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I’ve always had an unwavering premonition that when my time comes, I’m going to die by electrocution. I don’t know exactly how it’s going to happen (perhaps I fall into the house’s power feed when getting the kids’ frisbee off the roof for the umpteenth time, or maybe I fall victim to a horrible mistake in our justice system and get sent up for the death penalty, or—perhaps the most likely— Maia simply runs up and amiably throws a toaster into my bathwater while requesting an Eggo waffle) but however the fatal shock is delivered, it’s there, lurking in the shadows of my future.
I’ve been terrified of electricity since I was a very young boy. This is probably because I spent the first seven
years of my life on a farm alongside a hot-wire fence. I also spent that time with an older brother who ensured my education with the aforementioned electric fence was exhaustive. I can still hear Matt’s cunning plots: “Don’t worry, Adam, I’ll go turn it off for you! OK! (mwaahhh haaa haa) It’s ready!”; or “It won’t shock you if you just touch it with this wire hanger.”; and, of course: “If you get it wet first, it will put out the electricity. Try peeing on it!”
To make matters worse, Saturday Morning cartoons featured some very startling public service announcements about power line safety. The first of the two main spots that I can remember, showed a small boy climbing a tree, then grabbing the wrong thing and the screen went all fuzzy while a strange sizzling sound echoed out of the T.V.’s speakers. I would sit wide-eyed in front of the television, rocking back & forth and hugging myself.
And, as if that wasn’t fucked-up enough, another commercial was sure to make its appearance within the hour. The Kite-man. A mustached, middle-aged man wearing a gigantic kite costume walking through the park and met a bunch of kids.
Kids (in unison):
It’s the Kite-man!!!!!
Kite-man:
Is a safe kite made of metal?
[The kids seated around him shook their heads vigorously.]
Kite-man:
Wire or wet string?
Kids (in unison):
Never!
Kite-man (randomly):
What about frogs?
Single girl amongst the children:
I like frogs.
Kite-man:
What if your kite winds [rolls his eyes wildly for effect] around a powerline?”
Kids (excitedly in unison):
Call the Kite-man!
In order to get away from these hideous visualizations, I would change the channel to public broadcasting and watch The Electric Company (”Heeeyyyyyy Yoooouuuuu Guuuuuuuyyyyyssss!!!!!!).
Seeing that I have a long history of bad association with electricity, it should be easy to chalk-up my premonitions to simple irrational fears. Unfortunately I don’t think that’s the case here. I also have irrational fears of clowns, sharks, & jittery old cartoons (particularly those with pie-slice eyes); yet, my foresight does not show me being killed by a shark-riding clown carrying a vintage Steamboat Willie cattle prod. No, I die by electricity alone.
I think it might be karma. A few years ago, while I was fixing a printer, a co-worker nagged at me for repairing it while it was still plugged in. The next evening, I brought an old-fashioned camera flash into work with me, and set it off while doing much the same thing. I fell limply to the floor and my co-worker thought I’d killed myself. She was outraged when she discovered that I had tricked her, but I knew she realized this was a stroke of brilliance. I knew this because mere minutes after I’d terrified her, she was plotting with me on who we should get next. Within days, we—and our growing number of cohorts—had tricked everyone in the entire office (setting off the flash after noticing & attempting to fix a loose wire on their computer monitor), until we simply ran out of victims.
I can’t decide whether these are the sorts of things you have to do to keep from going crazy when working in an office, or if this is what you do after you go crazy. There’s no denying that I sometimes find working at a desk rather tedious. And boredom notwithstanding, one might think—what with all my horrible premonitions—that I would have perhaps chosen a career that involved fewer electronic devices: an Amish ox driver, perhaps.
The same co-worker who inspired my series of faux-electrocutions once told me that I should be thankful for my cushy desk-job. She ensured me that a life without hard-labor was sure to be kind to my body. Her husband was a stone mason & they sometimes worried about the toll the job takes on his physical being.
Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have slid under the radar. My back has gone out twice already this year, and I’m currently in physical therapy trying to prevent a third injury.
Ironically, one of my main courses of treatment is electrical stimulation therapy. They place small adhesive electrodes on my lower back which are connected to wires that run an electric current through the area of pain. The current pulses and contracts the muscles briefly, then allows them to relax again. It’s supposedly like a massage.
Electricity as a path to healing: this was a new concept for me. I’ve always regarded this force as harmful. Even shock therapy given to medical patients is something that has always seemed like a bad idea to me. I was wary.
After they connected me to this machine, I was instructed to turn the current up as high as I could without it becoming uncomfortable. I worried a bit about this: that I would accidentally set it one setting to high and electricity would rack through my body, my thrashings would inadvertently leave my jolting finger continually pressing the voltage higher & higher and by the time my 15 minutes were up, the assistant would re-enter the room to find only a grisly, smoldering corpse on the table.
Needless to say, I took it pretty slow. By the time my treatment was over, I had reached a setting of 14. When the assistant came to disconnect me, I fought the urge to ask: “So… what’s the record? How high has anyone cranked one of these babies?”
I decided not to ask this for a couple of reasons… the first: though I might suffer from insecurity, but I’m pretty good about not letting it show. I can usually sense when a question is going to come across as pathetic.
But, in addition to trying to save my dignity, I also was pretty sure I wouldn’t like his answer. I wanted to hear: “Oh my GOD! You had it up to 14!!! You must have an amazing pain threshold! Most men break into tears if they turn it up to 2!” But I’m pretty sure the answer was going to be on the other end of the spectrum: “Old Mrs. Withers had this cranked up to 7,292,386 earlier today… she was feeling a bit sensitive and didn’t want to break her usual 10-mil. But you had it at—” checks the machine “—oh, 14? Well… you know… that’s… pretty good too.” He coughs. “AHEM! Pussy!“
I have an appointment again later this week. I’m hoping to up my score a couple more notches. I’m hoping that maybe electricity is something that I can build an immunity to. By the end of my therapy, perhaps they’ll have to forgo the electrodes & start using a taser to administer the treatment.
With any luck, when my number is up and that fateful power line falls into the puddle where I’m standing, the shock will be far from fatal. Maybe it will even heal my ingrown toenail.
Unfortunately, I still see into this future and can foretell that electricity will have the last laugh. I see myself, lying lifeless on a hospital gurney while doctors and nurses try desperately and unsuccessfully to resuscitate me. …Alas. I’m invulnerable to the defibrillator.
•My truck broke down. (I still need to fix it, but I have a new —working— vehicle, so it’s less of a priority now.)
•My tooth broke.
•My back went out.
•My dog died.
•My grandmother just passed away.
Please help. I think I’m trapped inside a bad Country song.
Normally, I restrict my posts to my own writing, but today I’m making an exception. I’ve been needing a laugh lately, and here’s where I’ve been getting my fix.
The British sketch comedy manstrokewoman. My apologies if you’ve seen all these clips. A terrible disadvantage of not having television is that I never know when things are uber-popular and not worthy of sharing.
The man cold:
The breakup:
How to make a good first impression:
Worst Job Interview Ever?:
The Doorman:
Wedding Flowers:
Real Estate:
Massage:
What she likes:
The sweetest, most wonderful dog in the world is dying.
My beloved golden retriever, Tawney, is terminally ill. It appears she has had a cancerous tumor rupture and is bleeding internally. She’s expected to pass any day now.
She’s doesn’t appear to be in any pain, so we elected to allow her to die here at home, rather than to euthanize her at the clinic. She seems to be doing alright: she can hardly walk because her legs are so wobbly, and she’s not eating, but she’s stable at the moment and at peace. She sleeps a lot and I find myself constantly checking to make sure she’s not gone yet. Any other dog may have lost patience with me by now— they’d growl and think “For Christ’s sake! I’m just taking a nap! Stop sticking a fucking mirror under my nose every five minutes!”
But Tawney would never think this, she just nuzzles my hand with her furry lips and lays her head down again. She’s such a gentle dog, I have no idea what we’ll do without her. What other dog would put up with Maia: a raging toddler who tackles sleeping animals? Tawney handles my little girl with patience and class; hell, she’s kinder than I am. Long after I started snarling and nipping at Maia, Tawney still gives her soft kisses and usually seems genuinely happy to see her.
Last Thursday, Tawney was a spry as ever, she went on a two mile walk. Friday, Tawney pestered us all, trying to play fetch; an energetic 10 year old golden retriever. By Saturday evening, however, when she couldn’t take 3 steps without falling over, I took her to the emergency veterinary clinic. A blood sample showed a concerning lack of red blood cells. The doctor came in to break the news to me, the prospects were grim.
Usually, I’m pretty quick to think around corners, I think it’s a trait common in computer geeks— if you change the name of this database column, it will affect this part of the code, that query, and those 3 reports. But sitting there with the vet, I couldn’t wrap my mind around what she was telling me. She didn’t outright say my dog was going to die, but there was a sense of hopelessness in everything she proposed.
Tawney needs a blood transfusion, but since we don’t know where she’s losing her blood, there’s no point in giving her more. We could try to do x-rays to find the tumors, but since this is a soft-tissue problem, the x-rays may not reveal what we’re seeking. There are a couple of causes for her low blood-cell count: an immunodeficiency in which the white blood cells are killing off the red, or hemangiosarcoma, a cancer common in golden retrievers. Since Tawney had no other symptoms of an immunodeficiency, but did have several symptoms of hemangiosarcoma, this cancer was the probability. If we could determine where the cancer is, we could perform surgery: but the results would be questionable, as a tumor had obviously just ruptured, therefore the cancer has already spread and she would get ill again. Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.
Hours later it would all make sense, but at the time, I couldn’t determine what needed to happen. Finally, I called B, my ex-wife & Tawney’s co-owner, to come and help decide how to proceed. We finally were able to determine, that even if we deducted exactly what & where the problem lied, treating it with any hope of success was highly unlikely, and so we elected to bring her home to die.
To add insult to injury, I’m pretty poor. Simply taking Tawney to the emergency clinic had me mentally calculating my bank account balance. Even if I did have the money to purchase x-rays and god knows what else was needed to find the problem, I couldn’t hope to buy my beloved canine a blood transfusion and a surgery.
I’ve been pretty cold-hearted at times in the past when I’ve heard friends & co-workers talk about paying thousands of dollars for an open-heart surgery on their family cat. I don’t think I’ve ever said it aloud, however I’ve often thought: “But you can get a new cat for FREE!” But now that the shoe is on the other foot—if I had thousands at hand, I would buy Tawney her surgery, even if it’s only a fool’s hope.
When I write “LOL” in text messages or email correspondences, I’m usually lying. The sad truth of the matter is that I rarely Laugh Out Loud. It’s one of the aspects of my personality that I dislike the most. I have friends and acquaintances that laugh frequently and contagiously and I long to be among their ranks, but alas, my humor is so dry & reserved that it takes a couple glasses of gin to unlock the uninhibited joviality within me.
And while I’m at it, I might well admit that I haven’t rolled on the floor —laughing or otherwise— since kindergarten.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t have a sense of humor or that I don’t appreciate a good joke. On the contrary, I absolutely love humor and devour it often. While I may not be laughing on the outside, every bit of my being savors each happy surprise & ironic twist.
I’ve been studying comedy since childhood: beginning with bad joke & riddle books (think “knock knock”) and comic strips like Bloom County and Calvin & Hobbes. Later, I progressed to more bad joke books like the 1990 Big Book of New American Humor and began watching Saturday Night Live and stand-up routines. I am the number one fan of Billy Crystal’s Midnight Train to Moscow, a cold war era stand-up routine on VHS that is so popular that when I accidentally returned the movie case to Blockbuster with a copy of The Lion King inside, they never noticed. Nowadays, I read witty writers, or get my dose of humor online at The Onion or through Stumble Upon, but the results are the same. I seek such jocularity for entertainment and to keep myself in good spirits— but underneath this, there is much more going on. Neural pathways in my brain are being developed so that virtually every situation in life that I’m exposed to is immediately routed down one of these synapses and translated into a punchline.
For many years, I gleaned inspiration from television. Shows like Cheers, Seinfeld or The Simpsons gave me countless hours of tutelage. But I haven’t had time or interest in prime-time in many years.
I’ve found that the biggest disadvantage to life without television is that you never know when you’re not being original. It’s so depressing to make what I think is a hilarious remark, only to have someone counter with: “Oh! I love that episode of The Office.”
When I try explaining that I’d never seen the show, they not only look at me like I’m completely alien for not watching TV, but also, still won’t give me credit for my brilliance.
There have been moments that I’m almost inspired to invest in digital cable and immerse myself in popular humor. God knows I could use some new material, all my pop-culture references are ten years old. Yet, even if I became a devout couch-potato, I don’t have enough time in my week to watch every show, so the danger of treading upon someone else’s material remains. In fact, the danger increases, since exposing my humor to new influences would only lead my psyche in those directions.
That isn’t to say that I don’t already steal material from my various sources, though subconsciously, I assure you. I don’t mind twisting a joke and making it my own, but I hate borrowing directly from the source. Unfortunately, I sometimes lose track of the jokes rattling about in the deep recesses of my brain. The other day, for example, in a squirt gun fight with my children, I found myself cornered by my three beloved progeny, out of ammo and in a seemingly hopeless situation. I theatrically announced: “fortunately, movies have taught me exactly what to do in this situation!” and threw my squirt guns at them.
“Dad,” Addison reminded me, “they say that in Curious George” And he was right, damnit. Perhaps if I’d not unintentionally violated copyright and had been come up with an original line, they might have taken a bit of mercy on me, and in turn, avoided the subsequent drenching I gave them with the garden hose.
There again, in a store the other day, I was looking for a new razor, and found myself searching for a replacement to the 3-bladed razor I’d been currently using. I still have cartridges for the old razor, and since these are an expensive item, I wanted an exact model. Unfortunately, in one of the most ridiculous marketing ploys I’ve ever seen, overzealous designers have been trying to fit as many blades into a single razor-head as will reasonably fit in a suitcase. I could find 4 & 5 bladed razors, but they simply don’t sell 3-bladed models anymore. Seriously, if 3 blades isn’t enough for you, I doubt very much 5 blades will make a lick of difference. Standing there for several minutes, shocked at the sheer ludicrousness of the selection, a clerk finally approached me and asked if he could help. I facetiously replied: “Do you have anything with more blades?
He didn’t get the joke, but that’s not what haunted me about the interaction. Something seemed much too familiar about the joke. Then, while drifting off to sleep that night, I recalled a headline from The Onion: “Fuck Everything, We’re Doing Five Blades”. A satirical editorial written a few years ago wherein the CEO from Gillette announces this silly response to Schick’s 4-bladed razor. It’s pretty bad when grossly exaggerated headlines from The Onion become reality. But even worse, is when I steal these jokes unwittingly.
Then again, I suppose these sources often steal their own jokes. Jack Handey once wrote:
One thing kids like is to be tricked. For instance, I was going to take my nephew to Disneyland, but instead I drove him to an old burned-out warehouse. “Oh no,” I said, “Disneyland burned down.”
He cried and cried, but I think that deep down, he though it was a pretty good joke…
—which, to me, is almost the same as another of his bits:
The way I see it, kids need exercise more than they need ice cream. So when I worked as an ice cream man, driving an ice cream truck, I would try to drive fast enough that the kid couldn’t catch me, but not so fast that he’d give up right away. Some kids will chase you eight or nine blocks.
The Onion also has distinct themes. Their local section abounds with stories about “area” civilians and their inconsequential exploits.
Area Girlfriend Still Hasn’t Seen Apocalypse Now
Area Man Forces Self To Drink Another Free Refill
Area Woman Not Yelling At You, She’s Just Saying
Other, more prestigious authors will also recycle material from time to time. Sarah Vowell will chronicle her life-events in terms of presidential administrations. Her readers know, for example, that she had a tic of involuntary humming aloud throughout the Carter Administration and that she and her father fought terribly during the Reagan Administration. And again during one reading, she admitted that she hadn’t played the recorder in front of an audience since the Reagan Administration.
Another of my favorite authors, David Sedaris, seems fond of conceding the point. In his Santaland Diaries wherein he documents his job as a Christmas elf, he notes:
I was at the Magic Window for fifteen minutes before a man approached me and said, “You look so fucking stupid.” I have to admit that he had a point. But still, I wanted to say that at least I get paid to look stupid, that he gives it away for free.
—A couple books later, in his essay Jesus Shaves while debating with this French teacher about whether the spirit of Easter was a bunny or a bell, he narrates:
“But how does a bell know where you live?”
“Well,” she said, “how does a rabbit?”
It’s a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That’s a start.
I’m extremely anxious about repeating my own jokes. It may have already occurred in my writing, I can’t be sure; but if it hasn’t, it’s sure to soon, unless I keep exposing myself to a constant supply of new material. The problem with new material is that it’s more likely to be recognized by my audience, even after I tailor it to my own ends. The same goes for the classic great lines. The most reliable method I’ve found for recycling great humor is to wait about 10 years, then rework them into my repertoire. I can only hope that I have enough material on hand to last another decade.
But maybe, like so many things, I’m obsessing a bit too much about this. After all, I don’t begrudge these other writers at all for their re-use of some very good punchlines. So why then am I so hard on myself? There are plenty of other things in my life to which I could focus my anxieties. Take my receding hairline— please.
The car’s bass was so loud, I’m shocked the little low-rider wasn’t bouncing about like a SuperBall. As I pulled up next to it at the stoplight, I felt like the vibrations pulsing through my body, knocking out fillings in my teeth.
It’s clear that the kid had invested quite a bit of money into his sound system. The speakers were huge and shiny, there were custom made boxes in the rear window holding additional equipment (probably woofers or tweeters or something), and I could see the stereo in the dash lit up like a Christmas tree.
Imagine spending that much on a stereo and having the volume control break on you. Pity.
I felt bad for the young driver’s misfortune, and the embarrassment he must be enduring with his radio malfunctioning so indiscreetly. In an act of compassion, I turned up my stereo too, so that he wouldn’t stand out so terribly. I don’t know if it did much good, his percussion powerfully drowned out my gentle music: Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato.
He must have heard me though, because he looked over and held up his hands. They were all crumpled in on themselves with fingers sticking out in awkward directions. It suddenly became clear to me that his radio wasn’t malfunctioning at all:
he simply couldn’t turn it down; the poor kid had the worst case of arthritis I’d ever seen.
I was tagged by Lucky to do this Meme approximately 10 years ago, and I haven’t gotten around to it. What can I say? In my last post I gave my short sob story, which does indeed have an impact on my blogging —but also, it’s Spring, and the opportunity to be out & about under blue skies can’t be shunned. None of you are blogging much either, so I don’t feel so bad about it.
FIVE Things In My Purse/Bag/Briefcase
Books!
“Why the bad back?” you might ask… Truly, I carry more books in my backpack than is humanly reasonable. Books I’m reading, books I reference, books I read a long time ago, but love dearly and peruse often…
Origami Papers
Because you never want to be unprepared when there’s a need for a bouquet of paper flowers or a demand for an impromptu crane.
Tobacco, pipe & accessories
Ahhhhh… the glorious deliciousness of a good vice.
Various flash drives
How did I ever get by without these? They’re an IT person’s dream. I have installation files, log files, and hours of music on these little beauties. I love them!
Games Cards/Chess
Actually, I don’t think these have ever been used… It seemed like a good idea when I stuffed them in there, but now I think it’s taking up valuable room for more books.
FIVE Things In My Room
Chest
A wooden tool-chest I received for Christmas —I kept it in my room instead to keep myself organized. It turned out to just be a place to collect more clutter, but I love it anyway.
Bookshelf
—because there’s never quite enough room in my backpack.
Watercolor paintings
I can’t afford art, so my halls are decked with the artwork of family. My daughter Rose painted that pear… not bad for a 7 year old, is it?
Hats
I love old hats. Fedoras, bowlers, porkpies— so sad they went out of style. They’re great accessories, and wonderful for covering up receding hairlines.
Dust bunnies the size of Volkswagens
I refuse to feel ashamed by this. If you live in a house with hardwood floors and a dog, you’re bound to end up with these critters. The house is swept all the time, but still they breed like —well— bunnies.
Free to a good home.
FIVE Things I Am Into
Reading
I bet you haven’t guessed this by now, have you? I love both non-fiction as well as fiction. I love history, particularly about central Europe, for reasons I can’t explain. I also love histories about circuses & sideshows (again, I can’t tell you why, clowns freak me out… maybe it’s a morbid curiousity).
For contemporary authors I like David Sedaris, Barbara Kingsolver, Sarah Vowell, Nick Hornby… for the great authors of yesterday, I like Steinbeck, Austen, Tolkein… there’s not enough room to name them all.
Writing
You wouldn’t know it to look at the frequency of my blog posts lately, but writing is essential to my soul.
Origami/Kirigami
The arts of paper folding & paper cutting…
Music
Also essential to my soul. I can’t live without it. If music isn’t on, something is wrong.
Old movies
Black & White— Silver Screen— See previous posts to hear more of this…
FIVE Things I Have Always Wanted To Do
Travel the world
London, Paris & Venice are great, but I’d really like to see Romania, where Gypsies still roam the land and villagers still hang garlic cloves in their doorways to ward of vampires. Northern Africa would be really cool too. Odd choices, I know, but these are the places that call to me.
Of course I can’t even afford a day-trip to Portland, so there may be a bit of a wait.
Become a roaming street-performer
Not a clown mind you, they’re freaky. And mimes are just annoying. But actually, the main problems that I’m facing are: I have virtually no acrobatic talent, and I can’t stand balloon animals.
Take up woodworking
I get the chance to build a rabbit hutch now & then, but what I really want to do is build beautiful armoires & bookshelves. Unfortunately, I’m also a conservationist & can’t bring myself to use all that beautiful & rare wood.
Become financially solvent
Strike three against the street-performer dream. Damn.
Find balance in life
I know life is a journey and not a destination, but enough is enough already! I want the meaning of life & happily ever after, and I want it now!
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who believe in chiropractic health with an almost cult-like fanaticism, and chiropractic skeptics who equate the practice with the traveling Medicine Show swindlers of old, likely to sell you salt-water in a dark bottle and tell you that it was a proven cure for rheumatism, migraines, and indigestion.
I was raised amongst chiro-skeptics, and so have never really considered trying the therapy. On top of that, I never really thought I needed it. Sure, my back is constantly stiff & sore—has been, in fact, since I was about 12 years old—but I’ve always known that if I were to stretch my inflexible body and strengthen my abdominal muscles, my back would heal. That I’m too lazy to either stretch or exercise was beside the point; the cure was in my hands, I simply needed to reach out and grasp it. I didn’t need some doctor to tell me that.
But then, last week, I became alarmed. My back popped, with no cause whatsoever, and went into fits of spasming pain. The frustrating thing here is, I HAVE been stretching and exercising recently, but it’s either too little too late, or I disturbed the delicate equilibrium of tension that I’ve been building up for the last 20 years. My miracle cure of strength and flexibility slipped right through my fingers.
My doctor was of no help whatsoever; he merely treated the symptom with medication. I want to get at the core of the problem, but he couldn’t be bothered with that. And so it was, that I took a co-worker’s advice and made an appointment with a chiropractor.
Having never been involved with the practice, I don’t really have an impression of it one way or the other (which I guess blows my “two-kinds-of-people” theory right out of the water). But in spite of my open mind, I have a lot of respectable people in my life who consider it nonsense. On top of that, I’d recently read Romi’s testimony of a nightmarish visit to a chiropractor, in which her doctor teabagged her. (I’m none to anxious to have some guy draping his testicles over me while popping my back into place.)
You could say I was a bit apprehensive. Nevertheless, I was prepared to go into this without prejudice (as well as prepared to crush any wayward scrotum that asserted itself). I would evaluate my experience—weighing the good moments against the bad—and I would form my own judgment as to whether this practice was legitimate.
The appointment began like any other. The receptionist was kind of pretty {a point in their favor} but she made me fill out several forms {a point against} and I sat waiting room for several minutes. The waiting room was clean and orderly {+1}, but it was a little too orderly; all the magazines were in a rack on the wall across the room from me {-1}. You have to read a magazine while sitting there, otherwise it’s a pretty awkward experience: just sitting there, looking around or staring out the window, listening in on nearby conversations (actually I was going to eavesdrop anyway, but I wanted some cover).
But I didn’t have a magazine at hand, and suffering from a back injury, I wasn’t inclined to get up and go get one—particularly when I could read the titles from where I was sitting, and none of them interested me. I only read magazines when in the waiting room, but nothing they had appealed to me. In order to read People magazine I would need to have a point of reference on our current celebrities, and I don’t really know any of them (sure, I only wanted it for cover, but I wanted respectable cover). The same problem ruled out Sports Illustrated. Fortune 500 and Forbes would require some interest in business. When forced to read periodicals in these situations, I usually read National Geographic. Entertainment Weekly will do in a pinch (so that I can know which movies are coming out, even if I don’t know the actors’ names), or Time or Newsweek.
The most promising option in the chiropractor’s selection was Highlights for Kids. But again, I’d have to pull myself lamely out of the chair and limp over to get it. What kind of clinic that deals frequently with patients in chronic pain would keep the reading material so inaccessible to us? The coffee tables were totally vacant—not so much as a brochure. I kept waiting for the receptionist to offer to fetch the Highlights for me, but she never asked {-1}.
To make matters worse, they were playing soft-rock on the muzak {-100}. Though I love all types of music, I have to admit a limited tolerance for sappy ballads. Sure, they have their place (elsewhere), but I had no idea how long I was to be subjected to this, and I was growing uncomfortable. Then, a man came down the hall SINGING ALONG, and walked behind the counter with the receptionist. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer that this was not to be my doctor.
But, in spite of the lack of diversion in the waiting room, they made up for it when they took me back to wait in the doctor’s office. They actually turned on a DVD for me while I waited for the doc! {+1} However, the movie turned out to be all about the validity of Chiropractics… not exactly a classic {-1}. I suppose I appreciated their efforts to keep their patients educated and informed {+1}. But to be honest, this sort of propagandizing tends to have the opposite effect on me {-1}. Nothing puts me on my guard faster than explanations being forced upon me when I haven’t asked a question. Charlatans always try to gain your trust before they take you in.
After watching the movie, which informed me that chiropractics can cure anything from rheumatism to migraines to indigestion, the doctor finally came in—singing along with the muzak.
♫ I love you, always forever
♫ Near and far, closer together
{-3,234,641,398} Fucking Quack.
“I’m sorry” he said, “did you say something?”
“Oh! Ummm… I said: ‘My aching back!’”
He gave me a look of sympathy {+1}, introduced himself, and sat down and discussed my problem. He actually seemed to care, to want to get at the root of the problem {+100}, and I found myself liking him in spite of myself {+100}. Maybe he couldn’t help his little melodic outbursts: some sort of pop-music-Tourette’s {cancel that -3,234,641,398}. God knows I need someone to give a shit about my back {+5,000}.
The score started swinging in his favor. But not for long.
He took me into the exam room and gave me a hospital gown to put on for some diagnostics {-10}. The robe was vertical pastel stripes {-250}.
“Do you have anything in a camo? Or even a tartan plaid?”
He just laughed and walked out of the room. I put on the hideous robe {-50}, and waited for him to return. But instead, the cute receptionist came in {-500} and had me bend in several different postures {-600} to determine what caused me pain.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to see me in this gown.” I told her. “I might have to kill you.”
She laughed, “Yeah, those are pretty ugly. Oh well, it’s better than being naked”
“I’m not so sure.”
Then, as if she was calling my bluff, she had me undo the back of my gown {+5,000} so that she could run some equipment down my spine to measure the muscle tension {+5,000 … -500}. The results were grim.
She walked out of the room to tell the doctor, then a second female assistant came in to run some x-rays. Since these were of the lower back, she had me hold a felt-covered metal loin-guard over my crotch {-10,000} to—as she put it—“protect the boys” {-20,000}.
She said we had to look out for future generations. I tried to argue, explaining that my “boys” have already given this world 3 wonderful little offspring, and were now enjoying retirement and didn’t mind being a little irradiated. But she merely handed me the plate {-250} and started asking questions about my kids. I tried to remain civil, but I found, when dressed in a skimpy, effeminate robe, and holding a bright yellow “cup” over my groin, it’s hard to stay engaged in small-talk.
It felt like the staff at the clinic were competing with each other. That my entire experience at this point was based on nothing more substantial than a series of dares.
“OK”, the Doc would say, “I got him to dress in those ghastly old gowns & she got him to do the Hokey Pokey while half naked, but I bet you can’t get him to pose with the Golden Codpiece!”
I started getting paranoid: were all those pictures she was taking really x-rays? I became certain the bitch had a Polaroid back there somewhere. They had fooled me, tricked me into trusting them and would now extort thousands from me to keep these photos off the world wide web {-5,000}. But before I could confront her, she wrapped up her shoot and told me to wait for the doctor. He poked his head in and gave me permission to get dressed {+1,000}. This was a brilliant tactical maneuver on his part. Fully clothed once again, I relaxed {+100}, started liking him again {+200}, and became curious about what my tests revealed.
Back in his office again, I watched another video over-explaining spinal correction to me {-100}. The video explained that my doctor does not use the “bone popping” method of chiropractics (this was good news! Without having to climb on me, the chances of distasteful contact with his figs was not likely {+1,000}), he instead uses percussion instruments which oscillate at a frequency that will actually communicate with the brain and gets its assistance in spinal correction {-1,500} I felt the skeptic inside of me rising once more. I considered asking the doctor when he came in if, while we were at it, we could have the tools ask my brain what the fuck that dream last week about the giant duck & the French horn meant.
But when the doctor came in, he didn’t give me any of that far fetched craziness. He was completely reasonable and described my test results and the proposed treatment in logical and straightforward terms {+500}. He explained that I carry 40 pounds more weight on the left side of my body than on the right—that my spine is off-center, curved sideways in a way that is putting pressure on nerves and causing pain. He assured me that he could straighten my spine and that this would remove said pressure and would most likely cure my current pain, as well as relieve the constant soreness & stiffness I’ve been experiencing these past couple decades. I began to envision a life for myself free from pain and soreness. I began to hope {+30,860}.
Then he explained that all that was required to complete this task was for me to come into the office 3 times a week for the next 3 months. My mental calculator jumped into high gear and immediately started translating this into a dollar figure. The number was staggering.
Final score:
Pro-chiropractic = 38,865
Anti-chiropractic = 38,865
Cost of Chiropractic = $38,865
Conclusion:
Does anyone know where I can get a cheap pair of used crutches?
Being, as I often find myself, the least armed person in the room is naturally a little disconcerting. I know I’m protected by procedures and laws, but it all really boils down to faith & trust in my co-workers. And I suppose I do trust them (else why would I be there, the only one in the room not sporting pepper spray, a taser, a baton AND a pistol) but sometimes I wish I could don a utility belt full of weapons, just to be on even footing.
I am a civilian employee in a police department. It’s not a bad gig (that I’m not allowed to carry so much as a pocket knife notwithstanding), but it’s clear that it’s not my natural environment… While I don’t necessarily care for being constantly out-gunned, I don’t actually really want to run in the rat-arms-race… I suppose I’d be happier somewhere where people didn’t attire themselves in a personal arsenal for training classes (in which I’m the trainer and my heavily armed students aren’t particularly fond of the subject).
All in all though, the officers I work with are a very respectable group. Once you take away the guns and the body armor (and the boots… and the sunglasses…), they’re just people. A motley group of personalities and temperaments, but I can’t say that I have issues with any of the officers I know. Truly, I have a much harder time with my associates in IT and accounting, and I’m endlessly thankful that these accomplices also aren’t allowed to carry weapons.
There are however, a group of officers who, I have to admit, scare the living hell out of me. I’m responsible for updating software in all patrol cars, and I dread the time it comes to work with these officers’ cars. I find it so unnerving that I’ve actually taken notes on their behaviors so that I can rise more deftly to these occasions.
Perhaps it was unwise of me to document my fears in writing. Moreover, it was foolish to leave this list lying on my desk where it would be found and subject to ridicule. Which is, of course, exactly what happened this weekend. I am a bit embarrassed by its discovery …but I find satisfaction that, no matter how much they tease, all my associates agree that they also would not tread into the territory of these cars. They can’t blame me for my apprehension, for who would willingly sit inside a car when the officer is literally snarling and trying to bite you? There is only one human that is welcome in these vehicles, the K9 handlers … the K9’s themselves would happily kill anyone else who dares enter their sanctum.
Happily pardoned of my fears and misgivings, I hereby publish my list for all to see:
************
K9 Officer Rover†: Ferocious upon approaching the car, but quiets down once I get in and start working.
K9 Officer Benji†: Will try to kill me through the bars for the first few minutes, but will finally settle in.
K9 Officer Fido†: Not so bad, so long as I don’t move.
…at all
…can’t even breathe.
K9 Officer Hooch†: Will seemingly only be satisfied with my bloody esophagus between his teeth. Will not settle in, no matter how long it takes… constantly growls, lunges at the bars, and sticks his muzzle through and tries to bite my elbows.
************
Is this funny? I can’t say that I really think so, but I tell you, it’s considered a riot at work… maybe it’s just law enforcement humor.
My fear of K9 officers was instilled in my pretty early on in my career. The week I started, one of the dogs tore a man’s calf muscle right of his leg. The pooch had to go through aggression training. It might seem odd then, that I adopted a retired K9 officer. But my beloved Tawney was not an attack dog, she was a drug-sniffer, and like me, she did not particularly fit in. She was a Golden Retriever amongst German Shepherds… She did not particularly like the military-style paradigm, and had a low tolerance for driving “Code 3″ to the scene. She tried to do her job, but in her eagerness to please and to be loved, she missed the entire spirit of “the bust.”
I love her dearly, and can’t imagine my life without my sweet dog. And so I’m very pleased that she was given early retirement for her lack of compatibility.
But I’m horribly envious.
†These are not the real names of the dogs, I’m obliged to confess… Police officers aren’t the sort of folk to name their dogs “Fido” or “Rover”… all police attack dogs I’ve known are given tough sounding names like “Bullet”‡ or “Caliber”‡. I just don’t want any would-be criminals amongst my blog readers hearing that “Rover” is pursuing him/her and thinking “Oh right.. Rover is the wimpy one! I don’t have to submit!”
I will not be held responsible when this “wimpy” dog rips a pectoral right off your chest.
‡Also not their real names.
In the past 3 days, I’ve had over 100 mugshots taken of me. Frontal pix, profile shots, photos from every conceivable angle. It seems like this should be more than enough, but I can’t dare to hope that I’m even close to being done.
The worst part is that I’m not even allowed to leave my cell to have my booking portrait taken. I wouldn’t mind so much, being documented like a lab rat, if I was allowed to leave this pit. But no, I’m stuck in solitary confinement, with over 25 years left on my sentence, and now I have to endure constant observation by the harshest of my critics.
Me.
Sometimes I wonder whether real prisoners have it better off. I’ve never been in the clink, but 2nd & 3rd hand accounts impress me with tales of days spent exercising, reading in the library, studying for degrees or licenses via correspondence, watching movies… free room & board. I’m sure that living the life outside has it’s perks too… My place of employment, for example, no doubt has considerably fewer incidents of anal rape. And in addition to this silver lining, I technically have my freedom, with which, assuming I had free time and money, I could go anywhere I want, whenever I want to. But seeing as I’m usually short on both time and money, I generally spend either at work or at home. …Sort of a virtual house arrest.
My coop is a ten foot square area surrounded by walls and file cabinets, where I sit for 8 hours each day at a desk engulfed in equipment. Underneath my desk, there are boxes full of spare parts …speakers for PCs, rollers for printers, lamps for the scanner… My desk drawers are full of extra keyboards and mouses (mice?), and various cables and adapters. Atop my desk sits my computer, complete with dual monitors, a secondary computer which simulates what patrol officers have in their cars, a bar code label printer, a bar code scanner, and now, a webcam.
The idea is to use the webcam for a mugshot annex, for suspects who won’t actually be booked at the jail (where these photos are normally taken). I’d like to state up front that using the webcam in this way is not my idea. I’m not sure the detectives who’ve been managing this project knew what they were buying. …but nonetheless, it’s my job to make it work. So I’ve been toying with it for a few days, getting it interfaced with our database and trying to get the appropriate size and resolution to come up through a third-party software.
I’m doing this by taking a lot of pictures of myself. I’d rather not, but I’m the only test subject available. So I’ve been spending a lot of time looking at myself. Hell, even when I’m not snapping shots, there’s a little window on my monitor that shows me the video feed… I find it more than a little disconcerting.
Until a couple years ago, I’d never really given my appearance much thought, but once aging really started to kick in, I’ve become obsessed. It’s really pissing me off… not only that I care so much about my dilapidating appearance, but also to have to admit that I’m really vain. I’d like to think that I’m above such concerns.
But nonetheless, there I was on my computer… tipping my head down into the camera to see how far back my hairline has receded and analyzing my large nose in profile. To add to these ongoing problems, this project was unfortunately timed promptly after Easter, thus following my consumption of several pounds of candy. This of course, left me with a complexion which is currently none too smooth.
Gradually my standard mugshots took on an eccentric theme. Alongside a series of my profile there are now also shots of the top of my head to see if my hair is thinning, a few shots from below to check out a blotchy shaving burn on Wednesday morning, and then a few shots to see if I really was getting a double chin or if it was just the angle I was holding my head during the razor-rash pics.
As I held the camera behind me and zoomed in on a potential bald spot on the back of my head, the lieutenant came in to see how the testing was going. Still holding the camera, I stretched my arms wide and pretended I was yawning, but I’m not sure I fooled him.
After he left I continued my “work”. I’d found an “extras” pack that came with the webcam which included dozens of animated backgrounds into which I could insert my picture. Tasked with thoroughly analyzing this equipment, I produced mugshots of my hairline in the tropics, my pimple in the jungle, and my freakishly large nose in outer space.
And then, while tweaking the settings, I removed all color from my face and presented my likeness in black & white. The result was astonishingly appropriate. Instantly, all of my angst and all of my self-consciousness evaporated. It’s not that I suddenly felt dashingly handsome …in fact, I rather look like Stan Laurel with a much larger nose… but these shades of gray were just so fitting for me. I don’t belong in Technicolor.
Stan Laurel
Reading my blog, you probably wouldn’t guess that I have huge affection for the silver screen. I love silent movies… Charlie Chaplin, Paulette Goddard (is it wrong to have a crush on a woman who would be almost 100 years old if she was alive today?), Harold Lloyd, and of course, Buster Keaton (surprise, surprise)…
Paulette Goddard
One of my favorite places in Salem is the Historic Elsinore Theater, the local pusher for my monochromatic cinema fix. I love climbing the steps to the balcony, waiting for the lights to dim, and for the movie to start. As if the love of these movies and the wonderful ambiance of the theater isn’t pull enough, the theater cruelly rouses my addiction on the back of their building with a giant mural that I walk by every day on my walk to work. The mural features Theda Bara, Charlie Chaplin, WC Fields, and a tiny Marlene Dietrich.
Salem, Oregon’s tribute to fabulous blogger Moonbeam McQueen
I have to shamefully confess that, in spite of the Elsinore’s fine tribute, I’ve never seen a Theda Bara movie. As I understand it, there isn’t much of her work left in the world. I consider this a terrible shame, as I’m sure I would love each one of her movies. Indeed, I don’t believe I’ve ever watched a silent film that I didn’t like.
Except, unfortunately, that one today, starring myself. Even though my spirit was finally realized in black & white, the environment around me was all wrong. I ought to have worn one of my hats, or perhaps incorporated some acrobatic slapstick… but unfortunately, when working with expensive electronics, somersaults are generally frowned upon.
Perhaps my vocational detention centre isn’t the right backdrop for my personal flicker show. But then, why shouldn’t it be? My heros of old seemed to share a common denominator of never fitting in with their environments, so perhaps I’m in the perfect setting.
It could be the antithesis of that Tobey Maguire/Reese Witherspon movie Pleasantville, wherein they visit a black & white world and turn it into color. Surely our world is in just as dire a need for a new perspective. Maybe it’s time I don my hat, grab my cane, and bathe the world around me in shades of silver.
I’m told, not infrequently, that I have rather depressing taste in music. This is an accusation that always takes me a little by surprise, as I don’t consider my music at all saddening. I find it mellow and soothing. Invariably though, I’ll play a tune to lift my spirits, and immediately see others around me come crashing to the ground. At work, for example, I may turn on a little Concrete Blonde, and just as the melody starts to carry me away…
♫ Hey, hey, goodbye ♫
…a co-worker will walk by and say: “God Adam! This is dismal!”
“Really? You think?”
♫ Tomorrow Wendy’s going to die-i-i-ie ♫
I suppose dozens of friends, family, and co-workers can’t all be mistaken. But even my selections in uplifting songs have come into question. Barenaked Ladies’ Hello City, Lucinda Williams’ Can’t Let Go, Toby Lightman’s Holding Me Down¹, & Eric Clapton’s River of Tears²… It’s beyond reason!
Still though, even my preference in rousing music seems to lean toward bluesy tunes, doesn’t it? And that’s just a small selection of my repertoire. My baseline of musical choices consists of slow, rhythmic melodies like Mark Knopfler’s What It Is, Brandi Carlile’s Have You Ever, & Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic. Songs that I love in the core of my soul, but which have inspired my friends to put the suicide hotline³ on speed dial.
When I turn on a little David Gray or Otis Redding, I can feel each pluck of the guitar string resonate deep inside me, as if it’s tethered to my heart. It’s not a sad feeling I get… it’s harmonic, consoling, transcendental…
I’m a mellow, easy-going person by nature, so it would make sense that my music would reflect that. I do have friends though, who believe that I listen to such somber hymns to lather a state of mournfulness. These friends try to wax melancholic with me, sharing sorrowful tales & offering new disheartening carols. I can’t say that this displeases me, I’ve found quite a few gems this way, but sometimes I have to shake my head with their uneducated choices.
I’ve been told, for example, that Evanescence is unquestionably the ultimate score in depression’s soundtrack. More than one acquaintance has had to discard their album before the music swallowed them into despair. Obviously intrigued, I investigated the matter and found the band completely wanting of such power… It just didn’t work.
Eager to show my friends the error of their ways, I turned on Tracy Chapman’s The Promise. I closed my eyes and let Tracy’s soft crooning to her lost love carry me away and by the time she reached her first chorus…
♫ Remembering… ♫
♫ Your touch… ♫
♫ Your kiss… ♫
♫ Your warm embrace… ♫
…I was on cloud nine. My friends however were rifling through drawers, trying to find razor blades or a bit of rope long enough to tie a noose or pills with which they could suitably overdose.
Amateurs.
¹Her acoustic version, that is… the main release of this song was too “pop” for my taste, whereas the acoustic version is bluesy and lovely.
²OK, I have to admit, River of Tears is not an uplifting tune, and actually it’s not even amongst my beloved ballads …it’s not a bad tune, just not a favorite of mine… I just put it here, because I thought the title sounded pretty funny amongst these so-called “happy” songs. I do however LOVE Clapton’s Fall Like Rain, and I do think it’s quite inspiring, though others find the “tears falling like rain” theme somewhat morose… sigh.
³1-800-SUICIDE… just in case you’re actually clicking these links and listening to my songs. That’s 1-800-784-2433.
1-800-784-2433
It might seem that my mother’s nomadic tendencies would have caused bitterness in her children. That continually uprooting my brother, sister and me would cause frustration and resentment. I can’t speak for my brother & sister, but I was always excited to move. I liked the idea of being able to re-define myself at a new school… to trade in the classmates who knew how shy and pathetic I was in favor of others who didn’t already have an impression of me. I dreamed of moving to a new town and fooling the kids there into believing I was “cool”. It never worked out the way I envisioned it… not once. But I kept dreaming the dream.
It was a natural cycle, really. Happily move to a new school, fail to make good impression on my peers, suffer teasing and further degradation of self-confidence, live a lonely life, happily move to a new school… I never really put down roots, so being transplanted wasn’t that big of a deal. Only in that last move did I ever really leave anyone behind, my good friends Brooke & Tim, but since our new home was to be so much closer to family, the choice was clear. And I believed this time, I would finally succeed in becoming popular. I was in 16 years old, practically a man… there would be no more childish timidity. The dream would become a reality.
The dream died in record time. My new persona didn’t even make onto the school bus.
Perhaps if I’d owned a car or lived close enough to walk to school things would have turned out differently. Or maybe if my bus stop wasn’t shared by two attractive young ladies, I wouldn’t have started stuttering at their polite questions and clammed up. But as it was, this cruelty of fate set itself against my final attempt at redefining my self-image. My dream of glory now dead, I had to come up with a new plan… to lay low until graduation. I had to accept that I didn’t have the charisma to charm my school mates, but it occurred to me that there was an easier alternative to shyness… I could be an asshole.
The greatest offense you can ever lay on the sheepishly unsociable is to call us “shy”. Well… no… the WORST thing you can call us is “bashful”, but shy is a close second, followed by timid, sheepish, mousy… the list goes on. On the other hand …introverted, anti-social, reserved… these are remarkably less cutting. These imply only that someone is of a quiet nature, they do not specify whether he is so because of weakness or whether he simply isn’t interested in you.
I was surprised how closely the two personalities aligned. Neither the shy nor the unfriendly speak much. Both eat lunch alone. Both have few, if any, friends. It was a simple transition really… I merely had to convert the panic and fear I normally portrayed into impatience and disdain.
I quickly learned, however, that although such an image was easy enough to portray while walking through the halls, it became much more challenging when my peers would chance to interact with me. Such occasions required me to exude irritation at their presence, make cutting remarks, and verbally chase them away. Unfortunately, just because I’d mentally committed myself to this self-image, it didn’t magically make me any more capable of speaking on cue. I still stammered, I still panicked and couldn’t think of anything to say… and even when I did have a retort at hand, I discovered that being able to inflict intentional cruelty is simply not in my genetic makeup. I couldn’t even emanate the needed disgust to their presence for fear of hurting feelings. I made a lousy asshole.
In order to maintain my desired “lone wolf” countenance I attempted to avoid people altogether. I sat as far apart from the other kids as possible during classes. For lunch break, I would sneak my food & my novels to a dugout on the baseball field. I finally succeeded in flying under the radar, becoming invisible… almost.
Unfortunately, I had shot myself in the foot. When I initially signed up for “School Newspaper” class before school started, I had still been under the misconception I could be popular, but now it was the only roadblock to my anonymity. This class required me to interact with fellow classmates, to conduct interviews with teachers and students, and to express myself in print. I had a few opportunities to drop the class, but the newspaper was already short on reporters and I worried that my withdrawal would handicap the class. So I stayed, and in the end, in spite of countless awkward interviews and dozens of published stories that I can’t bring myself to read today for their dreadful writing, I’ll never regret it.
Being the only part of my education that I forced myself to fully participate in, the newspaper turned out to be the most important part of my high school experience. It was in this class where I would first become part of a team, where I would commit to my thoughts and opinions on paper, and work hard to publish these ramblings in a tangible product. And it was in this class that I met my future wife.
Brandy and I were a great team… we often paired up on group projects, reviewed each others articles, and assisted each other with computer layouts. I’d like to say we quickly became friends… but truthfully we sat in the same class for 4 months before she asked me one day in the computer lab: “Are you in this class?” But once the talking had commenced, it didn’t take long for friendship to follow. We were an odd pair for friends, I was an introspective loner, and she was widely popular. We only interacted during newspaper class, but our friendship grew deep nonetheless. While typing away at the computers we confided in each other. She had a boyfriend, there was no question of romance, but I held her in high esteem regardless.
I enjoyed her intoxicating company, but never overstepped the bounds or propriety. At least, not intentionally. I must confess my romantic instincts were more than a little dim-witted… at least in regards to situations where I had to analyze things in the first-person… so I may have crossed the line a little. After graduation, our friendship continued via telephone and the occasional outing. We would talk for hours and I would show her constellations in the sky, and tell her the mythology behind them. In retrospect, Brandy’s boyfriend may have been very put out that I was having long intimate conversations and engaging with her in such amorous activities as stargazing. At the time though, I couldn’t comprehend that she might be interested in me, and although I was infatuated with her, I respected her commitment and wasn’t intentionally trying to woo her… These were merely the things that interested me, and therefore, that’s what I talked about. To me our friendship seemed perfectly cordial and innocent.
Late that summer, Brandy broke up with her boyfriend. I spent a lot of time with her afterward, to help support her through the heartache. And after a week or two of obligatory solitude, shes called me and very tactfully and guardedly sent out feelers to gauge my interest. But in spite of her carefulness, I misunderstood what she was saying and it didn’t occur to me that she might not be interested in me… a remarkable, once in a lifetime event, where my romantic senselessness actually worked in my favor.
We made an easy transition from best friends to lovers. A few years later we married and spent more than ten years, creating a family and a life together. She gave me three beautiful children and we had many wonderful years. Our marriage lasted longer than one might suspect for a social butterfly and a hermit.
The scars and the anguish of a broken love belong to both partners of the relationship. I would not presume that those stories are mine alone to tell, so let’s suffice it to say that our marriage didn’t end in spite and broken dinnerware, but rather with weeping and clinging to each other, crying for our love to stay as it had been, but knowing that life could only begin again when we let go. Brandy and I are no longer partners in love, but we’re still close friends and partners in our children’s’ lives.
I can’t pretend that the loss of my marriage wasn’t devastating for me. I had defined myself by this family we had made. I hadn’t placed much stock in my life other than this relationship… I worked in a job that I didn’t particularly enjoy, but never could be bothered by it because I found my fulfillment waiting at home. I had neglected to pursue interests or friendships because I didn’t feel much need for them, such things would only distract me from my wife & children. Now that my family was broken, I found myself hollow with nothing to cling to. Whether reading the wisdom of Budda, the Bible, or the Three Little Pigs, we are taught that the house we build must have a firm foundation. I had built my house on the sand, and it washed away. Yes, I had my children, and they are precious to me, but in order to for me to be part of the framework of their lives, I had to find solid ground for myself to stand upon. This was true even before my marriage ended, and perhaps this contributed greatly to my divorce, but until it was over, I didn’t realize that the marriage itself wasn’t my cornerstone.
Alone once more for these past couple years, I’ve been watching love from far away. I’ve had one crush since my marriage died, but although I would like to claim that I’ve finally grown past this strangeness, that my romantic sensibilities have matured since kindergarten, my few efforts to pursue this infatuation were as awkward as ever. I tripped on my words, I still had moments of extreme nervousness which rendered my incapable of conversation. Déjà vu.
But on the other hand, there were differences too. First and foremost that I DID actually approach and talk to this beautiful woman. I made the effort, I did the pursuing. In addition to that, I actually have some legitimate concerns and reservations about relationships nowadays, not just childish fears. Most importantly, I have to figure out how my children will fit into any romance that I might someday have. Love is a daunting prospect.
I can’t deny though that it is alluring. To have someone to hold, and to love, and to love me… it’s very appealing. But I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons… for me, it’s far to easy to use such a person as a surrogate to the rest of the world. To consolidate all my social needs into one everlasting swoon, but this is not enough to keep a relationship going. The poet Rilke once said in a letter (translated): “Once the realization is accepted, that even between the closest human beings infinite distances exist, then a wonderful side by side living can grow if they can succeed in loving the distance between them that allows each to see the other whole against the sky.”
I want to be seen whole against the sky, and this is how I want to see the woman I will love. We cannot see each other this way if I choose to hide away with her in a space just large enough for the two of us. The only chance for true love is to set out and live life, to search for self-fulfillment. To find a place in this world for myself where I can stand whole on my own and to build my house on solid ground.
I spent 15 hours driving this weekend to go visit my dying grandmother. I came back to town in time to make my dental appointment, where he wrenched that broken rear molar straight out of my face.
My apologies for the quiet treatment. I’ll be spending a couple days in bed, curled up into a little ball.
Psst! Over here! This is Maia.
Dad sometimes let’s me sit on his lap while he’s typing away on the computer, and he doesn’t realize that I’ve been watching him and have discovered the user-name & password to his blog. Guess what it is? His user name has to do with his favorite tobacco, and his password is his favorite gin… Geez this guy is messed up!
Anyway… I think I have a right to defend myself. If any defense is needed, that is… I mean REALLY, what kind of father publicly roasts his daughter? What a jerk! You know how he referred to me as a Visigoth? I know it seems like clever improv thought up while typing, but it’s not at all the witty ad lib he makes it out to be… it’s my NICKNAME! My brother Addison is nicknamed “Blue”, my sister Rose is “Newt”, but me? I’m “The Visigoth”. “Visi” for short.
It’s not the only preferential treatment that goes around. My brother gets fencing lessons… lessons that actually COST MONEY to train him to lunge at people with long pointy swords… but when I, at no financial strain on the family, jab my siblings with a pair of scissors, people go into conniptions. And you should see the Christmas presents they got last year compared to mine! Addison got a hatchet, amongst all his other cool things! Rose had a huge set of “Littlest Pet Shop” figures in her stash. But me? I got toddler toys & “cute” outfits. I can’t wait to grow out of the “age appropriate” toys everyone thinks I need. Fine… I’ll admit the blocks and the lacing cards are strangely captivating, but how long does a girl have to wait before she can get a hold of some power tools?
And let me just say, it’s not my fault that my brother and sister were freakishly easy children! They’re creepy! When Dad tells them to do something, and they actually say “Yes, Dad.” Ugh! I could puke! Do they not know their cooperation reflects so badly on me? They’re so inconsiderate! They drive me crazy! I can’t handle it! A toddler’s emotions are fragile, and so I have to let off steam before I do something regrettable by throwing large and heavy objects at them.
Dad’s about to flip his lid with me peeing everywhere, but he’s only got himself to blame. Last month, when my hobby was spreading the liquid soap all over the bathroom counter, do you think he supported that? No. Soap was clean! An innocent fascination, but he still put the kibosh on it. He’s never happy, whatever I want to do, he’s always harping on me. “Maia, get off the refrigerator! Maia stop putting those wooden blocks under the furnace! Maia don’t eat the broken glass! Nag! Nag! Nag!”
Do you think he even asked me why I pee everywhere? Maybe I’m interested in a future in Waste Treatment, did he think of that? Well, I’m not… but HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT! What if there were a reasonable explanation? You’d think he might want to find out before besmirching my name on the world wide web!
I’m doing it because I love you Dad! You need a little perspective on life! You freak out even when I make the smallest of messes… I need you to understand that things can get worse! Plus, don’t think that I didn’t hear you muttering under your breath this last week when you were cleaning up the toilet paper that I plastered to the ceiling. “This can’t go on,” you whined, “I’m at the end of my rope.”
Well guess what Dad! I can’t handle you having such little confidence in yourself… Your rope is A LOT longer than you think, and I’m going to prove it to you.
Hugs!
-Maia
Maia is almost 3 now. Does anyone know when she will stop being fascinated with the fluids that come out of her body? I’m sick and tired of cleaning up pee & spit, I can’t hold out much longer.
I know B is at wit’s end too… Every time a grown-up is distracted, Maia runs off and urinates on something. I’m not talking “accidents” here… these are intentional delinquent pissings. This weekend claimed a brand new car seat (it was just sitting by the door, hadn’t been installed yet, Maia turned it on it’s side and peed on it), her sister’s pillow, several outfits, and an upside-down frisbee.
This list generously fails to mention her other methods of mayhem. She flushed a pair of her own underwear down the toilet, for example. Later, after she was switched to diapers, she proceeded to try and rinse her diaper down the bathroom sink. The silica gel swelled up and not only clogged the sink but also splattered everywhere when I cleaned up the mess.
You’d think Maia had hours of free, unsupervised time to concoct & carry out these evil schemes. I have to say, though, I believe she is well supervised. …Going to the bathroom, taking a shower, giving one of the other two children in this family even an iota of attention, preparing a meal… To me, these are unavoidable obligations which must be satisfied, to Maia they’re opportunities for mass devastation. This kid is remarkably fast and can quickly spread a industrial sized can of peanut butter over the entire kitchen in the time it takes me to take out the trash.
Maia isn’t bothered much by discipline… Sure, she’s a little put out by the interruption, but will go back to her demolition as quickly as possible after you’ve finished punishing her. Punishments also must be under constant surveillance. Turn your back on a “time out” to …say… go clean up a large peanut butter catastrophe, and Maia calls a “time in” and uses the Dad-free time to distribute further insanity.
My first two children didn’t prepare me for Maia. They were fairly obedient and not nearly so inclined toward destruction. Addison was a gentleman intellectual since the moment of conception, and Rose… an aloof artist. Maia is a Visigoth. She’s the only one of my children who has ever needed stitches (and staples!). She’s the only one among them whose skull I’ve seen (she cut her forehead on the dresser when jumping off the bed… I didn’t beat her!).
I love her …I do. She’s just so hard sometimes. I don’t even think she’s malicious about it, she’s just so busy and curious. Some days, though, I’m ashamed to admit… I live for her bedtime. The chance to have a few Maia-free hours. Sigh.
Our bedtime ritual itself has become a needed tool in maintaining my affection for this daughter. She’s so sweet when I announce that it’s bed time, she asks me right away “Will you read me three books, Daddy?” She snuggles up in the crook of my arm while I read to her on her bed, and demands “three songs” when I’ve finished reading. I sing her “Dream a Little Dream”, “Swinging on a Star”, & “Blue Moon”, when the mood strikes her she will sing along. She gives me a hug and a kiss, and tells me she loves me. I return the affection and leave her snugly tucked in, drifting off to sleep with visions of weapons of mass destruction dancing in her head.
Brooke is the first girl I ever asked to be my girlfriend and we officially dated for about 12 hours. It had taken me several months to summon enough courage to make the proposition; I was certain she would turn me down. Even before I asked her out, we would sneak away and make out almost every day, but somehow I wasn’t convinced she liked me in “that way”. Maybe she just needed someone to practice with, or maybe she was bored… Let’s face it, after-school reruns of Duck Tales couldn’t keep a pair of 14 year olds entertained for long.
I practiced honing my courage by frequently making fake offers, clearly just joking around. Which she would either fake-accept or fake-refuse, whichever could make a better joke at the moment. And so, when I finally did make my real request, she had to ask: “Are you serious?”
“Ummm…” [insert awkward period of silence] “…yeah.”
“Okay.”
Whew, what a relief! With our romance officially commenced, I began the business of trying to get underneath her clothes. She gracefully dodged my attempts and gently deflected my affections to more appropriate lewd behavior. Unfortunately, it was getting late and we had curfews, so we went to our respective homes and separated for the evening.
Brooke was my best friend. She was the first girl, outside of my family that I ever really knew, which is a pretty sad statement considering I was 14 years old when I met her. But I didn’t talk to girls as a general rule… or boys.
I had a couple of friends before. Occasionally I would pick up a schoolmate or a neighbor kid and have a play-date or two, but I never really felt close to any of them. Before I would get the chance to really open up either they would move or I would, and I’d be alone again. My closest friend, my childhood mate Geoff, lived half-way across the state from me. Since his parents were friends with mine I’d still see him every year or two, but it hardly satisfied my need for camaraderie.
I was a lonely child, and I felt like a freak amongst my peers and even today, I’m not entirely sure this feeling was unwarranted. I imagine most humans feel like outsiders from time to time, particularly children… we’re born with only ourselves to be fully aware of, and the rest of humanity is outside our walls. But there seemed to be more to it, I had evaluated the situation scientifically and gathered evidence for my case:
Exhibit A) I was the only kid in school who ate lunch alone.
Exhibit B) I was picked last for every team sport. I wasn’t physically inept, I could kick or dodge a ball with the best of them (well… the upper half of them anyway). But still I was the last kid waiting to be picked, even after Willard. Willard! Who, in spite of his coke-bottle glasses, may have actually qualified as legally blind!
Exhibit C) When called upon in class, other kids could give answers, even if the answer was wrong. When I was called upon, even if I knew the answer, I could only squeak. The sudden shock of becoming the center of attention rendered me mute. Words could not leave my mouth. Only tiny little moans and inaudible squeals escaped. I faked the flu for two weeks when a class presentation was due, justifying it for the greater good while imagining the horrifying prospect of my tightened, pinched larynx standing in front of the class, sending out high-frequency bursts that would drive neighboring dogs into a killing frenzy.
Exhibit D) I had the Dewey Decimal System memorized.
I know now that this was my fault, that had I reached out, someone would have taken me in. Even at the time, I knew this, but I didn’t know how to fix it… even the simplest social maneuvers in starting a conversation were beyond the scope of my imagination.
This feeling of isolation, as well as a general sense of hopelessness that surrounded my family at the time (my mother was at the tail-end of her own emotional breakdown, my family was evicted from our townhouse on Christmas Eve by our grinchy landlord and had to live for a few weeks in a homeless shelter, and my older brother had been arrested for burglary and traded his sentence in detention for drug & alcohol rehabilitation) led me to have a pre-life crisis when I was 13 years old. I broke down, gave into anxiety and despair, and spent the remainder of my 8th grade year at school at home, sleeping, having panic attacks, and vomiting.
When I finally came to, my mother was back on her feet and had gotten a new job and moved us from the shelter and into an apartment of our own. In the same complex lived a couple boys my age, Shawn & Tim… I was still at wit’s end, mentally overwhelmed and emotionally naked, yet they were still interested in friending me. I didn’t really have anything to lose, so I went along, and in doing so I found my path to healing. For the first time in my life, I really let go and allowed myself to become part of the group. We were adventurers together, we were carpenters together, and a handful of times, we were delinquents together.
When Brooke moved in, she became part of the group. At first I hid behind Tim & Shawn and said as little as possible, but I eventually relaxed and became comfortable around her. She wasn’t like the other girls I knew. Well… I didn’t know any other girls.. But the girls I saw at school seemed fussy and complicated. Brooke on the other hand, was laid back and funny. I could relate to her, we could talk & joke. As our circle of friends closed to practically just the two of us, (Tim & I had a falling-out with Shawn, and then Tim became involved in after-school activities and spent much of his off-time with his girlfriends), Brooke and I kept each other intimate company.
It was this ease of spirit that naturally led us to making lascivious jokes, then making fake intimate gestures, then eventually led us to all-out snogging. She was my first kiss and in truth, I wasn’t joking. The pretense of humor simply allowed me to do these things without putting my pride and my heart on the line. I was taken with Brooke. Having a feminine presence in my life who truly seemed to value my company was a breathtaking sensation. Unfortunately, the humorous facade of our affection allowed me to believe it really was all in jest and I never felt confident that she really did have a romantic interest in me.
And so that night shortly before summer when I finally asked Brooke out, I left her on her doorstep and went home and spent the evening with my anxieties. She had been rather quiet on the walk home, we didn’t have our normal chemistry. I hadn’t heard from her in hours… not since she went to bed. Our courtship was clearly in a downward spiral. Did she accept only to be nice and to spare my feelings? (I’ve done the same thing myself.) Was she sick & tired of me pawing at her? What would happen if we broke up? Would we still be friends?
This thought terrified me. I hadn’t known any couples to retain friendship after a broken courtship. My brother hated all the girls with whom he had dated. Tim didn’t like any of his former girlfriends either… they were all crazy, pushy brats. Even my father and mother after their divorce, though put on a good front for us kids, I knew they secretly disdained each other. As far as I knew, it wasn’t possible for lovers to separate and still care for one another.
I couldn’t handle the idea of Brooke hating me, and so I wrote a note …not “breaking up” with her per se… more like “annulling” our romance. I told her that I hadn’t really meant it, that I was caught up in a moment of pubescent passion. I asked her to please forgive me that I gambled our friendship on suc