects are winning the patience and tolerance war with my few attributes.  This means I’m about to kick my redneck friends’, neighbors’ and some extended family’s collective asses.  When I hear the words Ayers, Muslim, terrorist or experience - someone’s going down.

Oh, California. The things you’ve made me do. Yoga. Uggs. Layering dresses over pants. Soy. Juice cleanses. I can never move back to the East Coast now, after the countless Left Coast crimes that you have encouraged me to commit. The latest? Nudist hot springs trip. (Full disclosure: this weekend was actually the second time I’d been there. Yes, the California-itis is that bad.) A bunch of hippies, young and old, rotund and slender, all naked, all tanned within an inch of their lives, hanging out around some pools. Even the second time, it was an eye-opening experience.

My evenings alone have become rare.

Walking around the apartment, I swig beer and keep an eye out for the new additions.  They’re mostly confined to the bathroom.

A pink razor.  A bottle of conditioner.  A cheap hair dryer.  A single sock.  A bottle of diet soda.  A pair of sweatpants.  A sport-bra.  A tube of lip balm.

Their presence pleases me and annoys me in equal amounts.  They warm my heart and conflict with my voracious appetite for independence.

What’s worse, she’s started to hint that we should exchange keys.

I think that’s going to be our first fight.

College life was like an ocean compared to this fish bowl.  Last night, he came over, and we decided to go to one of the few places where we could socialize.  Within minutes of arriving I spotted my ex.  He was hoping to meet someone new.

Later, I bumped into an ex from four years ago and his current flame. 

Then my new guy freaked out.  His stalker ex was there and came over to talk to him.  And we ran into other girls who like him.  Maybe the metaphor is less a fish bowl and more a mine field.

A nightmarish clown on stilts stalks through the line as my friends and I chatter excitedly in the swelling crowd of fright-seekers.  The anticipation mounts as we inch toward the entrance of Maris Farms Haunted Woods.

We enter through a dizzying tunnel.  We wander through corn mazes riddled with figures.  Some are moving.  We stumble into a funhouse full of mirrors and a clown.  In the distance we hear a chainsaw.

We are separated from the others and left in a dark warehouse to find our way out.  30 minutes later, we escape the chain link labyrinth.

Totally worth $22.50.

This past weekend our family crammed 400 hundred years of history, 600 car miles, four airplane flights and 30-plus walking miles all in 89 hours.  Our daughter wants to attend Harvard or Yale, so off we went.

She has the academic goods to study in Cambridge or New Haven, but needed to get a real feel if New England was a comfy fit.  She talked with lots of smart people, ate chowder, asked questions, took 522 pictures, listened closely, walked the Charles and watched the sun set on the beach.

“It feels like home dad,” from beneath her Yale hoody.

Back in writing class. My first piece was due last Wednesday.  I am just finishing it now.

Fiction is impossibly difficult.  I’m spinning a story of a person I don’t know but shares most of my characteristics.  She is three parts me, three parts not. I keep wondering what I would do in her situation.  Then I evict myself from the story, angry that I am interfering again.

I relay the plot to my mom.  The lottery,  The proposal.  A parable, I know.  She culls it for signs of me (and her).  It doesn’t take her long to figure out.

Tonight was date #4, and it was a success.  We hung out at his place, a real retreat, and ordered the best pizza I’ve had in a long time.  We played chess again, and I won – for the first time ever.  We talked, we joked, we flirted.  I like it when he calls me “habibs.”  “Habib” means darling, and he’s anglicized it by adding the “s.”  Cute.

We’re seeing each other again tomorrow.  When I met him, I felt a little something but since I was with someone else, I never thought anything would happen.  I guess you never know.

While she cries, I number my recent sins.

In the past month, I helped a friend commit grand theft auto against an ex-girlfriend.  I got ten bucks in change I didn’t deserve and stayed silent.  I repeatedly committed sexual assaults against someone too small to fight back.  And now, I’ve hacked the email account of someone’s husband, to prove suspicions are justified.

I lay out the evidence and name the mistress out loud.  She reacts to the name with closed eyes and tears.

They say it’s better to know than not know.

But I’ve not found that to be true.

Do you ever exercise the thought that you just may never be who you want to be?

I’m almost 30.  I’ve wanted to be a Disney Animator, a Freelance Photographer, a Graphic Designer and a Novelist.  I haven’t become any of those things.  I’ve got dusty books of drawings, a closet full of negatives, a CD brimming with pixilated masterpieces and a half-finished book.

Dreams are supposed to come true.  Disney taught me that.  But, what if they don’t?  What if all I ever will be is a mailman who dabbles in dreaming?

What if this is all there is?

What I thought about while running for four hours and twelve minutes yesterday:

“Awesome!  The ‘marathon route’ banners are up!” 

“WTF! There’s a breast cancer walk going on here today?”   

“Why must this garbage truck coast right next to me?”

“There’s the coach of the running club!”

“I love this Katy Perry song!”

“That old lady just totally elbowed me!” 

“Mile 17:  seeing my street and friends during the marathon”.

“Train your legs to run when they’re tired.”

“Try to run the last 3 miles without stopping.”

“But the last 3 miles are so hilly!”

“How did I do that?”

Before I leave for the weekend I pull up my calendar for Monday.  I scan the nearly full schedule and shake my head.  At least three meetings have the potential to be combative.  It will be an exercise in patience for me. Unfortunately, patience is not a trait located on either of my parent’s DNA strands, so my brother and I are both sorely lacking in that area.  I catch myself wondering why it is so hard to be nice.  The question shames me out of my thoughts and I wonder what happened to me.  I used to be nice.

There’s been an epidemic of stolen wallets and purses. I had my purse stolen three weeks ago, and since then I’ve had three friends suffer the same fate. From restaurants, from bars, at work, from their car. I can’t help but see this as a sign of the desperate times. I can’t imagine that stealing wallets is a lucrative pastime these days — no one carries cash, and the victim always cancels all of their credit cards immediately upon recognizing they’ve been robbed. People are just that hard up. What does it take to push someone to thievery? What about you?

Well.  There’s nothing like the next one to help you get over the last one.

That’s a philosophy I’ve never bought.  Better to  grieve, work through the pain, and heal like a starfish before allowing yourself to enter a new relationship, I’ve always thought.

And I did my grieving.  I didn’t think six weeks was enough to pay my dues, but since he broke it off so early, maybe the pain wasn’t as deep as I initially assessed.

All I know is I’ve  got good flip-flops.  What I don’t have is time.  Hopefully we can make the best of it.

These days I feel the most patriotic thing I can do is pay my mortgage.  I’m thinking globally, acting locally.  Seriously, what else can we do?   The full extent of the impact hasn’t hit us.  Yet.  But it will.  Maybe.  There must be something those of us with our feet planted firmly on Main Street can do to fight back.   Or is it too late? Is Wall Street actually a supernova whose explosion happened years ago,  invisible to the naked eye?

What would Reagan say? It looks like Trickle-Down Economics works.  Unfortunately what’s trickling down is arsenic and battery acid.

“I think we should check into a hotel this weekend,” the voice on the phone says.

Normally, if a beautiful woman was to propose such a thing, my chest would swell with pride and you’d see a mischievous grin on my face.

This time, my shoulders slump and I exhale audibly.  My mind kicks into overdrive.  I had this whole plan worked out, and now she’s thrown me for a loop.  If I don’t say anything, she’ll think it was her idea.

“I…already booked a room,” I tell her.

There’s silence for a moment.

“You’re such a pervert,” she says.

Everyone knows now.  It’s been over a month, but I just started telling people a week ago.  They’ve been discreet, and so everyone still thinks we’re together.  Last night, it flowed out like an uncorked bottle of wine.  Damn, girls’ night.

“Are you and D.B. dating?”

“No.”

“Were you ever dating?”

A weird facial contortion, followed by a hushed “yes” and then tears. 

“What happened?”

“Well, it’s the opposite of your break-up.  You said love wasn’t enough.  We had everything else, but he said we didn’t have love.  I said love needs more than three months.”

We’ve agreed to disagree.

Disappointment is the worst of all possible feelings. When you were young, and you did something wrong, the most terrible thing your parent could say was “I’m not angry. I’m just disappointed in you.” At least anger is aggressive - an outflow of energy, an emotion that you visit upon others. Disappointment happens to you. You are both the author and the victim of disappointment, because without expectations that you set up, disappointment could not arrive to fall short of them. How do you protect yourself from the repeated, bludgeoning failure of someone or something not meeting your expectations? Tell me.

If he didn’t have a few friends who had made mistakes in their past.
If the public had a black female role model other than Condoleeza.
If he had served in the armed forces.
If Palin wasn’t a MILF.
If church and state really were totally separate.
If Josh Lyman, Sam Seaborne, and Toby Ziegler worked for him.
If he just walked over to McCain and decked him.
If FOX “News” was outlawed.
If more people read Huffington Post, Slate, and The Anonymous Liberal.
If I were his campaign manager.
If his name was John Smith.
If he was white.

Her message was simple and straightforward, “your jobs are no longer guaranteed.”  I’ve been distracted ever since.

One would think that a regulatory organization, one that regulates the financial industry should not be worried about its survival.  If anything, you would think we’d be building up our arsenal.   If anyone should be secure it ought to be the regulators.

But. We’re funded by the firms - the very firms that are being bought and sold for parts.

What will happen if we can no longer afford regulation? Can we trust the government to be the sole regulator? I sure don’t.

I believe that public transportation is a writer’s best source of material. I believe the roots of women’s highlights mirror the state of the economy. I believe that red wine is good for the constitution. I believe that it feels better to take a shower when you really need one. I believe that police use their sirens when they don’t want to sit in traffic. I believe that dogs can make better companions than humans. I believe that being pretty or rich makes life easier. I believe that McCain’s cheeks are puffy because he’s storing dead baby penguins in there.

I’ve been in my own world for a while.  Experiencing, but not sharing.  The big news: the break up.  Still surprised by that.  It’s been a month.  I like him still, but refuse to be friends.

More big news:  went to India for 11 days.  Loved the Himalayas in the Kashmir region.  Never thought I’d see them.  Shopped way too much.  Been back a week and have worked too much.  So far, about 30 hours of over-time.  Time for another vacation.  The big family cruise is coming up in a month.  That’ll be fun.

Weather report: it’s finally below 100F. 

I’ve spent a lot of time lately surfing through dozens of university websites even though my graduate school commencement was more than 25 years ago.  I spent yesterday at my daughter’s high school working in the theater and talking to a bunch of different kids about a bunch of different things even though I was older than most of their parents.

In my Peter Pan existence I am comfortable in both those places.

It’s not that I don’t want to grow up or grow old; I just know now more than ever, I have no one to grow old with.

I feel the cold steel bite into my index finger, and the truth gets whispered in my mind a millisecond later.

This is different.  This is a problem.

If you’re the type of person to spend a few hundred bucks on chefs knives, you’ve already made this decision.

It doesn’t matter how good you are.  It doesn’t matter how long its been.  Sooner or later, your guard will drop.  It doesn’t make you a bad cook.  It just means you’ve been paying your dues.

Things you think about, Sunday evenings, alone at the Emergency Room, an appointment with a needle.

I heard that John Lewis compared McCain to George Wallace and his hate-inciting tactics in the 1960s. I had to ask my mom who George Wallace was. She said, “Wow. There’s the generation gap for you.”

I was out on Saturday night, coaxing Medjool’s bartender into pouring me a more-than-generous glass of red wine, when I felt someone pulling on my purse. I whirled around and some blazer-clad douchebag was attempting to violently remove my “Obama 08” button. He sneered at me, said “Just so you know, I’m voting for McCain,” and disappeared down the stairwell.

When I was 16, I feared it.  I kept it imprisoned within me, allowing it only to penetrate my dreams.

When I was 19, I wanted nothing more yet I knew it was wrong.

When I was 21, I prayed it away and yearned for the alternative.

When I was 24, I knew I must have it, but knew not how.

When I was 26, I cast off my old garments and donned new ones, taking the first step along the awaited path.

I’m now 29.  At last I have it.  It’s surreal, empowering, titillating and frightening: my first boyfriend.

Five a.m., standing on a railroad platform, she uses my body as a shield to light her cigarette.  I drink coffee and admire the morning; lovely, dark, and deep.

In the distance the train comes around the curve, its front headlamp blazing and airhorn sounding despite the hour.

She looks at me and gives me that crooked half-smile.  I can’t see her eyes in the filthy yellow station lights, but I can feel them in my head.

“Miss me,” she orders.

“No way,” I say.

Five minutes later I’m convincing myself that I just have something stuck in my eye.

Next weekend the sharkboy family is headed for New England on a two-day whirlwind tour of colors, sounds, smells, visions and emotions; and we’re not really concerned with what stage the leaves are in.  Our journey is about answers and fact-finding.

What does $60,000/yr tuition really get you?  Is the library open all night?  Why the Bulldogs and what the hell is a Crimson?

Our daughter’s life as a seeker is cranking-up a notch or two or three.  Our lives as her parents mean pulling way back and truly letting go.  We can do it.

Next stop, beach party schools.

Catherine lives and works in San Francisco. She attended Middlebury College in Vermont, and originally hails from Philadelphia. (And yes, she does miss her family.) By day, Catherine works as an esthetician. You can read her skin and beauty blog at http://thefacialdiaries.blogspot.com.  Catherine likes sunlight, animals, foreign languages, reading, insalata caprese, a freshly made bed, and getting her hair cut. She dislikes bell peppers, the word ‘tamp,’ touching fur that’s not on an animal, waiting, crawly things, and entitlement. She believes Rilke, who wrote “And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now.” She thanks you for reading.

Years ago at work I witnessed an amazing transformation.  My boss, a coaching legend, was in the middle of a big-league ass-chewing tirade directed at a particular player, whom safe to say was not the brightest bulb in the pack.

Suddenly, without warning, the coach went from blistering temples and spitting-speech to a sea of tranquility.  The coach said. “I’ve just realized you’re not behind or beneath the rest of us.  Hell, I actually think you might be light-years ahead.  You’re clueless, but happy while I’m going crazy.” 

For the next 26 days I’ll remember that moment.  Probably should always

Senator McCain:

The day I vote for you and your convoluted, hypocritical policies (not to mention your empty-headed running mate), is the day I decide a chainsaw is the perfect tool to shave my genitals with.

Oh, and by the way - you’re a pandering son of a bitch who won’t admit that he believes in a woman’s right to choose.  You stood up to the VietCong for five long years, yet the right-wing religious base is too hard a nut to crack?

Go back to bed, Grandpa.

I’m running for the Voice of Reason, and I approved this message.

I’m from Chicago where “vote early – and often” isn’t “really” a joke.  Living in Dixie now won’t allow me to vote often (I wish I could), but I can vote early.  So first thing this morning I went to the polls in the rain to make history.

On the way, I thought about voting in my eighth presidential election (a lot for a “young” guy) and who I’ve supported previously and why.  I’ve been red, blue and independent.  I’ve been both pleased and disappointed in my choices.

Today, when I hit the cast vote button I voted for real change.

It’s Tuesday and it’s already been a long week.   At 10:10 I stepped out of a scalding tub, and walked back into the living room.   I picked up the remote, thought twice, and put it down.   I don’t have the stomach to watch anymore.  Do they think we don’t hear them repeating themselves over and over again?  He wants to raise taxes.   No I don’t.  Yes he does.   Enough.

Luckily it’s almost over.  Sure, we’ll miss her.  She came across that bridge from nowhere and inserted bouts of hilarity this campaign season sorely needed.    Now she needs to go back.

I weigh myself neurotically, and don’t care that it sounds neurotic.  I heard that weighing often maintains weight loss, and I’ve maintained mine for six years, so I do it. 

In 25 days, I’m running my 4^th marathon and am in sight of it being at my lowest marathon weight, but it’s going to be close.  That would make up for it not being my fastest marathon, which will be disappointing. 

So I really need my scale.  Last night, our new cleaning lady was in there, tossing it around while mopping.

Today, it said that I’d lost 66 pounds overnight.

Arriving for dinner five minutes apart, the two most important women in my life size each other up.

C, the Best Friend, is here to put her stamp of approval on K, the Girlfriend.  As far as K is concerned, she’s here to make sure C will never steal me away.

The food is served and the wine flows.  The conversation consists of many jokes, almost all of which are at my expense.  When each takes a turn in the restroom, I get whispered reactions that demand further reflection.

“She totally wants you,” K says.

“You’re settling again.” C says.