Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Tuesday
It is with great joy that I admit I did not know that Stephen Hawking was British. Hawking is that theoretical physicist (a word I cannot spell on my own) who is disabled and communicates through a computer. His computer speaks with a flat robotic, and to my ears, American accent. So I was mistaken to believe he was also an American. I swear to you that this is true. I delight in my own ignorance.
I love the reframing that happens when something you believe to be so is proved wrong. And then afterwards it's so obvious that it was incorrect, that the truth of it snaps into place and you can't unknow it.
I'd first been introduced to the typo that unraveled everything just after my fourteen birthday. I needed my birth certificate to complete my work permit application. A few other classmates were already working as parking lot attendants and helpers at fast food restaurants. I was desperate to join them. But Mom explained that there was a problem. I was born May 9th, but on my birth certificate the date read October 9th, my mother's birthday.
She made it sound like a strange, but easy mistake. In all the confusion of my delivery, some absent minded nurse wrote Mom's birthday down instead of mine. The dates were kind of similar. We just needed to fix it, she said. But that would mean hiring a lawyer and going to the government and filling out forms. It would be expensive to fix just for a work permit. Couldn't I wait until October and then use the birth certificate we already had?
I didn't want to, but I waited. And for a while having both a real birthday and a fake birthday was great. I had a funny story to tell my friends. The strange circumstance made me feel unique, special. We even started having a small celebration in October. Two birthdays, how fun!
But there were drawbacks. The five months between May and October were prime. Waiting until October meant missing a whole summer of washing cars or handing out happy meals. Knowing I was really old enough, just not on paper, made me feel punished for no reason. The next year it was my driver's permit that was postponed. That's when the quirk of my birth certificate became intolerable. I decided that someday I'd fix it. Even if my parents couldn't, or wouldn't; I'd figure it out on my own.
And 6 years later I did. I don't know how I fell upon a plan. I'm not really plan oriented. But I decided to take a day off in the middle of the week and figure it out. I was living in Asheville by then, and I called Mom to tell her what I was up to. I was hoping for a word of encouragement. I was afterall resolving a long-standing family curiosity. But instead I got resistance. The more I tried to explain the more upset she became. "Why can't you leave it alone!?" Mom finally yelled, and the line when dead. I remember being so puzzled by her reaction. I wasn't asking her to do or pay for anything. I was taking care of it on my own. What was going on?
First I called the hospital where I was born.
"We don't have that information. You'll need to call the county and talk to vital statistics. They should be able to help."
I called Wake county.
"We don't have a record of your birth on file here sir."
"Really?" That was weird. Could I be in the wrong county? "What about my brother and sister?" I asked and gave their names and birth dates.
"Yes, they're here. We have their records."
When I asked why Ashley and David had files with the county, but I didn't, the clerk said she didn't know. She told me to call the state office.
So I called the North Carolina divison of vital records and they found me right away. So I asked again: why would I be on file at the state level, but my siblings records were with the county?
"Well, were you adopted?"
"No." I said quietly.
"The only way to know for sure is to call the clerk of courts and ask them if they have any record of an adoption"
And so I did. I remember laying on the floor of my bedroom, writing notes on a small notepad. Phone numbers and names of departments and contacts as I navigated this strange backwater of government agencies. At some point I looked down to tight, nervous circles scribbled on the pad. I put my pen down.
"Clerk of Courts"
"Uh, hi. I...could you...Look, there won't be, but could you look for adoption records for Joel Allen? Date of birth October 9, 1978?"
"One moment please"
She didn't place me on hold. She just laid the phone down. Minutes passed. I could hear the muffled sounds of the office. My own breathing through the earpiece. Until that day, I'd never heard of a clerk of courts. It had an almost royal ring to it. I pictured a grand hall with a vaulted ceiling that amplified the footsteps of the Clerk of Courts as she walked to the filing cabinets. The hall would be dark, like a medieval library, Lit by random wall sconces and those green visor'ed desk lamps you see sometimes. Maybe there was a suit of armor someplace.
"Yes, I have it here. Joel Allen, adoption finalized March 16, 1981."
"Oh. I see. Thank you."
And like that, in the space of an afternoon, I was adopted. The birth certificate, my fake birthday, my real birthday. How old was I really? If I was adopted in 1981, did I live with my birth parents for the first 2 years? I pictured a gray orphanage. Why was this a secret? Mom's outburst made perfect sense. But now nothing made sense.
I love the reframing that happens when something you believe to be so is proved wrong. And then afterwards it's so obvious that it was incorrect, that the truth of it snaps into place and you can't unknow it.
I'd first been introduced to the typo that unraveled everything just after my fourteen birthday. I needed my birth certificate to complete my work permit application. A few other classmates were already working as parking lot attendants and helpers at fast food restaurants. I was desperate to join them. But Mom explained that there was a problem. I was born May 9th, but on my birth certificate the date read October 9th, my mother's birthday.
She made it sound like a strange, but easy mistake. In all the confusion of my delivery, some absent minded nurse wrote Mom's birthday down instead of mine. The dates were kind of similar. We just needed to fix it, she said. But that would mean hiring a lawyer and going to the government and filling out forms. It would be expensive to fix just for a work permit. Couldn't I wait until October and then use the birth certificate we already had?
I didn't want to, but I waited. And for a while having both a real birthday and a fake birthday was great. I had a funny story to tell my friends. The strange circumstance made me feel unique, special. We even started having a small celebration in October. Two birthdays, how fun!
But there were drawbacks. The five months between May and October were prime. Waiting until October meant missing a whole summer of washing cars or handing out happy meals. Knowing I was really old enough, just not on paper, made me feel punished for no reason. The next year it was my driver's permit that was postponed. That's when the quirk of my birth certificate became intolerable. I decided that someday I'd fix it. Even if my parents couldn't, or wouldn't; I'd figure it out on my own.
And 6 years later I did. I don't know how I fell upon a plan. I'm not really plan oriented. But I decided to take a day off in the middle of the week and figure it out. I was living in Asheville by then, and I called Mom to tell her what I was up to. I was hoping for a word of encouragement. I was afterall resolving a long-standing family curiosity. But instead I got resistance. The more I tried to explain the more upset she became. "Why can't you leave it alone!?" Mom finally yelled, and the line when dead. I remember being so puzzled by her reaction. I wasn't asking her to do or pay for anything. I was taking care of it on my own. What was going on?
First I called the hospital where I was born.
"We don't have that information. You'll need to call the county and talk to vital statistics. They should be able to help."
I called Wake county.
"We don't have a record of your birth on file here sir."
"Really?" That was weird. Could I be in the wrong county? "What about my brother and sister?" I asked and gave their names and birth dates.
"Yes, they're here. We have their records."
When I asked why Ashley and David had files with the county, but I didn't, the clerk said she didn't know. She told me to call the state office.
So I called the North Carolina divison of vital records and they found me right away. So I asked again: why would I be on file at the state level, but my siblings records were with the county?
"Well, were you adopted?"
"No." I said quietly.
"The only way to know for sure is to call the clerk of courts and ask them if they have any record of an adoption"
And so I did. I remember laying on the floor of my bedroom, writing notes on a small notepad. Phone numbers and names of departments and contacts as I navigated this strange backwater of government agencies. At some point I looked down to tight, nervous circles scribbled on the pad. I put my pen down.
"Clerk of Courts"
"Uh, hi. I...could you...Look, there won't be, but could you look for adoption records for Joel Allen? Date of birth October 9, 1978?"
"One moment please"
She didn't place me on hold. She just laid the phone down. Minutes passed. I could hear the muffled sounds of the office. My own breathing through the earpiece. Until that day, I'd never heard of a clerk of courts. It had an almost royal ring to it. I pictured a grand hall with a vaulted ceiling that amplified the footsteps of the Clerk of Courts as she walked to the filing cabinets. The hall would be dark, like a medieval library, Lit by random wall sconces and those green visor'ed desk lamps you see sometimes. Maybe there was a suit of armor someplace.
"Yes, I have it here. Joel Allen, adoption finalized March 16, 1981."
"Oh. I see. Thank you."
And like that, in the space of an afternoon, I was adopted. The birth certificate, my fake birthday, my real birthday. How old was I really? If I was adopted in 1981, did I live with my birth parents for the first 2 years? I pictured a gray orphanage. Why was this a secret? Mom's outburst made perfect sense. But now nothing made sense.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Friday
What do I do? I'm all journal'd out. I posted something on The Facebook about Hillary Clinton, and even then I could feel all the words draining out of me. Oh no.
I used to work for a Walden Books subsidiary called Brentanos. I think there was a Seinfield episode that revolved around one of these stores, but I've not seen one before or since my time there. They have disappeared it seems, gone the way of all things.
Brentanos had a classier collection of books and finishes compared to old "Chicken Soup for the teenage soul" Walden Books. Don't get me wrong, if you were looking for a snazzy bookmark or a youth bible, Walden was just the place. But you were better off at Brentanos for pretty much anything else.
I only worked at the bookstore for a year before I was sucked back into the my family's bakery, but it stands out as an important period for me. I don't know how to put all of this down in the time allotted, so here are bullet points that maybe I'll get to revisit.
During my time at the bookstore:
I met Mark Pitts. The funniest man I know. He would become my best friend during that period and for years after. I loved Mark immediately and demanded we mind meld. I adopted his mannerisms and way of speaking, discarding my old persona like clothes that no longer fit. I was 19. Mark was 36.
I went on several dates with Seneca, a 16 year old girl who worked at the bulk candy shop across the hall from the bookstore. I did not know she was 16 until later. Seneca was smart and funny and she tricked me. She also stole my favorite jacket. I think still think about that jacket, it was green and had a hood.
Once I sneezed at the cash wrap and, unbeknownst to me, a large booger flew out of my nose and landed on my shirt. Well, sort of beknownst to me. I felt something happen. But for the life of me I couldn't follow it's flight path or trajectory and so I just gave up. I carried that booger on the chest pocket of my shirt for a few minutes, until my coworker Jennifer wandered up. "Hey, what's that on your shirt?" and she picked it off. I watched her face as we both realized what it was. I watched her estimation of the kind of person I was change. She had been wrong about me. I saw that thought clearly flash through her mind. "I was wrong about Joel". She wiped my booger back on my shirt and walked away.
A man asked me to show him some books on photography. He pulled open a book by photographer Herb Ritz. The store was quiet and we'd been making small talk. He paged through and asked me what I thought of the black and white photographs of semi-nude men. He pointed out lighting and angles. He wondered if I'd ever consider posing for photos like that.
One day the power went out in the mall. I'd been there for 3 months, and as these kinds of jobs go, I was the most senior person in the store. I didn't know what to do, so I left the doors open and let people continue to browse by the dim emergency lights. After a while, it was clear the power wasn't coming back on. I decided to close the store, but one customer wouldn't leave. I asked him politely a few times and then finally said loudly "Ok! Lets go!" to which he yelled "I don't need this SHIT!" and threw the book he was holding at me.
There was a woman that worked in the bookstore conducting a kind of sociological experiment. She had sex with guys. And she liked to talk about it. She slept with all kinds of guys. Guys at work. Guys at school. She liked sleeping with guys because they were all different, she said. Looked different. Behaved differently. Were built differently. I was a guy, I thought. And so every time I was in a room with her a siren wailed in my head "AWOOGA! AWOOGA! ATTENTION: She sleeps with guys! AWOOGA!" After closing up one night, I walked her to my car and we made small talk as I drove her to where she'd parked on the other side of the mall. We sat in the empty parking lot talking. It was raining and the car windows began to fog. (AWOOGA. AWOOGA.) After a while she just said "Well," and leaned in (AWOOGA. AWOOGA.) "see you tomorrow!" and then gave me a quick hug and fled into the night. I was never to be an entry in her log book.
One day my Mom called the bookstore. The delivery driver had quit. I needed to resign from the bookstore and come cover his shifts. I started tomorrow. Just to run that down again. My Mom called me at work and told me I had to quit without notice. And I did! I worked another 2 weeks, I'm not an animal, and started working for my folks.
I lasted at the bakery for about a year. We mutually agreed I wasn't very good at it and I was released from service. Useful in a pinch I guess. I tried to return to Brentanos afterwards, but the bloom had faded there too. I wasn't able to take mall work so enthusiastically or seriously on my second tour. I don't know why some years rush by without note and others spill over with characters and adventures that stick. Maybe it's the magic of being 19.
I used to work for a Walden Books subsidiary called Brentanos. I think there was a Seinfield episode that revolved around one of these stores, but I've not seen one before or since my time there. They have disappeared it seems, gone the way of all things.
Brentanos had a classier collection of books and finishes compared to old "Chicken Soup for the teenage soul" Walden Books. Don't get me wrong, if you were looking for a snazzy bookmark or a youth bible, Walden was just the place. But you were better off at Brentanos for pretty much anything else.
I only worked at the bookstore for a year before I was sucked back into the my family's bakery, but it stands out as an important period for me. I don't know how to put all of this down in the time allotted, so here are bullet points that maybe I'll get to revisit.
During my time at the bookstore:
I met Mark Pitts. The funniest man I know. He would become my best friend during that period and for years after. I loved Mark immediately and demanded we mind meld. I adopted his mannerisms and way of speaking, discarding my old persona like clothes that no longer fit. I was 19. Mark was 36.
I went on several dates with Seneca, a 16 year old girl who worked at the bulk candy shop across the hall from the bookstore. I did not know she was 16 until later. Seneca was smart and funny and she tricked me. She also stole my favorite jacket. I think still think about that jacket, it was green and had a hood.
Once I sneezed at the cash wrap and, unbeknownst to me, a large booger flew out of my nose and landed on my shirt. Well, sort of beknownst to me. I felt something happen. But for the life of me I couldn't follow it's flight path or trajectory and so I just gave up. I carried that booger on the chest pocket of my shirt for a few minutes, until my coworker Jennifer wandered up. "Hey, what's that on your shirt?" and she picked it off. I watched her face as we both realized what it was. I watched her estimation of the kind of person I was change. She had been wrong about me. I saw that thought clearly flash through her mind. "I was wrong about Joel". She wiped my booger back on my shirt and walked away.
A man asked me to show him some books on photography. He pulled open a book by photographer Herb Ritz. The store was quiet and we'd been making small talk. He paged through and asked me what I thought of the black and white photographs of semi-nude men. He pointed out lighting and angles. He wondered if I'd ever consider posing for photos like that.
One day the power went out in the mall. I'd been there for 3 months, and as these kinds of jobs go, I was the most senior person in the store. I didn't know what to do, so I left the doors open and let people continue to browse by the dim emergency lights. After a while, it was clear the power wasn't coming back on. I decided to close the store, but one customer wouldn't leave. I asked him politely a few times and then finally said loudly "Ok! Lets go!" to which he yelled "I don't need this SHIT!" and threw the book he was holding at me.
There was a woman that worked in the bookstore conducting a kind of sociological experiment. She had sex with guys. And she liked to talk about it. She slept with all kinds of guys. Guys at work. Guys at school. She liked sleeping with guys because they were all different, she said. Looked different. Behaved differently. Were built differently. I was a guy, I thought. And so every time I was in a room with her a siren wailed in my head "AWOOGA! AWOOGA! ATTENTION: She sleeps with guys! AWOOGA!" After closing up one night, I walked her to my car and we made small talk as I drove her to where she'd parked on the other side of the mall. We sat in the empty parking lot talking. It was raining and the car windows began to fog. (AWOOGA. AWOOGA.) After a while she just said "Well," and leaned in (AWOOGA. AWOOGA.) "see you tomorrow!" and then gave me a quick hug and fled into the night. I was never to be an entry in her log book.
One day my Mom called the bookstore. The delivery driver had quit. I needed to resign from the bookstore and come cover his shifts. I started tomorrow. Just to run that down again. My Mom called me at work and told me I had to quit without notice. And I did! I worked another 2 weeks, I'm not an animal, and started working for my folks.
I lasted at the bakery for about a year. We mutually agreed I wasn't very good at it and I was released from service. Useful in a pinch I guess. I tried to return to Brentanos afterwards, but the bloom had faded there too. I wasn't able to take mall work so enthusiastically or seriously on my second tour. I don't know why some years rush by without note and others spill over with characters and adventures that stick. Maybe it's the magic of being 19.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Thursday
"Daddy, say hulk cock"
"what?"
"Say, hulk cock"
"Ham hock"
"No, Hulk Cock"
"Cossack"
"No!"
"What are you saying?"
"It's like Hawkeye from the avengers."
"Oh, who's Hawkeye?"
And just like that I'd pulled out of Micah's Hulk Cock death spiral and on to something else. I feel pretty confident he was just combining super heroes and sounds in his head. I could be wrong. Tomorrow at school he could whisper to his friend Charles "I was so close. He almost said it." But I don't think he really wanted me to say Hulk Cock.
A couple of months ago I was driving him to school. He was working out something new in his head, trying out the syllables quietly to himself.
"Daddy?"
"Yes baby?"
"What does f-f-fucking mean?"
I was not prepared for this. I should not have been driving. I was suddenly hot, and couldn't think. It was a miracle that a crane truck happened to drive by and I shouted "Look! Shiny!"
It's our fault. He didn't hear it on TV, or at school. This is on us. I remember having an argument with Ana in the car that ended with me yelling "Fine! We'll go to FUCKING Chipotle!"
"What's fucking Chipotle?" Micah asked from the backseat.
But that was a year ago, and he was repeating something he'd just heard me say. We'd been good since then! On our best behavior. When he presented the word to me out of the blue, polished and uncluttered, I wasn't ready. I reacted to his question in looney toons fashion. My eyes shot out of my head and my mouth turned into a kind of steam whistle. On the inside. But on the outside I was serene. I would not attach any titillation to this word.
Potty words have been spreading through our class like wildfire. First it was Butts. Then Poop. Micah was particularly bad about chanting Poop at lunch time, holding the vowel out in sing song glee.
I would not let Fuck become the new Poop. I said nothing. Revealed nothing. I dropped him off at school and quietly warned his teachers.
"What did you tell him?" They asked.
"Nothing! I have no idea what do." I whispered, perhaps with a bit of residual steam whistle.
I remember working at the JCREW distribution center in Asheville. I was 20 and felt like a tourist among the hill people I worked with there. One morning a cross eyed woman named Amanda told me her children had embarrassed her at the grocery store the night before. They were all in the buggy, going down the isle and one of them looked up and said "Look Mama!!" and then used the n-word at a perfectly fine family.
Parts of Asheville in the early '00s (I'm saying aughts in my head) were like most other places in the 1970s. But I'm getting off track.
Micah will be fine. If he says fuck again, It will probably be in front of Ana, and she'll know what to do. It could be worse. Seems like kids spill all your secrets. Thank god we're just potty mouths and not closet racists.
"what?"
"Say, hulk cock"
"Ham hock"
"No, Hulk Cock"
"Cossack"
"No!"
"What are you saying?"
"It's like Hawkeye from the avengers."
"Oh, who's Hawkeye?"
And just like that I'd pulled out of Micah's Hulk Cock death spiral and on to something else. I feel pretty confident he was just combining super heroes and sounds in his head. I could be wrong. Tomorrow at school he could whisper to his friend Charles "I was so close. He almost said it." But I don't think he really wanted me to say Hulk Cock.
A couple of months ago I was driving him to school. He was working out something new in his head, trying out the syllables quietly to himself.
"Daddy?"
"Yes baby?"
"What does f-f-fucking mean?"
I was not prepared for this. I should not have been driving. I was suddenly hot, and couldn't think. It was a miracle that a crane truck happened to drive by and I shouted "Look! Shiny!"
It's our fault. He didn't hear it on TV, or at school. This is on us. I remember having an argument with Ana in the car that ended with me yelling "Fine! We'll go to FUCKING Chipotle!"
"What's fucking Chipotle?" Micah asked from the backseat.
But that was a year ago, and he was repeating something he'd just heard me say. We'd been good since then! On our best behavior. When he presented the word to me out of the blue, polished and uncluttered, I wasn't ready. I reacted to his question in looney toons fashion. My eyes shot out of my head and my mouth turned into a kind of steam whistle. On the inside. But on the outside I was serene. I would not attach any titillation to this word.
Potty words have been spreading through our class like wildfire. First it was Butts. Then Poop. Micah was particularly bad about chanting Poop at lunch time, holding the vowel out in sing song glee.
I would not let Fuck become the new Poop. I said nothing. Revealed nothing. I dropped him off at school and quietly warned his teachers.
"What did you tell him?" They asked.
"Nothing! I have no idea what do." I whispered, perhaps with a bit of residual steam whistle.
I remember working at the JCREW distribution center in Asheville. I was 20 and felt like a tourist among the hill people I worked with there. One morning a cross eyed woman named Amanda told me her children had embarrassed her at the grocery store the night before. They were all in the buggy, going down the isle and one of them looked up and said "Look Mama!!" and then used the n-word at a perfectly fine family.
Parts of Asheville in the early '00s (I'm saying aughts in my head) were like most other places in the 1970s. But I'm getting off track.
Micah will be fine. If he says fuck again, It will probably be in front of Ana, and she'll know what to do. It could be worse. Seems like kids spill all your secrets. Thank god we're just potty mouths and not closet racists.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Wednesday
Day two of Micah's throat sickness. Turns out it was his throat. This is the first time we've observed plain old secretive behavior from him.
Like everyone in the world, Micah hates the strep test. Before he could talk, if he had a fever, or the sniffles, or gave any sign whatsoever that he wasn't feeling well, we'd take him in and jam q-tips down his throat. Cheeks a little pink? Lets jam q-tips down his throat and see what we're dealing with. Fall down at the playground? Jam q-tips down his throat.
Micah hasn't had a vaccine shot in a while. There's a blissful gap in vaccinations between 18 months and the 4 year checkup. But it's coming. I mention it because, in Micah's memory, the very worst thing that can happen to you at the Dr's office is the q-tip jam. We have relatives with similar aged children. They live in rocky places and have real grownup relationships that don't revolve around their kids. They drink wine. Their kids have the independence to climb to the top of things and fall to the ground, limbs splayed, bones broken. The doctor's office is a different place for these children. They've seen things. Straps and tools and personnel that Micah can't even imagine.
We live in a sandy place and have coated all surfaces with cooking spray. We limit our adult interactions, not because we are socially inept, as we have led you to believe, but to maintain our laser focus on Micah not falling down. The strep test really is the only thing to dread in his healthcare universe. And boy does he dread it.
He mentions it whenever the doctor comes up. If we go for an annual check up: "But no throat thing, right Daddy?". Right.
Months ago he had an ear infection. We ignored it for a few days until it was roaring pretty good. By the time he was really miserable it was 7pm and urgent care was our only option. We talked about it in the lobby. While I tried to watch HGTV over his shoulder, he searched my face for any hints of trouble.
"They're just going to look in your ears. It'll be really quick"
"But no throat thing, right Daddy?"
"They might look in your throat, but that's it"
"No, I don't want them to!" and he starts crying.
"It's ok, it's ok. they aren't going do anything but look. I promise"
But it was too late. By the time the doctor got to us he was inconsolable. Everything the nurse or doctor did was the most terrifying thing Micah'd ever experienced. The pulse oxymeter that clamps on to your finger and measures your oxygen levels was going to bite him. He was sure of it. The crinkly paper that lined the exam bed was too crinkly. Too crinkly! The room and everything in it had turned against him. I eventually had to lock him up in a bear hug while the nice doctor looked in his ears.
A side note about urgent care. They see adults mostly. So when you bring in your 35 pound three year old who's screaming with fear, it's not really their wheel house. Also, I don't think they really know how to dose antibiotics for someone that small. I'm almost positive they walk out of the room and google it.
So yesterday when we took him to the doctors office, I asked that they examine his throat first before the test. Maybe we didn't even need the test. Maybe there was some other reason for Micah's fever. After all, he'd complained of a headache, and said he didn't feel well in a general way. And he coughed a little bit, but hadn't mentioned his throat even once.
"Wow. His throat looks terrible. We're definitely going to need to check that."
His throat was so bad, that when they swabbed it, the cotton came back red with blood. Micah had hornswaggled me. I had been bamboozled by my 3 year old.
"Why didn't you tell me your throat hurt? You have to tell me, or we can't make it better!"
"I just didn't want to do the throat thing."
I'm really proud in a strange way. I am totally unprepared to do battle with him. He is already smarter than me, and his brain is probably still growing! I'm not a scientist, I don't know how brains work. But this is the first hint of foresight and planning. He saw an undesirable outcome and he tried his best to change it through deceit. He's turning into a real person. I love him so much.
Like everyone in the world, Micah hates the strep test. Before he could talk, if he had a fever, or the sniffles, or gave any sign whatsoever that he wasn't feeling well, we'd take him in and jam q-tips down his throat. Cheeks a little pink? Lets jam q-tips down his throat and see what we're dealing with. Fall down at the playground? Jam q-tips down his throat.
Micah hasn't had a vaccine shot in a while. There's a blissful gap in vaccinations between 18 months and the 4 year checkup. But it's coming. I mention it because, in Micah's memory, the very worst thing that can happen to you at the Dr's office is the q-tip jam. We have relatives with similar aged children. They live in rocky places and have real grownup relationships that don't revolve around their kids. They drink wine. Their kids have the independence to climb to the top of things and fall to the ground, limbs splayed, bones broken. The doctor's office is a different place for these children. They've seen things. Straps and tools and personnel that Micah can't even imagine.
We live in a sandy place and have coated all surfaces with cooking spray. We limit our adult interactions, not because we are socially inept, as we have led you to believe, but to maintain our laser focus on Micah not falling down. The strep test really is the only thing to dread in his healthcare universe. And boy does he dread it.
He mentions it whenever the doctor comes up. If we go for an annual check up: "But no throat thing, right Daddy?". Right.
Months ago he had an ear infection. We ignored it for a few days until it was roaring pretty good. By the time he was really miserable it was 7pm and urgent care was our only option. We talked about it in the lobby. While I tried to watch HGTV over his shoulder, he searched my face for any hints of trouble.
"They're just going to look in your ears. It'll be really quick"
"But no throat thing, right Daddy?"
"They might look in your throat, but that's it"
"No, I don't want them to!" and he starts crying.
"It's ok, it's ok. they aren't going do anything but look. I promise"
But it was too late. By the time the doctor got to us he was inconsolable. Everything the nurse or doctor did was the most terrifying thing Micah'd ever experienced. The pulse oxymeter that clamps on to your finger and measures your oxygen levels was going to bite him. He was sure of it. The crinkly paper that lined the exam bed was too crinkly. Too crinkly! The room and everything in it had turned against him. I eventually had to lock him up in a bear hug while the nice doctor looked in his ears.
A side note about urgent care. They see adults mostly. So when you bring in your 35 pound three year old who's screaming with fear, it's not really their wheel house. Also, I don't think they really know how to dose antibiotics for someone that small. I'm almost positive they walk out of the room and google it.
So yesterday when we took him to the doctors office, I asked that they examine his throat first before the test. Maybe we didn't even need the test. Maybe there was some other reason for Micah's fever. After all, he'd complained of a headache, and said he didn't feel well in a general way. And he coughed a little bit, but hadn't mentioned his throat even once.
"Wow. His throat looks terrible. We're definitely going to need to check that."
His throat was so bad, that when they swabbed it, the cotton came back red with blood. Micah had hornswaggled me. I had been bamboozled by my 3 year old.
"Why didn't you tell me your throat hurt? You have to tell me, or we can't make it better!"
"I just didn't want to do the throat thing."
I'm really proud in a strange way. I am totally unprepared to do battle with him. He is already smarter than me, and his brain is probably still growing! I'm not a scientist, I don't know how brains work. But this is the first hint of foresight and planning. He saw an undesirable outcome and he tried his best to change it through deceit. He's turning into a real person. I love him so much.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Tuesday
Micah had a fever last night. We gave him ibuprofen and have schedule a 10am visit with Dr. Jessica. He's currently watching Loney Tunes in his shark pajamas.
A couple of quick thoughts. When Micah has a fever, we give him ibuprofen or tylenol to reduce it. But fevers can be beneficial. Are we prolonging the infection by masking one of the body's defenses? Micah's been off for a day or two, but only just got a fever. He has a slight cough, but no other symptoms. What will the doctor tell us when we go at ten? I have a hunch she's going to look in his ears and nose and listen to his chest and then charge us 25 dollars.
He's pooping right now. He says "Daddy, can I have some privacy?" and makes me close the door. I suspect it's cat related. Most of the time he calls me when he's done. Every once in a while I think he looses focus and will just pull his pants up and wander out. I have to spring into action before he sits down and ruins everything. I haven't lost a pair of pants yet.
I'm not sure what the rest of today will look like. I've got work to do, but nothing is screaming at me to get done. I'll probably take him to the Oatland Island nature center. That's kind of my sick day go-to. It's a 60 acre animal sanctuary run by the public school system. It looks out on a marsh and there are alligators and foxes and birds of prey. I like it because it burns some time off the clock, and the heat of the day makes nap time easier. But we'll see.
He's just straight up watching Looney Tunes by himself in the other room. I'm amazed that it still works. It's timeless.
This might be it for me today. We'll see.
A couple of quick thoughts. When Micah has a fever, we give him ibuprofen or tylenol to reduce it. But fevers can be beneficial. Are we prolonging the infection by masking one of the body's defenses? Micah's been off for a day or two, but only just got a fever. He has a slight cough, but no other symptoms. What will the doctor tell us when we go at ten? I have a hunch she's going to look in his ears and nose and listen to his chest and then charge us 25 dollars.
He's pooping right now. He says "Daddy, can I have some privacy?" and makes me close the door. I suspect it's cat related. Most of the time he calls me when he's done. Every once in a while I think he looses focus and will just pull his pants up and wander out. I have to spring into action before he sits down and ruins everything. I haven't lost a pair of pants yet.
I'm not sure what the rest of today will look like. I've got work to do, but nothing is screaming at me to get done. I'll probably take him to the Oatland Island nature center. That's kind of my sick day go-to. It's a 60 acre animal sanctuary run by the public school system. It looks out on a marsh and there are alligators and foxes and birds of prey. I like it because it burns some time off the clock, and the heat of the day makes nap time easier. But we'll see.
He's just straight up watching Looney Tunes by himself in the other room. I'm amazed that it still works. It's timeless.
This might be it for me today. We'll see.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Monday
And we begin anew!
My Monday through Friday routine: I wake up. That's first every time. lately Ana is up before me, although that's a new development. Ana's chronobiology is different than mine. I can spring awake and get started almost immediately. To Ana and her ilk, I am both mysterious and annoying. I don't always enjoy waking up early. Father's day is coming up and it is my secret wish to wake up at 10am to an empty house. I will take 9am and an empty room. 8:30, Micah and Ana in the room, but hand signals only to communicate, final offer.
Ana's been waking up early for work. As part of her work arrangement she has to shower and wear different, clean clothes everyday which means an early start. I have negotiated those terms out of my current situation. My side of the bed is gritty these days. I'm not proud of it. Not being a morning person, I am proud of her for getting up all by herself. There was a time when I would wake to the sound of birds chirping, tip toe out of the room, and have a good hour of me time. This still happens on the weekends, but it's we time now. Not me time.
So I wake up and Micah is either staring at me, or still sleeping. Scenario 1 is best because we can just get started going down the check list: Pacey in the sink (I know, we are the worst), take off your diaper and go pee, clothes or breakfast?, then pack up and out the door. Easy peasy. Scenario 2 is still good because I can then snuggle him for a few minutes while I try and wake him. But scenario 2 is not so good because we're usually running behind and the whole process gets compressed and I begin to panic.
Once out of bed, Micah walks to the back room where his toys are. He might plop down on the couch and stare sleepily until I remind him to get up and put his pacey in the kitchen sink. He would gladly suck on that thing all day long. Man. That was a mistake. All these soothing habits we have to now undo. We should put him in the woods like a Spartan. A week of that and I bet he'd be glad to sleep in his big boy bed.
Then I make his breakfast. It's either Quaker Oats brown sugar flavored instant oatmeal, or a banana and almond butter shake. The shake is portable so he can wander, but he eats the oatmeal in the dinning room. Once, when Rusty and Pepper were kittens, one of them attacked Micah's swinging feet while he ate. This happened one time, months ago. But now when Micah sits at the table he requires total lockdown. The cats must be moved into the kitchen and all doors must be closed. We even slide furniture in front of the swinging door to the kitchen. Then Micah claps his hands and I must dance.
Somewhere in this process Micah goes to the bathroom. Sometimes he gets all wiggly and makes the decision by himself, but usually we have to ask him 4 or 5 times before he gives in and goes. He always has to go when we finally convince him. He just doesn't choose it. I don't understand this part really. My full bladder takes precedent over most things. I suppose Micah was very recently a baby and only just began thinking of pooping and peeing as his responsibility. Or something. I don't know. But it's a battle. Usually we brush out teeth together after he pees.
And then clothes. Alway superhero themed. Always. And I can't just pick a shirt, I have to give him options. Like 6 options. I love the red shirt with black thunderbolts on it. He has never picked that shirt, but I include it in the mix everytime. I don't think it even fits him anymore, but I love it. It has a black chest pocket. And then jeans. Always jeans. Micah makes it clear that he will burn this house to the ground if he has to wear shorts.
An hour later, dressed and expressed, we're out the door and off to school. Ready to take on the day!
My Monday through Friday routine: I wake up. That's first every time. lately Ana is up before me, although that's a new development. Ana's chronobiology is different than mine. I can spring awake and get started almost immediately. To Ana and her ilk, I am both mysterious and annoying. I don't always enjoy waking up early. Father's day is coming up and it is my secret wish to wake up at 10am to an empty house. I will take 9am and an empty room. 8:30, Micah and Ana in the room, but hand signals only to communicate, final offer.
Ana's been waking up early for work. As part of her work arrangement she has to shower and wear different, clean clothes everyday which means an early start. I have negotiated those terms out of my current situation. My side of the bed is gritty these days. I'm not proud of it. Not being a morning person, I am proud of her for getting up all by herself. There was a time when I would wake to the sound of birds chirping, tip toe out of the room, and have a good hour of me time. This still happens on the weekends, but it's we time now. Not me time.
So I wake up and Micah is either staring at me, or still sleeping. Scenario 1 is best because we can just get started going down the check list: Pacey in the sink (I know, we are the worst), take off your diaper and go pee, clothes or breakfast?, then pack up and out the door. Easy peasy. Scenario 2 is still good because I can then snuggle him for a few minutes while I try and wake him. But scenario 2 is not so good because we're usually running behind and the whole process gets compressed and I begin to panic.
Once out of bed, Micah walks to the back room where his toys are. He might plop down on the couch and stare sleepily until I remind him to get up and put his pacey in the kitchen sink. He would gladly suck on that thing all day long. Man. That was a mistake. All these soothing habits we have to now undo. We should put him in the woods like a Spartan. A week of that and I bet he'd be glad to sleep in his big boy bed.
Then I make his breakfast. It's either Quaker Oats brown sugar flavored instant oatmeal, or a banana and almond butter shake. The shake is portable so he can wander, but he eats the oatmeal in the dinning room. Once, when Rusty and Pepper were kittens, one of them attacked Micah's swinging feet while he ate. This happened one time, months ago. But now when Micah sits at the table he requires total lockdown. The cats must be moved into the kitchen and all doors must be closed. We even slide furniture in front of the swinging door to the kitchen. Then Micah claps his hands and I must dance.
Somewhere in this process Micah goes to the bathroom. Sometimes he gets all wiggly and makes the decision by himself, but usually we have to ask him 4 or 5 times before he gives in and goes. He always has to go when we finally convince him. He just doesn't choose it. I don't understand this part really. My full bladder takes precedent over most things. I suppose Micah was very recently a baby and only just began thinking of pooping and peeing as his responsibility. Or something. I don't know. But it's a battle. Usually we brush out teeth together after he pees.
And then clothes. Alway superhero themed. Always. And I can't just pick a shirt, I have to give him options. Like 6 options. I love the red shirt with black thunderbolts on it. He has never picked that shirt, but I include it in the mix everytime. I don't think it even fits him anymore, but I love it. It has a black chest pocket. And then jeans. Always jeans. Micah makes it clear that he will burn this house to the ground if he has to wear shorts.
An hour later, dressed and expressed, we're out the door and off to school. Ready to take on the day!
Friday, May 20, 2016
Fence again
They're renters! The neighbors and their giant, giant dogs are just renting. That's wonderful. I walked outside this morning and they were loading up a trailer. Not leaving just yet, but in 10 days or so.
The gentleman next door drives a big truck. Like an F650 or something huge like that. Just starting it up is a seismic event. And it happens that Micah's bedroom is just next to their driveway. And he works nights. Every evening at around 9, just after bedtime, he cranks that sonnavabitch up and our whole house shakes. Then there are the dogs.
I mentioned the dogs before, but they are real. The big one is a great dane, which sounds racist to me all of a sudden. I don't know why. This dog is probably 5 feet tall from ears to the ground and is easily 7 feet tall when he props his big paws on the fence and peers over. The other big one is called a Presa Canario and was developed in a lab to intimidate non-dog people. It looks like a pit bull and a bull mastiff had a steroid baby. The dogs seem sweet. I've never seen them act aggressively, but their size and my limited experience with dogs in general make it a relief they are going.
But now I have to worry about who's going to move in next? How do we conspire to fill the house with old people? That's what we need, quiet old people who keep to themselves. The perfect neighbors. I suppose, once I've stopped celebrating, I'll have to ask the renters if their house is managed through a rental company or if they deal with the owner directly. "I've got a friend looking for a place" I'll say. Then, Ana will ask around at work and we'll find a police officer who doesn't own a motorcycle or have a history of substance abuse to move in next to us. Yes. Things are certainly coming together.
And I'll get to build that fence after all.
The gentleman next door drives a big truck. Like an F650 or something huge like that. Just starting it up is a seismic event. And it happens that Micah's bedroom is just next to their driveway. And he works nights. Every evening at around 9, just after bedtime, he cranks that sonnavabitch up and our whole house shakes. Then there are the dogs.
I mentioned the dogs before, but they are real. The big one is a great dane, which sounds racist to me all of a sudden. I don't know why. This dog is probably 5 feet tall from ears to the ground and is easily 7 feet tall when he props his big paws on the fence and peers over. The other big one is called a Presa Canario and was developed in a lab to intimidate non-dog people. It looks like a pit bull and a bull mastiff had a steroid baby. The dogs seem sweet. I've never seen them act aggressively, but their size and my limited experience with dogs in general make it a relief they are going.
But now I have to worry about who's going to move in next? How do we conspire to fill the house with old people? That's what we need, quiet old people who keep to themselves. The perfect neighbors. I suppose, once I've stopped celebrating, I'll have to ask the renters if their house is managed through a rental company or if they deal with the owner directly. "I've got a friend looking for a place" I'll say. Then, Ana will ask around at work and we'll find a police officer who doesn't own a motorcycle or have a history of substance abuse to move in next to us. Yes. Things are certainly coming together.
And I'll get to build that fence after all.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Live from the weight watchers parking lot!
And now I'm writing posts with my thumbs. Wonderful. I suppose this is the end really.
I'm here, reporting live from the shopping center where, in just moments, they will flip the Closed sign and the Weight Watchers store will be open for business. Sitting with me here, in their respective vehicles are other point warriors like myself waiting to be weighed and judged. I wonder if this is like taking communion?
I noticed that they don't mention your weight when you step on the scale. Just whether you are up or down. I'm sure there is training involved to be an effective scale matron. I'm always struck by well trained staff. Everything I do feels like I'm making it up on the spot, so when the guy at pink berry hands me my yogurt with his fingers tucked in to the underside of the paper cup, it's kind of great. At first anyway. At Chickfila they are tightly scripted. They say "my pleasure" and "no gays". At first I marveled at the uniform customer experience. At chickfila you get what you get, but in a good way. But after a parade of 16 year olds hand you your fries with the same vacant robot gesture, or worse, you see the same guy day after day who surely recognizes you by now but regards you with the same icy distance, hiding behind the polite patter, it makes you feel just as much a cog in a wheel as they are.
The open sign has flipped. I'm off to go strike up an awkward conversation which I will replay in my head for a while and regret. So which is worse, a limited, structured interaction that is devoid of any meaningful connection, or the crap shoot of words and phrase I will now throw together hoping something lands that keeps me from looking like a weirdo?
Phone post in the books!
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Wednesday
My mom died alone in the tv room. The woman my dad was paying under the table to care for her was upstairs in the spare bedroom watching her chest rise and fall on a black and white baby monitor. She had her granddaughter for the night, and because Priscilla was our only overnight care provider, it meant the little girl was staying there overnight too. But mom's breathing, called Cheyne Stokes, was loud and probably frightening, so sometime late that night my dad closed the door to her little makeshift hospice. And that was it.
By that time I'd been driving up from Savannah every other week. Just the week before, my sister called in a panic to tell me Mom was dying and I needed to come. It wasn't the first time I'd been urgently summoned, but I was sure she was right this time. Mom was no longer vocal. Her eyes opened to our voices, but focused on some middle distance now. When she slept, which was most of the time, her breathing was quick and shallow. I drove up that evening and had dinner with my Dad. Mom was there, just out of sight. Hidden away, but always present.
I sat in the room with her that night after my Dad went to sleep. A table fan whirred in the dark as she moaned, lifting her swollen arm in slow circles. The tumors in her lymph nodes trapped fluid, painfully bloating her right arm. I could see her in silhouette from the light coming through the cracked door. "It's ok, mama, it's ok." was my whispered mantra.
She didn't die of course. The day-nurse said she was actually in pretty good shape, all things being what they were. She was stable and they couldn't predict when her condition might change. I should go home, the nurse said. No point waiting around.
A few days later, mom stopped digesting her food. They didn't stop feeding her just then. I suppose the instinct to feed is hard to overcome. But they figured it out soon enough. If I try, I can still hear any number of voices calling out "Come on Nancy." My father imploring her to sit up and eat, or one of many caretakers that passed through our house asking her to take a sip of water, or for her cooperation when it was time to change her bedding. "Come on Nancy."
Back in Savannah, Priscilla would text me updates. She'd stopped eating. She stopped drinking water. The day before she died Priscilla texted that purple streaks had appeared, creeping up from her heels. It's called mottling and it means drop your shit and come on. It's time. But I didn't know that then. At 1:00 am she texted that I should think about coming. I rolled over and went back to sleep. My plan was to sleep just a bit more and drive at first light. I woke up to a voicemail from my dad that she was gone.
My sister called me on the drive up, asking me to write something for the folks following her illness. I had no idea what to say. "Just tell them she passed, surrounded by loved ones." Not the truth, but palatable, and nice. I understand that what people need to believe is often different than what is so. That it was necessary to give everyone a comfortable out. but I still feel marked by it. The invention. Sometimes in a snide, passive aggressive fit I revisit her there, alone in that room. I rage at my ineffectiveness, at my father's cold compartmentalization, at the bottomless depths of my mother's suffering and humiliation.
And then in some tiny private cave, deep inside myself, where I am not angry and disappointed or ashamed, where magic and hope are hidden away, I think that maybe her gentle spirit rises up through the house paid for by her best efforts as artist and business woman, and up into that early July morning, higher and higher so that, looking out over the city she can see the glowing embers of all the lives she touched, all the bellies she fed and hearts that opened to her as their mother, sister, dear friend. And she'd see me, dreaming away in my bed. Dreaming away. I like to think, relieved of all that pain and stress, and fear, from that height she could see that she was surrounded by loved ones. Had been and would always be.
By that time I'd been driving up from Savannah every other week. Just the week before, my sister called in a panic to tell me Mom was dying and I needed to come. It wasn't the first time I'd been urgently summoned, but I was sure she was right this time. Mom was no longer vocal. Her eyes opened to our voices, but focused on some middle distance now. When she slept, which was most of the time, her breathing was quick and shallow. I drove up that evening and had dinner with my Dad. Mom was there, just out of sight. Hidden away, but always present.
I sat in the room with her that night after my Dad went to sleep. A table fan whirred in the dark as she moaned, lifting her swollen arm in slow circles. The tumors in her lymph nodes trapped fluid, painfully bloating her right arm. I could see her in silhouette from the light coming through the cracked door. "It's ok, mama, it's ok." was my whispered mantra.
She didn't die of course. The day-nurse said she was actually in pretty good shape, all things being what they were. She was stable and they couldn't predict when her condition might change. I should go home, the nurse said. No point waiting around.
A few days later, mom stopped digesting her food. They didn't stop feeding her just then. I suppose the instinct to feed is hard to overcome. But they figured it out soon enough. If I try, I can still hear any number of voices calling out "Come on Nancy." My father imploring her to sit up and eat, or one of many caretakers that passed through our house asking her to take a sip of water, or for her cooperation when it was time to change her bedding. "Come on Nancy."
Back in Savannah, Priscilla would text me updates. She'd stopped eating. She stopped drinking water. The day before she died Priscilla texted that purple streaks had appeared, creeping up from her heels. It's called mottling and it means drop your shit and come on. It's time. But I didn't know that then. At 1:00 am she texted that I should think about coming. I rolled over and went back to sleep. My plan was to sleep just a bit more and drive at first light. I woke up to a voicemail from my dad that she was gone.
My sister called me on the drive up, asking me to write something for the folks following her illness. I had no idea what to say. "Just tell them she passed, surrounded by loved ones." Not the truth, but palatable, and nice. I understand that what people need to believe is often different than what is so. That it was necessary to give everyone a comfortable out. but I still feel marked by it. The invention. Sometimes in a snide, passive aggressive fit I revisit her there, alone in that room. I rage at my ineffectiveness, at my father's cold compartmentalization, at the bottomless depths of my mother's suffering and humiliation.
And then in some tiny private cave, deep inside myself, where I am not angry and disappointed or ashamed, where magic and hope are hidden away, I think that maybe her gentle spirit rises up through the house paid for by her best efforts as artist and business woman, and up into that early July morning, higher and higher so that, looking out over the city she can see the glowing embers of all the lives she touched, all the bellies she fed and hearts that opened to her as their mother, sister, dear friend. And she'd see me, dreaming away in my bed. Dreaming away. I like to think, relieved of all that pain and stress, and fear, from that height she could see that she was surrounded by loved ones. Had been and would always be.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Makes you laugh, makes you think
I read Jonathan Livingston Seagul in the breakroom of the Tunnel Road Walmart. It was almost twenty years ago, and I hardly remember anything about it, but I keep floating back to it. I am not Jonathan Livingston Seagul. It wasn't in the cards for me. But I have met one or two.
David comes to mind. He was a senior in high school when we met. A few years younger than me, he is tall and thin with big round eyes. He's handsome in the way a little boy in church clothes is handsome. Youthful and fun. He was writing songs and singing in a band at the time. And after high school he went on to college at Brown University. David was always easy to like and found ways of being in the center of things. His time at Brown was no different.
David has dyslexia and ADHD. His learning disabilities made it more challenging to do everything. But David turned his diagnosis into a superpower. At Brown, David founded an LD mentorship program. They wrote a textbook to use in schools and created clubs that paired successful LD college kids with elementary students. David has been teaching kids to express and empower themselves for many years now. He's written a book about his life and experience and is a popular speaker on LD issues. David has accomplished so much and he's still in his 30s. Just amazing.
From what I recall from that musty breakroom all those years ago, Jonathan Livingston Seagul just wanted to fly fast and far. So he did. He didn't ask whether he was the right kind of bird to fly fast and far. He didn't worry about what other birds would think of him. He left those birds behind. He pushed and pushed until he was a different kind of bird. And then he pushed and pushed until he was no longer a bird at all. Not a product of his past, but of his own self determination. I don't know what any of it means, really, but maybe it's that some people aren't held back by what others see as impossible barriers. And some people have the capacity, or bandwith to push and stretch and make their lives. I don't know if it's a natural instinct or something taught, but when you get to see it happen, it's very exciting.
Monday, May 16, 2016
I'm going to build a fence.
I'm going to build a fence. It's going to be a horizontal fence, I know that much. And it will replace the chain link fence that surrounds the back yard. I've never built a fence before. I made some bookshelves once, ten years ago, but so far no fences.
Generally you build a fence by sinking posts into the ground. Then you nail or screw 2x4 boards between the posts, and you nail the pickets, the actual fence part, to the boards. For me, each phase of fence building is basically impossible, but my hope is that if I lay out the steps here a plan may emerge to demystify the whole thing.
Disassembly:
I'll need to remove the existing fence in order to replace it with the new one. I've tried this before. The previous home owner had a weird dog pen that I removed a few weeks ago. It went pretty well. I spent hours carefully unscrewing everything and piling it up. I cut the poles into manageable lengths and loaded them into our little Mazda minivan. I spent probably 3 hours back and forth loading the poles and the rolled up chain link and bagging up the hardware. I drove to Fortune Recycling where I dumped the pieces into a large cast iron bin. A guy in forklift with a built in scale weighed the scrap metal and handed me a ticket which I took to the office. My fence weighed 180 pounds for which I received 6 dollars and 12 cents.
Our neighbors on both sides have dogs. I'm not sure how I'll tackle removing those sections of fence. It seems like I'd have to work it out with them. Perhaps via direct communication with eye contact and smiling and everything. I'll have to think about it some. This is a challenging part of the construction process. On the left side, I'm worried that it will hurt my neighbor's feelings if we put up a fence. Like it means we don't want to see them. Or we think they are shitty somehow. They have a son that is a year younger than Micah. I worry putting up a fence will appear like we are judging them. Not as bad parents exactly, but certainly not great parents. They have really big dogs. Troublingly big. Why do dogs need to be so big? Are bear hunting dogs still necessary? Well, that's what this fence is for. It's not about our neighbors as people. They seem fine. It's their bear hunting dogs that I need to screen out with a tasteful, well constructed horizontal fence. But I don't think I can take down the old fence without being pulled apart by their giant, probably very sweet, monster dogs. AlsoI think it would wound my neighbors on a person level. I don't think I can start on that side.
Our neighbors on the right, Sarah and Chris, have more appropriately sized pets. A little one and a medium sized one. I really admire them as industrious and good natured people. They spent all last year making their backyard beautiful. First they built their own fence against the alley, then they put sod in, and added two patio spaces. They hung cafe lights and at night it's like a little oasis back there. They're the ones who suggested we put up a fence between our yards. I never wanted it. We already have a perfectly fine, 40 year old chain link fence. They say it's too low and one of their dogs might jump it and run off. I wonder if maybe they think we're doing a bad job with Micah. I haven't brought it up. It's just really painful. How am I supposed to not miss them? Also there are trees along that fence line that might make digging post holes a bear. I really think the best option is to start with the back section along the alley.
Posts:
With a horizontal fence, posts should be 6 feet apart. Any further and the horizontal boards will twist. I'll find the start and end point of my fence. Once I've placed those posts and secured them with concrete, I'll run a string between the two and pull it tight. This will help me lay out the remaining intermediate posts at 6 feet intervals.
Slats:
I think you just screw them into the posts. I don't know. You have to buy a lot of them. Why don't they like me? I have literally only been awesome to them.
Staining and trim:
Whatever. I hate this.
Generally you build a fence by sinking posts into the ground. Then you nail or screw 2x4 boards between the posts, and you nail the pickets, the actual fence part, to the boards. For me, each phase of fence building is basically impossible, but my hope is that if I lay out the steps here a plan may emerge to demystify the whole thing.
Disassembly:
I'll need to remove the existing fence in order to replace it with the new one. I've tried this before. The previous home owner had a weird dog pen that I removed a few weeks ago. It went pretty well. I spent hours carefully unscrewing everything and piling it up. I cut the poles into manageable lengths and loaded them into our little Mazda minivan. I spent probably 3 hours back and forth loading the poles and the rolled up chain link and bagging up the hardware. I drove to Fortune Recycling where I dumped the pieces into a large cast iron bin. A guy in forklift with a built in scale weighed the scrap metal and handed me a ticket which I took to the office. My fence weighed 180 pounds for which I received 6 dollars and 12 cents.
Our neighbors on both sides have dogs. I'm not sure how I'll tackle removing those sections of fence. It seems like I'd have to work it out with them. Perhaps via direct communication with eye contact and smiling and everything. I'll have to think about it some. This is a challenging part of the construction process. On the left side, I'm worried that it will hurt my neighbor's feelings if we put up a fence. Like it means we don't want to see them. Or we think they are shitty somehow. They have a son that is a year younger than Micah. I worry putting up a fence will appear like we are judging them. Not as bad parents exactly, but certainly not great parents. They have really big dogs. Troublingly big. Why do dogs need to be so big? Are bear hunting dogs still necessary? Well, that's what this fence is for. It's not about our neighbors as people. They seem fine. It's their bear hunting dogs that I need to screen out with a tasteful, well constructed horizontal fence. But I don't think I can take down the old fence without being pulled apart by their giant, probably very sweet, monster dogs. AlsoI think it would wound my neighbors on a person level. I don't think I can start on that side.
Our neighbors on the right, Sarah and Chris, have more appropriately sized pets. A little one and a medium sized one. I really admire them as industrious and good natured people. They spent all last year making their backyard beautiful. First they built their own fence against the alley, then they put sod in, and added two patio spaces. They hung cafe lights and at night it's like a little oasis back there. They're the ones who suggested we put up a fence between our yards. I never wanted it. We already have a perfectly fine, 40 year old chain link fence. They say it's too low and one of their dogs might jump it and run off. I wonder if maybe they think we're doing a bad job with Micah. I haven't brought it up. It's just really painful. How am I supposed to not miss them? Also there are trees along that fence line that might make digging post holes a bear. I really think the best option is to start with the back section along the alley.
Posts:
With a horizontal fence, posts should be 6 feet apart. Any further and the horizontal boards will twist. I'll find the start and end point of my fence. Once I've placed those posts and secured them with concrete, I'll run a string between the two and pull it tight. This will help me lay out the remaining intermediate posts at 6 feet intervals.
Slats:
I think you just screw them into the posts. I don't know. You have to buy a lot of them. Why don't they like me? I have literally only been awesome to them.
Staining and trim:
Whatever. I hate this.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Therapy
Ya'll hear about this Zika? Yeah. This Zika thing? Heard about it? I hear it gives you micro machines. You know that micro machines guy? Fast talker. He comes to your house. Tells you to pick it up. You're too slow. I know it. I know.
I'm not sure this is going to be a productive post. I've been treating these daily entries as a way to organize the chaos in my head. Which I love. It's bit of therapy to get to take a feeling or memory from the vault and consider it semi thoughtfully. Even if I don't actually get to writing it down, I've been thinking about it. Looking forward to how I might write about it.
The problems I've noticed so far are time management, planning and technical skill. I don't have really any of those tools yet. I'll say yet. Life is long. And boring. And maybe my brain hasn't yet calcified, so I could accidentally learn something if I keep at it. But at the moment: Time Management, Planning, Technical Skill.
By the time I get to sit down here to write, I have about 45 minutes before I begin to worry about work. I work from home. My computer is wedged into a corner of our little sunken living room at the back of the house. I am scheduled to begin work at 9am, and I get started on these things at about 8:45. So you can do the math.
Nothing really happens when the clock rolls over to 9. No whistles blow, I don't literally punch in anywhere. But I know I'm supposed to be working. It helps that I can visualize my coworkers pulling into the parking lot, turning on their computers, getting coffee, talking about Game of Thrones. Settling in. I suppose that takes 20 minutes. So if I'm lucky, nobody notices that I've disappeared down this rabbit hole. But still I worry.
For some reason, writing the phrase rabbit hole made me think of farts. Two farts specifically. My grandfather farted in front of me once when I was 10, and then there's my wife Ana and the glorious fart of 2009. Now how do I tell these fart stories? Here planning and technical skill come into play. Do I try and tell them both at the same time? Are there common themes or ways to tie them together beyond their surface likeness? How do I lay it out? Also, what's the tone of a fart story? I know.
When my grandfather farted it was loud and surprising. It seemed like the kind of thing you'd address after the fact. But he didn't. We both knew he'd farted. I knew it. He knew it. Everybody in that house knew it. No one said a word. If there's a way to communicate how terrifying my grandfather could be, how all powerful he was, trumpeting out a fart in front of a 10 year old and still commanding silence has to be it. Right?
I didn't know Ana was going to fart until it was too late. We were visiting new friends. Ana kept giving me the signal to wrap it up. I couldn't see the bead of sweat forming on her brow. I didn't know the stress she was under. She had to get out of that house.
We turned to leave and a tiny squeak of a fart escaped. Ana made a little "Ooo" sound to cover but it was too late. She shuffled quickly to the door and with every step a toot. And with every toot an "Ooo" or an "OH!" and an embarrassed grimace of apology. Our friends and I watched her kabuki dance of shame unfold in slow motion,. I'd never seen anything like it. It will forever be one of my favorite things.
And that's all I have for you today.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Another day another destiny
My weight watchers weigh in was this morning. Up 0.2 pounds since last week. Grapes have been on sale. I blame the grapes.
I've been in the weight watchers program for just shy of a year now. I'm down 43 pounds since I started, and I'm thrilled and terrified at the same time. Losing weight isn't the difficult part. Its easy to go hard after something for 3 months, or 6 months, especially once you start to see results. There's a wonderful high to it, seeing your body change and the attention you get because of it. But as you get closer to your goal and people get used to the "new" you, it turns into a long trudging slog. The changes start to slow, and it takes just as much effort to just not gain weight as it did to lose it. And of course there's the very real fear of losing control and ending up heavier than when I started.
The New York Times ran an article last week about a medical study tracking all the contestants in a past season of The Biggest Loser. Of the 12 or so they tracked, only 2 managed to maintain their end of season weight. Some were worse off than when they started the show. The doctors monitored each of them for several years and noticed that their metabolism was depressed compared to someone of similar size and age. These results spanned the entire group. The balance between calories burned and consumed was negatively impacted as a result of their extreme weight loss. Their bodies wont allow them to stay thin. To maintain the consumed/burned equilibrium they must operate in a what would naturally be a calorie deficit, which creates intense sensations of hunger, which lead to binges, and of course, since these people burn fewer calories because of their shitty metabolism, the pounds pile on. And all that before adding in any emotional component to this nightmare.
So I'm terrified my body will fight back. That my metabolism will tank and the effort I put forth today won't be enough tomorrow. But whatever. I feel good and am grateful for today.
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
The sheets are filled with strangers
This morning Micah opened his eyes and asked "are the streets filled with strangers?" I had no idea what he was talking about. Technically yes. "It's from a Joni Mitchel song" Ana said from her side of the bed.
Sometime in 2013 I made a grave parenting mistake. Ana was at a conference for police lawyers, not what they are called, and an 18 month old Micah and I were left to fend for ourselves. I love Micah and I love sleep. At times, the two can seem mutually exclusive and for this particular stretch of time they very much were. I was so sleepy. So weak.
It was late, maybe midnight. I heard my sweet little monster crying in the next room. He had long blonde curls back then and was small and cute like one of those Maltese dogs. Bischone Frisee? Chinese crested? I'm just naming small dogs now.
Anyway, I was tired and he was awake. And instead of sitting with him and soothing him until he feel back to sleep in his own bed, I brought him into mine. And it was wonderful. We snuggled and slept so good. And then I did it again the next night. And again. So that by the time Ana got back from the conference, we'd established a very clear and terrible pattern of weakness and glorious, glorious sleep.
We've had 2 years to lay the hammer down. Each night he starts out in his own toddler bed, but somewhere between 11 and 2 we hear him hop down and stumble into our room. 2 years of this. I keep hoping he'll sleep through the night by mistake. Wake up in his own bed just one time so that we can break the streak without the war that I know is coming.
There are plenty of downsides to our sleeping arrangement. He kicks us. He elbows us. He likes to tuck his feet underneath me, and when his toenails are too long, I suffer. He's like a Chinese Crested that way. But I love it too. I love hearing him breath at night. And his little hands. Everything seems more precious and delicate in the darkness. And the way he drunkenly climbs into bed. I'll miss it.
So here we are, the three of us, Micah quoting Joni Mitchell, spread out across us like the letter H. Totally bad, but goddam is it good.
Sometime in 2013 I made a grave parenting mistake. Ana was at a conference for police lawyers, not what they are called, and an 18 month old Micah and I were left to fend for ourselves. I love Micah and I love sleep. At times, the two can seem mutually exclusive and for this particular stretch of time they very much were. I was so sleepy. So weak.
It was late, maybe midnight. I heard my sweet little monster crying in the next room. He had long blonde curls back then and was small and cute like one of those Maltese dogs. Bischone Frisee? Chinese crested? I'm just naming small dogs now.
Anyway, I was tired and he was awake. And instead of sitting with him and soothing him until he feel back to sleep in his own bed, I brought him into mine. And it was wonderful. We snuggled and slept so good. And then I did it again the next night. And again. So that by the time Ana got back from the conference, we'd established a very clear and terrible pattern of weakness and glorious, glorious sleep.
We've had 2 years to lay the hammer down. Each night he starts out in his own toddler bed, but somewhere between 11 and 2 we hear him hop down and stumble into our room. 2 years of this. I keep hoping he'll sleep through the night by mistake. Wake up in his own bed just one time so that we can break the streak without the war that I know is coming.
There are plenty of downsides to our sleeping arrangement. He kicks us. He elbows us. He likes to tuck his feet underneath me, and when his toenails are too long, I suffer. He's like a Chinese Crested that way. But I love it too. I love hearing him breath at night. And his little hands. Everything seems more precious and delicate in the darkness. And the way he drunkenly climbs into bed. I'll miss it.
So here we are, the three of us, Micah quoting Joni Mitchell, spread out across us like the letter H. Totally bad, but goddam is it good.
Monday, May 09, 2016
I nailed it.
I was dead-on in my assessment of how today would go. It was a scramble to get it all done, and now I'm tired and angry. I would like to take a nap on top of a chocolate cake.
What have I stumbled on here? Ana keeps asking about our million dollar idea. My goodness, I think I've found it. And now a blurt-storm: Sleep cakes. Nap snack. sleeping bag-o-snacks. Marshmallow memory foam. Fruit skin flat sheet.
It's in there. I just have to sneak up on it by - sleep food! Nappy chews! Snorch, the snack while you snore sensation. ok, ok. I'll keep working on it. slumber nuggets.
Anyway, my grandfather had a printing business where my dad worked. Who knows whose idea it was (because I'm not asking), but somebody forged a birth certificate that was official enough to get me into school.
This bought them years and years of fake birthdays. I shared a birthday with Billy Joel, and I remember that was pretty cool. My birth sign was Taurus and I was down to earth and dependable. I liked having a May birthday.
What have I stumbled on here? Ana keeps asking about our million dollar idea. My goodness, I think I've found it. And now a blurt-storm: Sleep cakes. Nap snack. sleeping bag-o-snacks. Marshmallow memory foam. Fruit skin flat sheet.
It's in there. I just have to sneak up on it by - sleep food! Nappy chews! Snorch, the snack while you snore sensation. ok, ok. I'll keep working on it. slumber nuggets.
Anyway, my grandfather had a printing business where my dad worked. Who knows whose idea it was (because I'm not asking), but somebody forged a birth certificate that was official enough to get me into school.
This bought them years and years of fake birthdays. I shared a birthday with Billy Joel, and I remember that was pretty cool. My birth sign was Taurus and I was down to earth and dependable. I liked having a May birthday.
Too much to get through!
Today is a busy, busy day! Today is the 6th business day since the end of last month. It's the day all the investment summaries are due. It usually takes me most of the day to get them done. By 1pm people start asking me for it. By 3pm I'm usually done, but tired and angry that it is such a rushed process. Usually, I get the information I need from the bank late on the 5th workday, so I don't have much time to gather together all the things I need and check my work. So I'll cram a bunch of words into this little box as best I can, but then I have to fuck off to spreadsheet-ville and get cracking.
I'd also like to share that it is my fake birthday today. May 9th. Happy fake birthday to me!
I liked having a May birthday. It was a fun part of the year to share with my brother and sister. David's birthday is at the end of March. Ashley's falls a few days later in early April. And then my birthday in May completed the season. One, Two, Three, like dominoes.
But I was born in October, not May. David and I are a bit less than 6 months apart and that makes for complicated math when you've decided not to disclose the adoption. May was a pretty good solution. A May birthday makes me eleven months older than David, which is pretty perfect. Nine months would be gross, and reflect poorly on my Dad. I mean, leave the poor woman alone already! Twelve months is too perfect, and if you make the gap any larger, people might start to notice. So May. I suppose they kept the day the same for simplicity.
Changing a birthday in the 70s while everyone is still in diapers at home is easy. Nobody asks a toddler for ID. But enrolling said child into public school is harder.
Ok, so I really do have to go to work. I hope we can revisit after the smoke clears.
I'd also like to share that it is my fake birthday today. May 9th. Happy fake birthday to me!
I liked having a May birthday. It was a fun part of the year to share with my brother and sister. David's birthday is at the end of March. Ashley's falls a few days later in early April. And then my birthday in May completed the season. One, Two, Three, like dominoes.
But I was born in October, not May. David and I are a bit less than 6 months apart and that makes for complicated math when you've decided not to disclose the adoption. May was a pretty good solution. A May birthday makes me eleven months older than David, which is pretty perfect. Nine months would be gross, and reflect poorly on my Dad. I mean, leave the poor woman alone already! Twelve months is too perfect, and if you make the gap any larger, people might start to notice. So May. I suppose they kept the day the same for simplicity.
Changing a birthday in the 70s while everyone is still in diapers at home is easy. Nobody asks a toddler for ID. But enrolling said child into public school is harder.
Ok, so I really do have to go to work. I hope we can revisit after the smoke clears.
Friday, May 06, 2016
Or get out of the way
When I was a young person I thought I was the protagonist in my own fairy tale. I believed in all seriousness that some exciting adventure was going to happen to me at any moment. More than that, I believed that I would just automatically, without thought or effort, be great when it presented itself. I was special. I was the hero. And everything would just work out. I knew that whatever words happened to fall out of my head would ring true and funny and charming. I thought well told stories started with "hey fellas, listen to this:" and then you just held your mouth open for a while. When you closed it, people were either laughing or crying, but probably clapping. I was a leader. I was a teacher. I was the boy in the Never Ending Story who beat the bullies, saved the kingdom from the nothing, and found his age appropriate, little blonde princess. Or I would be soon enough. I just had to wait for my reward to find me. It took a long long time to reject this feeling of predestination.
I read part of this book once that said our experiences are diminished by the stories we tell. That we can't really have an honest, authentic interaction because we're constantly checking in and reframing the moment against the web of stories we've collected in our lives. You're finally sitting on that split rail fence, the spring wind blowing through the fringes of your jean jacket. He's there. He said he couldn't get away, but here he is. His perfectly flat brim of his baseball cap shading his eyes. Your heart is beating fast. This is it.
But does the electricity of that moment count if it's just borrowed from a greatest hits list of the movies and books in our heads? Unrequited love - check. Meet cute - check. First kiss - check. vampire cult - check.
If I had to tie this all together somehow, I guess it's like this. Don't worry about it. If you carefully craft a narrative, life is going to happen to you anyway. Don't be too much of a stickler or you'll wind up disappointed. If you don't do anything about anything, well then looking back you'll find that your collection of disjointed experiences have knit together to form a roughshod storyline with or without you. Hopefully you come to accept what you find there. And even if you can avoid being disappointed with how things have turned out, some asshole will write a book and try to discount your experience. So don't worry about it.
Now get out there and have yourself a great Weekend!
I read part of this book once that said our experiences are diminished by the stories we tell. That we can't really have an honest, authentic interaction because we're constantly checking in and reframing the moment against the web of stories we've collected in our lives. You're finally sitting on that split rail fence, the spring wind blowing through the fringes of your jean jacket. He's there. He said he couldn't get away, but here he is. His perfectly flat brim of his baseball cap shading his eyes. Your heart is beating fast. This is it.
But does the electricity of that moment count if it's just borrowed from a greatest hits list of the movies and books in our heads? Unrequited love - check. Meet cute - check. First kiss - check. vampire cult - check.
If I had to tie this all together somehow, I guess it's like this. Don't worry about it. If you carefully craft a narrative, life is going to happen to you anyway. Don't be too much of a stickler or you'll wind up disappointed. If you don't do anything about anything, well then looking back you'll find that your collection of disjointed experiences have knit together to form a roughshod storyline with or without you. Hopefully you come to accept what you find there. And even if you can avoid being disappointed with how things have turned out, some asshole will write a book and try to discount your experience. So don't worry about it.
Now get out there and have yourself a great Weekend!
Thursday, May 05, 2016
Polishing the turd
Yesterday I spent more time updating and tweaking and fixing my silly little wrestling story then I am comfortable admitting. The goal here is to create a habit of daily (business daily) writing that I can fold into my current commitments. I can't be compulsive about this or it won't be sustainable. But I'll figure it out.
The big problem is that I write so slowly. I've been working on this piece of shit for 30 minutes already. Instead of just blurting, which I think is the starting point of most creative projects, I self edit as I'm typing. So maybe that's my first goal: more blurting.
So look for my next post, probably titled "I'm Gonna BLURT!"
Going to work now. Not going to revisit this and tweak and edit and polish and reword. It lives as it is. That's just part of it.
The big problem is that I write so slowly. I've been working on this piece of shit for 30 minutes already. Instead of just blurting, which I think is the starting point of most creative projects, I self edit as I'm typing. So maybe that's my first goal: more blurting.
So look for my next post, probably titled "I'm Gonna BLURT!"
Going to work now. Not going to revisit this and tweak and edit and polish and reword. It lives as it is. That's just part of it.
Wednesday, May 04, 2016
Knees and Back
Apparently, with exercise, it's important to mix it up. Don't only work out one way. Repetitive movement injuries can happen, and the gains you see when you first start exercising quickly plateau unless you keep it fresh. I say apparently, because I do not exercise. I mostly just sit all day. I do believe in the value of exercise. It's not that. I've felt good the few times I've broken a sweat since retiring from movement in 2010. I paid careful attention to the article in the New York Times that said folks who exercise live longer than Joel who sits quietly all day listening to podcasts. And yet every time I exercise I feel like I'm pressing out against one of those inflated crunch balls that people sit on now as office chairs. No amount of half measures or sporadic bursts of effort make a difference. I press out, and then spring back doughy and defeated. I keep trying though. I jog sometimes. I still dream of conquering my slobby physique and transforming it. I was fit once. Now I chase my peak level of fitness, which I acheived at 15, 22 years ago, in the tenth grade.
In the tenth grade I weighed 145 pounds. I wrestled that year, which was the only reason I was in shape. Wrestling turned my baby gorilla body into coiled steel. While I was very bad at it, I was much better than most people who choose not to wrestle. It's a point of pride that in the 10th grade, if you were not athletic, I was probably the better wrestler.
I remember wrestling a man from Statesboro Georgia. He was a man. I have no doubt. He might have actually been one of the Dads subbing in from the stands. When I shook his hand before the match it was like shaking a bronze statue of a hand attached to the bronze statute of a grown man. There was no give to it. No pleasing skin feel. Just rock. I suppose we were the same size. I think there are rules about that. But to me, he was enormous. Ox in a singlet.
I almost won that match, actually. In high school wrestling there are rules against picking your opponent up over your head and slamming him down onto the mat so that he lets out an "umph" or an "oh no." The 35 year old I was wrestling was warned several times. The next time he flung me over his head would mean disqualification. As wrestling strategy goes, I was doing quite well. Had I known my advantage, I might have encouraged him to continue. "you're doing great" I would have said.
In the end, I did not win. He stopped assaulting me and just laid me down and pinned me. Afterwards, a teammate said he'd never seen a pin quite like it. Instead of bridging up, pushing my shoulders off the mat with my neck and legs to avoid the pin, I actually lifted my legs off the mat, deadbug style, to create a more flush connection. He said I also ran my hand tenderly over my rival's back until the referee pulled us apart. That would not surprise me. We'd certainly shared something.
So I'll keep jogging I think.
In the tenth grade I weighed 145 pounds. I wrestled that year, which was the only reason I was in shape. Wrestling turned my baby gorilla body into coiled steel. While I was very bad at it, I was much better than most people who choose not to wrestle. It's a point of pride that in the 10th grade, if you were not athletic, I was probably the better wrestler.
I remember wrestling a man from Statesboro Georgia. He was a man. I have no doubt. He might have actually been one of the Dads subbing in from the stands. When I shook his hand before the match it was like shaking a bronze statue of a hand attached to the bronze statute of a grown man. There was no give to it. No pleasing skin feel. Just rock. I suppose we were the same size. I think there are rules about that. But to me, he was enormous. Ox in a singlet.
I almost won that match, actually. In high school wrestling there are rules against picking your opponent up over your head and slamming him down onto the mat so that he lets out an "umph" or an "oh no." The 35 year old I was wrestling was warned several times. The next time he flung me over his head would mean disqualification. As wrestling strategy goes, I was doing quite well. Had I known my advantage, I might have encouraged him to continue. "you're doing great" I would have said.
In the end, I did not win. He stopped assaulting me and just laid me down and pinned me. Afterwards, a teammate said he'd never seen a pin quite like it. Instead of bridging up, pushing my shoulders off the mat with my neck and legs to avoid the pin, I actually lifted my legs off the mat, deadbug style, to create a more flush connection. He said I also ran my hand tenderly over my rival's back until the referee pulled us apart. That would not surprise me. We'd certainly shared something.
So I'll keep jogging I think.
Tuesday, May 03, 2016
At Sixes and Sevens
Hello.
I've made a pact with my sister-in-law Lisa to try and write a little every day. Just a few bits, every day, without concern for punctuation or embarrassment for a poorly worded sentence. Just a bit of nonjudgmental exercise every day. Maybe every week day. Weekends are hard. And then there are holidays. I don't think this is going to work out.
Well here's to my first entry in a doomed experiment:
When I was 18, Bill, the librarian at my community college, wrote me the most beautiful love letter. This was before our falling out. Before he wrote that play and used a part of my name for every character. Before our late night confrontation at the circulation desk where he pretended to cry. God I loved that letter.
I've made a pact with my sister-in-law Lisa to try and write a little every day. Just a few bits, every day, without concern for punctuation or embarrassment for a poorly worded sentence. Just a bit of nonjudgmental exercise every day. Maybe every week day. Weekends are hard. And then there are holidays. I don't think this is going to work out.
Well here's to my first entry in a doomed experiment:
When I was 18, Bill, the librarian at my community college, wrote me the most beautiful love letter. This was before our falling out. Before he wrote that play and used a part of my name for every character. Before our late night confrontation at the circulation desk where he pretended to cry. God I loved that letter.
