100 words a day

He sat in the police car and stared at us.  His beard was gray and longer than the window frame.  I imagined that he was carrying a wooden stick.

I tried not to care.  I’m above this.  They wouldn’t – can’t – hurt either one of us.  Still.  That cold, hard stare.

I called my driver.  I waited several minutes.  I called again, this time with panic in my voice.  “I’m at Starbucks with a man, and there are mutowwa – religious police – here.  I need a car quick.  I need someone to take me home.”

My driver arrived. 

He left separately, safely.

LOST!!! -  One 16-year-old (this February) daughter.  Engaging personality, tall, blond, beautiful.  Quick wit with dramatic flair, known to frequent libraries, coffee houses, music venues.   Known associates include drama geeks, National Honor Society members, teachers, mothers, brothers, lifelong friends, musicians.  Suffers from HHD (Hates Her Dad).  Last seen holed-up in bedroom, texting away.  If found, let her know (like Dorothy) she’s always been home.

FOUND – Alien teenager claiming strong ties to the Royal Dramatic Family.  Strong-willed, opinionated, rigid.  Shows signs of MWHW (My Way or the HighWay) Syndrome.  Please pickup immediately.  We already have, or had a great teenage daughter.

Things I need to stop taking for granted if I get to keep my job:  eating out as often as I currently do, glasses of wine that cost more in a restaurant than a bottle in the store does, buying yarn for knitting projects I never finish, all of the nicer clothes I just bought, saying “yes” to invitations without having to think about whether or not I can afford it, taking taxis just because the bus is slow and the subway is a 15 minute walk, makeup at Bloomingdales, and the fact that another paycheck is 2 weeks away.

It’s been on my desktop for six months.

The perpetual monkey on my back, taking the form of a hundred pages of furiously yet sharply written dialog and description.  I recall how it used to consume me, and now it’s just a guilt-laden reminder of how I should be spending my off-time instead of another run-through of The West Wing.

I open it, the first time in forever, and slowly start pecking away.  The voice in my head that keeps asking “Now What?” is temporarily silenced.

Outside, the roads are sand-blasted and salt-whitened.

And they all lead to one place.

I sit down at the coffee shop near my office and hear a familiar loud voice barking on her cell phone.

Next to me is a designer I briefly worked for several years ago.  My experience is in high end residential design…hers, a style dictated by low prices and void of style.  Not a good fit.  She conducted in person conversations with mouth fulls of tuna, and telephone conversations while crunching on potato chips.

I didn’t last long with CheeseBall Design, Inc.

But today, I laughed upon seeing she now talks on the phone with her mouth full of tuna.

I haven’t lived in Chicago permanently in more than 25 years, but Chicago lives in me everyday.  My extended family is there along with the deep-dish pizza and hot dogs I need to survive.  I’m fortunate to get “home” often, but not often enough.

I’m especially proud lately of my Windy City.  Oh sure, there’s that President connection-thingy and the Bears caused excitement while hope always springs eternal for both the Cubbies and POTUS-favorite Sox, but….  There’s Blago-mania.  What could be more fun and crazier than the Illinois governor?  Maybe a conversation at a governor’s conference between Blagojevich and Palin?

I never expect life to be perfect, but, I thought if the roommate left and I met a nice guy, all would be calm for awhile. 

Except that little voice inside said to worry about my job.  So my real voice just talked to my boss and mentioned my job security concern.

Didn’t get the reassurance I wanted.  Things are up in the air until he decides what or who to cut.  But he said I’m doing a great job.

I offered to shrink my schedule and salary if it helps, and he said he’ll get back to me “soonish”.

It takes a jerk, an oblivious ignoramus to ask for a raise in this economy.

I should be thankful I still have a job, that my mortgage payments are manageable, and that I can easily put food on the table.  And I am.  But it’s not enough.

I’ve recently discovered a disparity in my department.  My brother wants me to shout gender discrimination and threaten to fight.  I’m not willing to don that armor.  Yet.

But I’m also not willing to accept inequality due to a flailing economy.

I might not win, but I have to fight.   Here we go!

“You gave me a cold!” I whine at her, over the phone, a lazy Monday spent high on Dayquil and laughing at the tissue box.

Two days ago, she arrived looking for cracked software of the type I’ve occasionally been known to dispense.  Despite being very familiar with my apartment, she seemed to have forgotten my most powerful computer is at the head of my bed.

Geek leads to talk.  Talk leads to cuddle.

Yadda Yadda Yadda.

“You seduced me,” she says.  “It’s your own damn fault.”

“You get turned on by software piracy,” I point out.  “That’s just disgusting.”

The first time I said it, we were pressed against my car in the frigid night.  I was slightly inebriated, but not so much so that I didn’t know what I was doing.  He didn’t say it back.

The second and third time I said it, it was via text.  Both incurred only Smiley responses.  No “I love you” or “Love ya 2” back.  Just “: 3”

I never thought I would become “that guy”.  The guy who said the L-word even though his partner has expressed he’s not ready to say it.

It is entirely my fault I’m hurting.

Dear fourth grade teacher,

Our son was absent from school Friday, January 23, 2009.  He was home due to altitude sickness (precisely, the lack of).

Thanks,

The Sharkboys

This note accompanied our son to school this morning.  His Mome had business in
Texas, he needed some educational enhancement and his mind functions better after leaving the earth for a few hours at 36,000 feet.

A three-day Tex-fest, learning about the Alamo, oil rigs, longhorns, JFK and rattle snakes beats out “go ahead and read your book and wait for the other’s to finish.”

Miss a day and jump ahead – again.

Sitting just a few feet a way from his girlfriend (who is standing uncomfortably close to another man), he leans toward me and asks if I have a boyfriend.

I say no and he asks  why not.

It’s a simple question.  The answer, however, is not.

To come to the correct and precise conclusion, one must use an intricate combination of postulates and theorems, differential equations, and graph paper showing three axes.

Since I’ve clearly paused, he continues with a classy follow-up, “Are you a bitch?”

Without hesitating I respond, “Nope.  But I’m a total pain in the a$$.”

People like me, the unemployed, the ‘self-employed’, and those whose alternative entertainment is daytime TV, have gathered at this government-funded course, Confidence through Colour.

I can’t help wondering whether tips on completing a tax return would be more helpful, but am determined to stick it out.

Olive, the course leader explains helpfully, is the colour of female leadership. Orange is the colour of letting go. She won’t expand on why these things should be so.

I tell my friend R about this as he is a giving me a lift home.

“Brown,” he says firmly, “Is the colour of bullshit.”

(Two hippie/homeless/backpacker kids board the #43, encountering a colleague.)

Kids: Hey man! I didn’t know you had a rat!
Man With Rat: Hell, yeah! I’ve had her about a year now. (A cursory glance reveals a middle-aged white man with a grayish brown rat snuggled up in the crook of his neck.)
Kids: What does she eat?
Man With Rat:  Garbage and s**t.
Kids: How long are you around for?
Man With Rat: I’m stuck here for 89 more weeks, on parole. My old lady’s in Fort Collins. She’s got my truck and all my armor.

I take his hand and lead him to my bedroom.  He gets on my bed first, lies on his back and tucks his hands under his head.  I turn on my iHome, letting David Archuletta set the tone.

Surprisingly, I have no butterflies.  Though we have not planned anything, I know what is going to transpire.  We’ve kissed oodles of times standing up, but it’s different when entwined on our sides and in the intimate darkness of my bedroom.

The Black-Eyed Peas usher us into the next phase.  We communicate as we round second.  He’s beyond beautiful.

And I’m flying.

Since I started writing for 100wordsaday, I walk around perpetually composing my latest entry in my head.  Ideas are ruminated upon, approved, abandoned, drafted, crumpled.

Reading back over a year in my life, I mark the highs and lows of an incredible journey.  I recall the mind state I was in for each post, and remember the even juicier bits that I edited out.

I realize I’ve been writing for almost a solid year.  And that’s about as much of my life as I’m comfortable having on the Internet, for all to see.

My last post will be February 6^th.

Now I get to have a little fun.

Apparently the maggot roommate is a hoarder with some serious cleanliness issues.  

I’ve been emailing photos of her room to my friends all day.  It’s that bad.  Flowers that she received in October are still on her dresser, in the vase, and yes they smell. 

I don’t know where she sleeps, and I half think when she moves some of her crap, she’s going to find homeless people and their shopping carts under her piles of clothes.  Instead of hiring movers, she might as well just toss her stuff off the balcony.

The 80-degree sunshine poured through the stretching windows of the front room of the house of my childhood.  I donned a towel and a change of clothes as I headed into what used to be Michelle and Heather’s bathroom, but now belongs to the twins.

As I soak in the teal tub, I roam to the past.  Jon in diapers, now taller than me and reeking of pubescence; Marky perched in front of The Little Mermaid, now dating and graduating; Michelle acne-ridden and awkward, now troubled and in a state facility.

The water drains.  The mirror reflects a different me.

A few years ago a routine day changed me.  I walked through a convention center toward a crowd gathered round a man, motionless on the floor, his face swollen and purple.  More than fifty just stood there.  For 17 minutes I breathed life for him.  He vomited blood and bile on me.

His heart exploded, leaving a wife and three kids without their father.

Last week walking through “Wallyworld,” man down, purple, bleeding head wound.  A crowd, again, just stood there.  I cleared his swollen tongue, used some training and he turned pink again.  EMT arrived, I exited.  Another change.

I’m on the bus one evening, and we travel past a large office building. I went for a meeting there once, so I glance in.

In the lobby stands a blonde-haired woman. It looks as though she is crying. A man, I assume a co-worker, stands at a respectful distance, a reassuring arm on her shoulder.

And I wonder what office drama, no doubt laced with politics and personalities, led to this little scene?

And I shudder, half with intense relief, half at the painful memories, as I think Thank God I don’t  live my life like that any more.

The past two weeks have been blurry and eye-opening, closer and more distant, easier and more difficult than ever.  I’ve probably lost my teenage daughter forever (the first of many replacements is a nice, shy bass player from school).  I’ve gone from the “go-to answer guy” to the “oh yeah, that’s my Dad guy.”

I’m completing a lot of first-downs with my kids’ Mome, but they’re all getting called back by my penalties and it seems I’m just tearing up turf as the clock is ticking down.  My only play with both is a “Hail Mary” and I’ve stopped praying.

I’m driving to work, around a strangely deserted beltway, listening to The Moth.  This week’s story is of a white southerner involved in the civil rights movement.

I blink back tears while trying to steer, the relevance not lost on me.

Later I’m watching it online.  My headphones are lying on my desk, the volume all the way up so my neighbors can hear it too.

When his hand reaches for the largest bible I’ve ever seen, tears spring again.

Cameras pan the Mall and the millions filling it, and I’m proud all over again to call this place home.

I was an early supporter.

I attended political rallies, and gave money, and made phone calls.  I wasted hours of vociferous arguments with die hard right wingers.  I pulled a lever and felt my knees buckle.

And today, screaming at the audacity of hubris that defines Dick Cheney, I realized something.

It’s time for me to become the other guy.  The hyper-critical naysayer and cynic that every real Patriot should be.  It’s time to leave the Reds alone and start picking on the Blues.

Obama looked arrogant for the first time.  And I thought the speech was a little disappointing. 

I didn’t think this day would come. I didn’t think it was impossible, but I didn’t count it as likely. I’m sitting alone in my living room, clapping with sore hands. How many times do you find yourself clapping alone? Applause seems, by definition, a group activity. I wonder how many people in my building are sitting in front of their own televisions, applauding.  I’m happy and hopeful, but I’m lonely and I feel adrift. If Obama was in charge of overhauling my life only, I wouldn’t be worried. But he’s got a lot of people to take care of.

Within minutes of getting back into the car I turn to my mom and break the heavy silence, “There will be absolutely no religious references at my funeral.”

She says, “I won’t be there and neither will you.  So there.”

I tell her I’m going to leave strict instructions.  Plus a eulogy, I’d like to write my own.  And it will be hilarious.

And I want there to be music.  And poetry.  And food, maybe a Vegas – style buffet of decadent pastries to greet the mourners

I want everything I enjoy in my life to be revered in my death.

So he comes back from Euston Station, finds me frozen in Trafalgar Square and we find a bar to have a drink.

“Come back with me,” I say. “Come to the party.”

“No, I should get back to my Mum’s, as planned,” he replies.

At Charing Cross Tube station, we pause to say our goodbyes.

“Well,” I say. “Happy New Year and all that.”

I lean towards him to kiss him farewell.

“Wait,” he says. “I’m coming with you.”

“You are? You really are? We’ll have New Year’s Eve together after all?”

“I’d better not regret this,” he sighs.

Visiting home always brings forth a melting pot of emotion.  There’s the feeling of completion from reuniting with family; estrangement for being so far removed of recent events; shock at how fast my younger sibs are growing; nostalgia from staring up at the same bedroom ceiling I did when I was 13.

Then there’s the gamut of emotion my mother extracts from me:  love, anger, bewilderment, frustration, pity, appreciation, guilt and above all the feeling of relational isolation.

I planned to tell her that I’m gay this trip down.  It didn’t happen…again.  That quintessential moment evaded my grasp once more.

So I know the inauguration is tomorrow and I should be writing about something related to that, but I want to catch you up on me.  Last week was my birthday, and it was fabulous.  I wore my tiara to work and received red roses from a secret admirer.  Then my boyfriend took me to the nicest restaurant in one of the two skyscrapers in Riyadh – far above the clutches of the religious police – for our first real date.  He got me flowers, gifts, and a cake.  The following day I headed to Dubai and met up with several friends.

Remember that Seinfeld where the Seinfelds didn’t want the Costanzas moving into their condo complex?

Frank Costanza yelled into the phone, “I’m gonna be in the pool, I’m gonna be in the cabana, I’m gonna be all over Del Boca Vista!”

Well, now that my resident maggot is leaving in just fifteen days, I’m gonna be all over Del Boca Vista.  For two months I’ve been hiding from my apartment or hibernating in my bedroom.

It feels like the place is mine again.  I relax on the sofa, watch television in the living room, invite friends over, live there again!

I’ve been working in the aviation field for ten years.

Yesterday, napping in my comfy bed, I hear my cell phone in the other room start beeping and booping every three minutes.  I conclude something interesting must have happened in the world, and a quick check online confirms it.

I run to my phone, only to see the following texts:

“I wonder what US Airways charges for a flight from LaGuardia to Manhattan?”

“Anyone got a good recipe for shredded goose?”

“I hear the airplane was kept afloat by the pilot’s ego.”

“One more reason to leave out of Kennedy.”

Another one for my growing “Coincidence Files”.

After getting to use the Dr. Michael Mancini from Melrose Place quote Tuesday, that I had kept tucked away for over a decade, I went home to celebrate in my “Soon to be Vile Roommate Free” apartment.

I’ll preface this by saying that I rarely think about Dr. Michael Mancini. 

However, Tuesday evening I turned on the television to catch some of “Without a Trace” and who before my eyes should appear in a guest starring role, on the very day that I crib his quote?

Actor Thomas Calabro, aka Dr. Michael Mancini. 

One of my favorite television quotes of all times is from Melrose place, Michael Mancini fighting with Jane and Amanda and saying, “You wanna play hardball with me?  Cause I’m gonna knock it out of the park!  EVERY TIME!”

I just loved that he left absolutely no doubt that they were up against a brick wall.

It’s that scene I keep replaying in my head today, since receiving an email from The Most Vile Roommate of All Time. 

I knocked it out of the park, this time at least, because she finally said those three magic words:  “I’m moving out.”

Before I left my house I made sure I recorded the show after the game as well.  I don’t usually care, but it’s the play-offs and my heart is where my home was.

After spending the afternoon at a friend’s place I leave, looking forward to an exciting afternoon of couch-sitting.

I settle in at home, enjoying the game on a three-hour time delay.

At half-time a friend calls.  She reserves most of her television watching for the Soap network so I consider her safe and pick up.

Amid small talk she asks if I’m upset that the Giants lost.

I’m outside the National Gallery, and London has never seemed colder, or more beautiful. It’s icy as a skating rink, and, indeed, the pavement appears to have become one. The Christmas tree glitters in Trafalgar Square.

The building is shut, darkened, and there’s no sign of G, who was supposed to be meeting me here, after the exhibition he’s come to see. Surely he knows I’ve come to London especially?

I call him

“Where are you? Didn’t you get my texts?”

“What texts?” he says. “I’m at the station, ready to go back to my Mum’s. Where are you?”

“Welcome to the USPS Employee Service Line.  To request unscheduled leave, press or say 1.”

1.

“This call may be recorded for quality control purposes.  To start, please enter or say your 8-digit Employee Identification Number.”

0******4

“What’s the reason for your absence? You can say ‘illness’, ‘personal emergency’ or ‘community disaster’.”

“Community disaster.”

———————————

Never thought I’d use THAT option.  But, here I am removing important things off the floor and packing a getaway bag…just in case.  The rain is relentless; the wind its accomplice.  Now the Puyallup River threatens to surge its boundaries and push me toward mine.

Lots of things come in threes.  Sometimes they’re bad like natural disasters.  Sometimes they’re good like birthdays on January 8th.   Sometimes they’re both good and bad like celebrity deaths.  This is about good threes.

Tomorrow my Father, my kids’ Mom and Elvis celebrate birthdays and I know all three deserve a great day.  Between the three of them, life hasn’t been all that kind or fair lately.  My Dad is staring down cancer.  The women I can’t easily explain struggles with me everyday.  Elvis, well he’s kind of in limbo.

Happy Birthday my hero, my heart and my hound dog.

I’ll never be the gay guy who wears a rainbow shirt.  Nor will you find me in heels or any form of women’s clothing.  And “fabulous” won’t ever be a part of my vocabulary.

Those things aren’t me.

Though, I may not be an “obvious gay”, I’d still like to live without being put on mute.  I want to play The Game of Life and be able to pick a blue figure when I land on the Get Married spot.  I don’t want to have to hold my boyfriend’s hand under a pillow.

I’m gonna up the volume in ’09.

With the smell of fresh baked bread gently lingering, he walks back into my life with a bear hug and a slightly embarrassed smile.

It takes a huge person to make me feel small, but he does it easily.  My ‘little’ brother, twenty years old, arriving for a quiet dinner that should have been taking place every week for five years, but yet hasn’t happened at all.

We eat.  We drink.  We complain about our parents and fill each other in on our lives.  He makes confessions, I make apologies.

Somewhere around the second course, the slate is wiped clean.

Everyone’s talking about it.  The air is one part oxygen, two parts anxiety.  Terror is in the ether, you know, that thing the outgoing guy was supposed to eradicate.

• They are closing all the bridges into the city.
• Important Metro stops will be closed. And highways.
• 10,000 tour buses will descend upon the city, toting millions of tourists.
• They say if you’re planning on driving, prepare to be stranded.  For up to forty-eight hours.

And I thought this city couldn’t handle a couple of snowflakes.  It looks like the inauguration will be worse.

I think I’ll be calling in sick.

Recently I told a friend I think I’m commitment phobic, because I keep buying tickets to things but decide against going, by the time the event arrives.

She argued “You commit to future plans, so that’s a commitment!”

Today, I went on the huge limb of buying theatre tickets in advance, since I’m now on a mini-streak of Saturday night dates with someone who seems to be sticking around. 

Progress for the commitment phobic:  buying not one but two tickets.

Except they’re for this Saturday.  The following weekend just seemed too far away to predict we’ll both commit to it.

I’m not really engaged.  No ring, no wedding contract, just back to normal dating.  Well, as normal as it can be here, and glad that I have an initial seal of approval. 

That whole situation made me realize how quickly things could go so I decided to tell my dad that the boyfriend I mentioned a couple weeks ago isn’t exactly who he imagined.  My mom got a pretty good idea on Christmas when my boyfriend talked to her on the phone. 

Now it seems like they might get to meet.  He’s thinking of coming home with me in May!

My computer at home hasn’t worked since July, so I only write at work, and haven’t been at work since before Christmas.

I don’t really have anything to complain about and I guess what I usually write about is my complaints? 

Well I do have the demonic roommate to complain about, but I’m praying our conversation goes well on Thursday and she goes voluntarily.  

Because I’m finding it might be cheaper to put myself through law school than to hire a lawyer to legally evict her.

Anyway.  The good news is I don’t really have any other complaints right now!

I reluctantly conclude that the party is over, and start setting my house in order.

Errands are run, laundry is addressed, and the toilet gets a scrubbing.  I lay out work clothes and set up the coffeepot for its return to the 5am shift.  I ponder the Christmas tree and think Tick Tock, Tick Tock.

“The Holiday Season” is over.  No more women, no more feasts, and much less wine.  No more late nights, no more spending, and I’ll have to start wearing pants more often.

Of the past seventeen days, I only worked one. 

Tomorrow is going to hurt.

Our kids head back to their “jobs” today with zero enthusiasm and way to much cynicism for a teenager and nine-year-old.  Christmas break was a good time but it’s not like they were VIP’s at Disney 24/7.  They had studies, responsibilities and plenty of down time.

The lack of enthusiasm stems from other than scheduled standardized tests and maybe learning a specific date or two, both kids already know what Uncle Sam wants them to know for their grade-level and beyond.

They’ll spend time making sure their classmates aren’t “left behind.”  We’re grateful for libraries, computers, dinner discussions and airports.

2008 ended and I feel like I’ve woken up on the other side of the looking glass.  All around me surreal situations are popping up, blowing my mind in a million unexpected ways.  I’m tumbling and stumbling, plagued by an uninvited visit from vertigo.

Real life mysteries abound, surprise announcements are being made, nuptials are in various stages of planning, or not all.

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I left work to seek solace in the unremarkable regions of my living room.

And there it was when I checked my mail: a Save-the-Date card from an ex.

Happy New Year!

You can take it however you want to take it.

As a message, as a warning, as a threat.  It’s up to you.  I’d bet on all three.

The hesitant man is but a memory, and I enter you like a crazed gunslinger walking into a bar, guns cocked and locked.  No longer will I accept the status quo.  When I walk in, from here on out, you better have my favorite stool reserved and your hand on my choice brand of whiskey.

Because you never know what I might do if you don’t.

Look out, 2009.

Walden is coming.

New Year’s.  A time to think about your life, and your approach to it, in a practical way.  A time to decide upon changes for the upcoming 12 months and beyond.  A time to get engaged.

Last night, I had a few people over, and my boyfriend invited a family friend.  Later, after he drank two bottles of wine, he confessed he had been sent on a mission – to check me out – by my boyfriend’s father.  While everyone was outside smoking, I apparently passed the test.  And with my terrible Arabic, it seems I agreed to get married soon.  Oops.