100 words a day

Headed West on Prince Street last Monday, ignore a few people talking over a dog on the sidewalk, and then hear one of them ask, “No, really.  Are you Dustin Hoffman?”

“No.  No I’m not.” said Dustin Hoffman.

A little scruffy, white haired moustache made it tough to tell with 100% certainty, but the voice confirmed it. 

In my head I heard “Mrs. Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t you?” “I’m walkin here.  I’m walkin here.”, “Ten minutes to Wapner.” and knew it was him.

I walked right past him without even noticing, but would know that voice anywhere.

I have a new dry cleaner. It took me a couple of visits to realize this, but when I say “Thank you,” the lady behind the counter says, “You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

Apparently, we’ve bonded. Yesterday, apropos of nothing, she yanked a photo of George Michael out from under the counter and shrieked “My husband!” After showering Mr. Michael with kisses (the photo was laminated, I imagine for this very purpose) she shook her head sadly and said “So gay. So gay. No chance.”

“Thank you,” I said, as I handed over my laundry.
“You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

I like to think I learned a lot from my Dad: how to be a gentleman, how to get a broken-down car home, MacGyver-style, how to appreciate simple things made from the heart, and, of course, Lyle Johnson Specials.  But one thing that didn’t transfer to me was a love of yard work.

I despise mowing the lawn, whacking the weeds, watering the grass, or working on landscaping.  I suppose I could think of it metaphorically, nurturing my soul or body to health, and it might seem less abhorrent.

On second thought, no.  I don’t want to start hating metaphors.

Our daughter returned home yesterday from a six-week adventure I’m sure has changed and challenged her forever.  Through a great deal of academic work and general busting-ass on her part, she was awarded a six-week full-ride at a great southern university.  She lived in dorms and went to college.

She studied everything from William Faulkner and Flannery O’Connor to
Viet Nam and world hunger.  She can now also waltz, samba and meditate with yoga.  Her knowledge of film has increased and she’s also some kind of zombie authority.

She starts her senior year of HS; light-years ahead and more down-to-earth.

I’ve been off work due to my on-the-job injury for almost a month.  Even though I haven’t been traversing the streets of
Tacoma, I’ve STILL been dealing with the endless parade of managerial bullshit.  I’ve been going to see US Healthworks doctors every week.  Each time, something goes wrong.

“The form wasn’t filled out correctly. You need to have the doctor fix it.”

“There’s a discrepancy on the form.  It needs to be fixed.”

“The form is old. They need to re-write it on the new form.”

I have an idea. WHY DON’T YOU GO F**K YOURSELF TWENTY TIMES OVER!

Yesterday, July 22, 2009 I started on the second book of my life.  The day before I finished the first book of my life titled “The First Fifty” which included chapters like:

Rehab –Try It You’ll Like It; Divorce- Better the Second-Time Around; Been There, Hiked That; Dived That; Traveled There; Bought Everything; Kids-Love ‘em Or….; Damn I’ve Made It; What Do You Mean You’re Letting Me Go; Love You, Hate You, Miss You, Do It Now, Get To The Point, Go Away; Dad, No, I Am So Busy.

Today I began writing my second book with one chapter - POSSIBILITIES.

It has been one month and eighteen days since my last post; by far my longest stretch since I began my 100wordsaday journey.

Too much has happened in the lapse between.  A Vegas trip, a friendship ended, a new boyfriend, I told my mom I’m gay (in an email), A Harry Potter Premiere, an Oregon trip, far more work drama, lots of soul searching and a possible new direction for my life.

I regret my hiatus for the simple fact of letting my readers down, however few you may be. 

This is a re-beginning. And, oh, does it feel good.

Walter Cronkite was a god for me on so many unique planes.  He had the balls to challenge President Johnson about Viet Nam and Johnson backed down.  He was a sailor and a newspaper guy who loved the written word; something I will forever strive for.

He was a seeker before the word was cool. 

My father told me “if Cronkite said it, then it’s the truth.”

Every Christmas Eve my family watched the CBS news as Walter Cronkite told me Santa Claus’ whereabouts; tracked by radar and satellite.  I believed “Uncle Walter” and I 100-percent absolutely know about Santa.

S and I are camping at a music festival, and, Saturday evening, the rain arrives as The Damned take to the stage.

A large woman, in a long, soaked cotton skirt, bedraggled hair hanging over her wet shirt, is swaying, eyes closed and one hand on a stick. The water gushes down her cheeks. Her feet bare, she is oblivious to the rain, utterly lost in the music.

At first, I feel something like contempt. Then I realise that what I really feel is jealousy, and a wish that I could abandon myself to the music in the same way.

Her name is Debbie and she helped save my life.  Debbie worries, looks after me, takes time with me, listens and does most everything else.  She is not selfish or self-indulgent.  Debbie is all that.

I talk a lot about my children and she shares much about hers.  We have history and we share with each other that and our futures.  Most times it is enlightening; sometimes overwhelming and frightening.

Debbie usually takes away the frightening part and eases me through the overwhelming.  We’ve known each other for years and are finally getting to really know one another – again – finally.

Landing on the moon forty years ago meant something for most Americans.  For one soon-to-be-10-year-old, July 20, 1969, meant everything.  I sat on the floor of my grandparent’s living room on the second-floor of my parent’s two-flat home spellbound as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin took their lunar walk.

My grandparent’s television set was a Quasar with “laser tuning” which I precisely dialed in the grainy black-and-white picture; carefully making sure the two green “lasers” lined up.

When Neil Armstrong’s foot hit the lunar surface, my heart skipped a couple beats.  Everything seemed possible.  Forty years later it still is.

Depression and headache pin me, naked and sweating, to the bed.  Another day of missed work; a day further behind tomorrow.  Food holds no interest.

In the words of Roger Waters, “Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.”  It’s not justified; my life is improving daily.  Perhaps apnea is the root of the problem.  Perhaps CPAP is the answer.  I’ll find out soon.

Maybe I need to stop trying to figure out the “why” and just power through.  But if I ignore the Lilliputian vines holding me down, will I not just carry them with me?

After six months, I finally decided that it’s time to get my tush back into shape. The gym has been uninspiring: the treadmills to nowhere, the futility of lifting weights just for the sake of doing so. I pictured myself shedding pounds, dripping sweat, and being challenged and in my mind’s eye it looked like…running. After my tortoise-paced (but amazingly rewarding) marathon in 2004, I thought my running days were over. My knees are showing their age and my running clothes are torn and faded. But every time I close my eyes I picture myself: running. Welcome back.

He described me as a flight risk.  He’s absolutely correct.  I walk into the office every day, always leaving one foot outside.   I didn’t realize it was written all over my face, sprinkled in the words I choose.  I wonder if he knows that I’ve given myself a six-month timeline to figure out my next move.

They’re worried.

The Executive VP volunteered to speak to me.  God knows what he’s going to say.  I’ll be fine unless he’s nice.   I can deal with aggression and anger; those emotions are easy for me to echo.   For me it’s kindness that kills.

Whenever I sit at a keyboard to explore, research or write, I always stop and remind myself how fortunate I am.  For 15 years I’ve had a view of the woods behind two houses where our kids have grown up.  I’ve seen nature’s wonders which should be highlights on the Discovery Channel.  I’m never short on inspiration.

The view where I sit now has changed 1,000 miles north and the woods have been transformed into an extraordinary pond of koi fish, exotic flowers and peaceful silence.  The woods and the pond are so very different; but I am still me.

I’m in tears. I have no Internet connection, and no choice but to call AOL’s ‘help’ desk. My legendary deafness doesn’t help. It takes ages to get through, longer for me to understand what the guy’s saying. Somehow, I manage to hear him ask me to check the cables. I look in horror at the wire between the modem and my laptop, lying disconnected on the table behind my machine.

‘Wow, I’m suddenly connected now. How odd, no idea why,’ I mumble to the guy.

I hang up. I Skype G.

‘Ah, well,’ he writes. ‘It’s complicated. Wires and things.’

Sunday, 5am. He jolts me awake, pinching my nose. I have been snoring. The room is flooded with the murky light of a midsummer dawn, rest is impossible. He wants to sleep next door. I am tearful, remembering a heavy conversation from last night. He rubs my arm and holds me, and stays. We lie side by side, silent and awake.

Michael Jackson videos were on TV all Saturday evening. Billie Jean is going round endlessly in my head. Not my lover. Just a girl who thinks that I am the one.

I doze, then wake again. It is 10.30.

When it comes to working out, I don’t.  Never have.  I was a competitive athlete back in the day; a good one.  I’m an old fart jock; I water ski, snow ski, hike, bike and perform enough hardcore chores to shame men half my age.

I’ve never joined a health club or participated in organized exercise except for team sports.  I’m in excellent shape for the shape I’m in.

My kids recently bought a Wii and I laughed at their claims of it being a good workout.

For the past three days a television and controller have kicked my ass.

When I was a child, I used to read Ray Bradbury books like R is for Rocket and S is for Space, and I wondered what it would be like to look up and see spaceships streaking across the night sky.

Tonight, I stood with my family and watched the International Space Station move smoothly, purposefully across the early evening sky at over 17,500 miles per hour.  I pictured the Expedition 20 crew members as they went through their routines, putting another sunset behind them and preparing to welcome another sunrise in ninety minutes.

I love living in the future.

A mere 10 weeks have passed since I crawled out of the bottom of liquor bottle.  That’s not a lot of time compared to a drinking career spanning 1,820 weeks (35 years for non-matheletes).  For the past 99 days I’ve tried to reverse the 12,740 “other” days. 

Some wonderful moments have occurred; a couple of bad ones too.  I start everyday sober and have ended a couple of them not.  Mostly I try to be nice, tell the truth and flush.  I get a little closer daily.  I’m learning; especially that love is not unconditional.  Love is very, very conditional.

I pay $15/month to a weirdo in Staten Island who took my powerpoint document and made it a website.   

He rarely spells correctly, and has a real tough time with simple instructions.

Recently, he accidentally forwarded me a breakup email from his fiancée and when I told him I’d received it, he claimed not to have sent it.

I’ve now told him I don’t need him any longer, and he sort of freaked out.  Things got ugly and I pointed out his ineptitude with regard to spelling.

Then he changed my site to say “OUT OF BUSINESS.”  

All spelled correctly.

She loved the fireworks at the big, open ball park.  We talked about them as we walked to the bus station, and while we waited for a non-crowded bus in the downtown concrete canyons, someone threw a large firecracker from a building a block away.  I saw the flash from the corner of my eye, and the retort echoed between the buildings, a unique sound.

She was instantly back in Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995.

The body-shaking concussions of the professional fireworks had not fazed her, but the smaller explosion between the tall buildings did.

God damn you, Timothy McVeigh.

My family is beaching it this Fourth of July; sand between our toes and saltwater in our systems.  We’re smiling, catching waves and the vibe is peaceful on this stop of our dysfunctionalpalooza tour.  Everything’s fine until I go for a morning wakeup cup.

The lobby is full of boy scouts and parental troop “leaders.” A female “leader” informs me the area is for scouts only until 7am and I am not a scout.

I tell her she too wasn’t allowed at one time.  She grumbles.  I then tell her my gay boyfriend and I need caffeine.  Her look – priceless.

So I’m at this barbecue, the house of someone I don’t know that well, and visit the bathroom soon after arrive. There’s a massive brown log floating in there, which fills me with dread. Dread that, if it hasn’t flushed away before, what hope is there of it doing so now? Worse, if someone comes along right after me, won’t they think I’m responsible?

I picture myself, still in the bathroom in three hours’ time, with anxious taps on the door.

It’s all too much. Nervously, I press the button.  I get a clean bowl first time. Oh, the relief!

I don’t have to get ready for work.  My boyfriend does. 

While he showers today, I make coffee, dress, put on makeup, do my hair.  Intending to watch TV in the air conditioned bedroom, I couldn’t figure out his new converter box (he’s the only person I know who was directly affected by “the switch to digital”). 

When he walks back in, I ask him to fix it.  “But I have to go to work!” he says urgently, like I’m keeping him from doing something.

“Like that?”  gesturing toward the facts that I’m fully ready and he is still wet.