I don’t care about the environment. There. I said it.
I mean it too.
I don’t go around looking for ways to pollute it, but I certainly don’t go out of my way to protect it, either. Oh hell, if there’s a garbage can and a recycling bin RIGHT NEXT to each other and I have a plastic bottle to discard, nine times out of ten I’ll chuck it in the bin. Unless the bin has the lid with hole cut into it and I have to carefully place said empty bottle thru the hole. That requires effort. One must only take a cursory look at my life to see that it’s not filled with the rewards of effort.
I’m certainly not going to purchase a vehicle based on it’s environmental impact. I want a car that looks cool and is relatively inexpensive. If it comes down to a hybrid vs. a non-hybrid with a six disc changer and fancy wheels - I’ll be mucking up the ozone while listening to 7 straight hours of Motley Crue. If they make a Prius someday that doesn’t look like an isosceles triangle and costs less than twenty four grand - I’m in. Until then I’ll drive my Ford Mustang all over hell and back. If you’re a tree-hugging, edible shoe wearing freak, be glad I’ve lost my hair. The aqua-net I’d use, by itself, could disintegrate Venus. Plastic is better for carrying groceries. Styrofoam soaks up the grease from my Chinese food better than paper. Convenience is a more paramount concern for me than the rainforests of the Amazon. It is for most people, they just won’t admit it.
I will.
People will sometimes ask me how I can be so cavalier about the future of the world.
“Don’t you care about your children’s future?” they’ll say, all indignant.
Of course I do. I love my kids. The environment will be fine for at least their lifetime.
“What about your children’s children?”
Fuck them.
I say that with no malice. I don’t even KNOW my children’s children. They might be dicks. Genuine assholes who don’t deserve forests and grass and clean air. It’s very genetically possible that my grandkids will be jerks. I’d hate to think I spent years riding pubic transportation for people who turn out to be mean little shits.
When I’m done with the environment in say 30 or 40 years, I’m done. Think of it like an ex-girlfriend. When you break up with her, are you hoping that you’ve left a positive impact and everyone after you will get to enjoy her too?
Of course not. You want her ruined. Every last bit of her used up. You want the guys that come after you to say “Sweet Mother of Jesus, you are a wreck.”
That’s how I feel about the environment. I may be one of the few people who’ll admit it. I may be one of the few people who’ll admit the ex-girlfriend thing too. Possibly the only one who’s not in 4 times a week therapy.
I can only afford to go twice.
Monday, February 16, 2009
OH 9
A) I aint fuckin' doing that.
B) I can't do that.
C) I might actually do that.
And
D) I will absolutely do that.
So, in the interest of egocentric self-indulgence here are my resolutions followed by the category and a brief explanation for their classification:
1. Start smoking again. B
My wife would be pissed, I'd have to smoke at least two packs before I got over the nausea, and cancer. In that order.
2. Have a baby. B
Of course I can't literally conceive and carry a child, so I guess I mean knock somebody up. I love kids and every time I see a baby I remember how good it feels to have a person love you unconditionally and absolutely need you. That ends when they're about 8. Sure I still love my current kids, but I liked 'em better when they were less aware that I was a moron. I'm gonna shoot for a puppy instead. From the pound of course, not through insemination.
3. Find a good paying, fun job. C
Stranger things have happened. Though the facts remain that I posses no marketable skill, don't relate well to authority, and more people than ever are looking for jobs, I still hold on to the hope that my wit, charm and ability to make a decent first impression will help here. If not, I'm trying to get comfortable with selling off my collection of snack foods shaped like Jesus.
4. Be more diligent about staying in touch with friends and family. A
Mark Twain said "a leopard can't change his spots". I'm not exactly sure what that means or if Mark Twain really said it - but let's be honest, this is not happening. When I don't call or return your calls, emails, or text messages it's not because I don't like and care about you. It's because I'm busy playing Tiger Woods 07, watching Magnum P.I. on DVR, sleeping or just flat out being lazy. Don't take it personally. My mother doesn't. My sister doesn't. My therapist doesn't. You shouldn't either. You, (insert your name here)____________are very important to me!
5. Learn to play an instrument. A
Pure, unadulterated lack of patience prevents this from being a realistic possibility. Along with a just as pure, unadulterated lack of even a sliver of natural talent.
6. Be less judgmental. D
I couldn't possibly be any MORE judgmental. I'm a rotten prick more than I'd like to admit. Who do I think I am? I don't know. Probably the proverbial pot, not only calling the kettle black but also calling it ignorant, insensitive and condescending. If you think you're a funny comic, an interesting conversationalist, a fantastic driver or talented radio personality - who am I to say you aren't?
7. Get something I wrote published. C
I don't care if it's the joke I sent to Reader's Digest for "All In A Day's Work", a short story or a letter to the editor - just getting something I wrote in print where others will read and enjoy it will be as rewarding as getting laughs on stage. Worst case scenario I write an exhilarating classified ad for my Jesus shaped frosted flake. Two birds, one stone.
8. Have a positive effect on the world EVERY DAY. D
Whether it's picking up a sandwich wrapper on the sidewalk, letting someone merge on the freeway, donating time or money to a homeless shelter or setting fire to a stack of James Blunt CD's, I'm going to do something everyday that makes the world a better place. No altruistic act is insignificant. I'm blessed with a fantastic family, great friends and the most fabulous wife a man could want - the least I can do is give a little back.
So wish me luck. Check in from time to time to see how I'm doing. Don't expect me to answer the phone or return your email, but it'll be nice to know you care.
Who cares? Some folks.
Concern for a stranger's well being is something that mostly escapes me. Sure, I get misty when I see a kid with a cancer on "20/20". I choke up over a guy who's lost his wife and is left alone to raise their small children. And I certainly pity anyone with a "McCain/Palin 2008" bumper sticker plastered on their Hummer. I'm not without sympathy for the tired, the hungry, the poor or anyone who paid to see "The Notebook" in the theater. I donate to the St. Jude foundation, which, I'm told is NOT named after the Beatles song. I give money to the guy that approaches me in the parking lot, spinning a fairy tale about "car trouble" and his "wife's doctor's appointment". I figure if I can afford two and sometimes as many as three bags of beef jerky at a time, it won't kill me to shell out five bucks so a guy can have a 40 of Old English and a People Magazine. Even the destitute should be able to stay abreast of Tom and Katie's latest adventures. This is America for chrissakes.
But those things don't make me a real humanitarian. Not in relation to the lady I spoke to on the phone today. Compared to her, I'm downright misogynistic. Whereas I took no more than a casual regard in the jewelry order she was giving me on the phone, she took an intimate interest in me and my health. As I was pretending to care what channel she was watching our auction on, she cut to the chase.
"Honey, I'm in the medical field…" she interrupted "…and I want you to make sure you get your prostate checked." I wasn't sure if she was offering to do it herself. I hoped not. She didn't sound like my type.
"Uh. Alright, June. I'll do that." I stammered. My phone voice clearly wasn't as hip as I thought. Obviously I sounded old enough that my internal organs required routine maintenance.
She sensed my discomfort.
"I've been in the medical field for 50 years, sweetheart, I can say things like that. My husband didn't listen, and BANG - prostate cancer, overnight."
It's disconcerting when someone uses the word BANG in relation to a prostate exam.
I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say. Should I promise to send her a note from my doctor after it was done? Did she want notary confirmation? Photos?
"I promise I will get that done, June." I told her, with as much conviction as I could muster. I thought about imploring her to check her breasts for lumps ASAP, but I blanched.
"Ok darling. You have a real nice Thanksgiving." she said.
"You too, June. And thanks." It sounded hollow.
When the initial shock wore off and I was able to force the imagery of the procedure from my mind, I realized that this woman had REAL compassion. Sure, I might toss some loose change to the lady at the bottom of the off ramp, but far be it from me to ask about the time since her last pap smear. I just don't care that much about someone who's not a close friend or immediate family. Hell, I've got cousins who's names I've never bothered to learn, always being able to get by at Christmas dinner with "Hey reindeer sweater, pass the yams."
I didn't ask if June's husband's overnight prostate cancer had been fatal. I didn't want to prolong the conversation lest she find out about my diabetes and demand to know my blood sugar level RIGHT NOW. She'd been in the medical field for 50 years, she could say things like that, right? I promised myself I would take her advice and call my doctor at my earliest convenience. No later than the next Summer Olympics or presidential election, whichever comes first.
I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person June is. One that talks so freely about prostate cancer, is concerned for total strangers and orders gaudy jewelry off the TV. I think I'll just keep doing the little things like giving the guy in the Wal Mart parking lot money. Maybe he will actually use it for gas to get his wife to her doctor's appointment. If he does, hopefully they'll have a copy of People in the waiting room.
I hear baby Suri is walking now.
But those things don't make me a real humanitarian. Not in relation to the lady I spoke to on the phone today. Compared to her, I'm downright misogynistic. Whereas I took no more than a casual regard in the jewelry order she was giving me on the phone, she took an intimate interest in me and my health. As I was pretending to care what channel she was watching our auction on, she cut to the chase.
"Honey, I'm in the medical field…" she interrupted "…and I want you to make sure you get your prostate checked." I wasn't sure if she was offering to do it herself. I hoped not. She didn't sound like my type.
"Uh. Alright, June. I'll do that." I stammered. My phone voice clearly wasn't as hip as I thought. Obviously I sounded old enough that my internal organs required routine maintenance.
She sensed my discomfort.
"I've been in the medical field for 50 years, sweetheart, I can say things like that. My husband didn't listen, and BANG - prostate cancer, overnight."
It's disconcerting when someone uses the word BANG in relation to a prostate exam.
I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say. Should I promise to send her a note from my doctor after it was done? Did she want notary confirmation? Photos?
"I promise I will get that done, June." I told her, with as much conviction as I could muster. I thought about imploring her to check her breasts for lumps ASAP, but I blanched.
"Ok darling. You have a real nice Thanksgiving." she said.
"You too, June. And thanks." It sounded hollow.
When the initial shock wore off and I was able to force the imagery of the procedure from my mind, I realized that this woman had REAL compassion. Sure, I might toss some loose change to the lady at the bottom of the off ramp, but far be it from me to ask about the time since her last pap smear. I just don't care that much about someone who's not a close friend or immediate family. Hell, I've got cousins who's names I've never bothered to learn, always being able to get by at Christmas dinner with "Hey reindeer sweater, pass the yams."
I didn't ask if June's husband's overnight prostate cancer had been fatal. I didn't want to prolong the conversation lest she find out about my diabetes and demand to know my blood sugar level RIGHT NOW. She'd been in the medical field for 50 years, she could say things like that, right? I promised myself I would take her advice and call my doctor at my earliest convenience. No later than the next Summer Olympics or presidential election, whichever comes first.
I don't think I'll ever be the kind of person June is. One that talks so freely about prostate cancer, is concerned for total strangers and orders gaudy jewelry off the TV. I think I'll just keep doing the little things like giving the guy in the Wal Mart parking lot money. Maybe he will actually use it for gas to get his wife to her doctor's appointment. If he does, hopefully they'll have a copy of People in the waiting room.
I hear baby Suri is walking now.
Might as well face it.
I never had any sympathy for addicts. I didn't care what you were addicted to, I thought you were just weak. You could quit smoking if you really wanted to. It's not meth's fault, you're the one without the resolve to stop. Your last three girlfriends left because you're a drunk? Just quit drinking, for Christ's sake. Three year old kids have to be told that a hot stove will burn them - they don't know any better. I figured if you were a grown up you knew full well what was good for you. God, was I wrong.
I found out how wrong when I stumbled on to my own addiction. I was in the middle of one of the worst times of my life. I was lonely and confused and my addiction threw it's arm around me, slapped me on the back and said "I'm here for you…" I accepted it's companionship like a man stranded in the desert for days would accept a cup of water. I embraced it like a long lost love. I made it my entire focus. When I was happy I'd celebrate with it. When I was sad, it would commiserate with me. It never told me I was stupid or not good enough. When I was bored, it rousted me off the couch. When I was lonely, it begged me to venture out, it's voice so loud in my head I couldn't ignore it. It was easily justifiable since it was not illegal, nor was it a threat to my physical health, and it was easy to keep a secret. Too easy.
Gambling is not a physiological addiction. There's nothing I ingested that made my brain say "YOU NEED THIS". Nothing got in my bloodstream or altered my chemistry. But it's still an addiction. It still spoke to me. It said things like "If you wanna have any money left after the rent, YOU NEED THIS" or "If you want that new pair of shoes, YOU NEED THIS". There was a smaller voice imploring me to be smart and be patient and be responsible, but it was a whisper. It didn't speak with the power and authority of the addiction. The addiction doesn't shut up, either. Not when things are good and not when things are bad. Not at night when you're trying to sleep, or in the middle of the day when you're at work. It doesn't know how to tell time. But it knows you need it and it knows just what to say.
Then I hit rock bottom. The first time. Yeah, one rock bottom wasn't enough to straighten me out. See, you can climb out of that hole, do all the right things, and sincerely want to get better but the addiction doesn't go away. With the help of your friends, family and a good group of other people who suffer, you can learn to quiet the screaming of the addiction and listen to the whisper instead. But the addiction doesn't go away. It hides in some dark recess waiting for it's opportunity to be your pal again. I'll never forget that now, but I didn't know it then. Not when I hit rock bottom that first time.
I'd stayed up all night, gambling until I was down to my last $6. I knew I needed diapers since I was picking up my daughter in a few hours and would have her for a few days. Even knowing that, I struggled to leave the Sands. "That machine was just about pay BIG and you could buy diapers and have gambling money too!" my addiction was saying as I left. It was all I could do to ignore it. I was angry enough already since I'd lost $165 of my own money and I'd actually been way up at one point. All in all I'd blown close to $400. I had barely enough to buy the diapers. I picked up my daughter after sleeping in my car for about two hours. I didn't want to drive home since my tank was, as was the norm during this time, only about a quarter full and I couldn't afford to put any gas in it. I was raw and irritable at the store and the mixture of self-loathing, fear and lack of sleep had me feeling very on edge. After I'd grabbed the diapers, which I calculated would come to about $5.25, my daughter tugged at my sleeve.
"Daddy, can I have some Lucky Charms?" she asked.
"No, you can't have Lucky Charms!" I snapped. "We've got corn flakes at home!"
"I don't like corn flakes, daddy…"
"Well you better learn to like 'em, because I don't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal!"
My anger was thick and palpable. I wasn't mad at my daughter, but she didn't know that, and I couldn't explain it to her. I'd yelled at her for no reason other than she asked for something, something reasonable no less. I paid for the diapers and we rode home in silence. I'd told her I didn't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal and she was none the wiser. She cried, as toddlers will do when their feelings are hurt and they don't know why you're mad at them. Of course I had no money for cereal. I'd blown it all on Wheel Of Fortune instead. It wasn't so much that I wouldn't get her the Lucky Charms that had her upset, it was that I'd barked at her for asking.
That got me into Gambler's Anonymous. I called my mother later that same day and told her I needed help, and fast. I was too embarrassed to tell her what the final impetus was. To her credit, she didn't ask a lot of questions and she didn't lecture. She called a friend who was in the program and that friend called me. She told me her story, listened to mine and had me at a GA meeting the next afternoon.
The stories I heard ranged from WAY worse than mine to not quite as bad. It would be maudlin to repeat them. Suffice it to say, that was the day I started to have compassion for addicts. That was the day I realized sometimes something is just bigger than you and though you may really want to stop, you can't. Not alone anyway. I went to GA once a week or more as needed for awhile.
Then I thought I was better. I stopped going to meetings. I hadn't gambled in 6 months. I was doing great! But slowly, the addiction crept back into my life. It seeped in slowly at first but it wasn't long before I was begging my parents for the rent money. It wasn't a matter of cereal now, it was a roof over our heads. I promised my mom and dad that if they bailed me out, I'd go back to GA. They did and I did.
That was about four years ago. Since that day, I've been a lot more tolerant than I ever was. I sympathize with people who suffer from any addiction and I have compassion for those who've owned up to them and sought help. I never judge or cajole anyone who asks me about GA. I just tell them my story and let know them know we're not worthless or weak. We're sick. And though there is no cure there is a treatment. And it can be scary as hell. The first step for me was asking for help and I had to take that step by myself.
But I've never walked alone since then and I never will.
I found out how wrong when I stumbled on to my own addiction. I was in the middle of one of the worst times of my life. I was lonely and confused and my addiction threw it's arm around me, slapped me on the back and said "I'm here for you…" I accepted it's companionship like a man stranded in the desert for days would accept a cup of water. I embraced it like a long lost love. I made it my entire focus. When I was happy I'd celebrate with it. When I was sad, it would commiserate with me. It never told me I was stupid or not good enough. When I was bored, it rousted me off the couch. When I was lonely, it begged me to venture out, it's voice so loud in my head I couldn't ignore it. It was easily justifiable since it was not illegal, nor was it a threat to my physical health, and it was easy to keep a secret. Too easy.
Gambling is not a physiological addiction. There's nothing I ingested that made my brain say "YOU NEED THIS". Nothing got in my bloodstream or altered my chemistry. But it's still an addiction. It still spoke to me. It said things like "If you wanna have any money left after the rent, YOU NEED THIS" or "If you want that new pair of shoes, YOU NEED THIS". There was a smaller voice imploring me to be smart and be patient and be responsible, but it was a whisper. It didn't speak with the power and authority of the addiction. The addiction doesn't shut up, either. Not when things are good and not when things are bad. Not at night when you're trying to sleep, or in the middle of the day when you're at work. It doesn't know how to tell time. But it knows you need it and it knows just what to say.
Then I hit rock bottom. The first time. Yeah, one rock bottom wasn't enough to straighten me out. See, you can climb out of that hole, do all the right things, and sincerely want to get better but the addiction doesn't go away. With the help of your friends, family and a good group of other people who suffer, you can learn to quiet the screaming of the addiction and listen to the whisper instead. But the addiction doesn't go away. It hides in some dark recess waiting for it's opportunity to be your pal again. I'll never forget that now, but I didn't know it then. Not when I hit rock bottom that first time.
I'd stayed up all night, gambling until I was down to my last $6. I knew I needed diapers since I was picking up my daughter in a few hours and would have her for a few days. Even knowing that, I struggled to leave the Sands. "That machine was just about pay BIG and you could buy diapers and have gambling money too!" my addiction was saying as I left. It was all I could do to ignore it. I was angry enough already since I'd lost $165 of my own money and I'd actually been way up at one point. All in all I'd blown close to $400. I had barely enough to buy the diapers. I picked up my daughter after sleeping in my car for about two hours. I didn't want to drive home since my tank was, as was the norm during this time, only about a quarter full and I couldn't afford to put any gas in it. I was raw and irritable at the store and the mixture of self-loathing, fear and lack of sleep had me feeling very on edge. After I'd grabbed the diapers, which I calculated would come to about $5.25, my daughter tugged at my sleeve.
"Daddy, can I have some Lucky Charms?" she asked.
"No, you can't have Lucky Charms!" I snapped. "We've got corn flakes at home!"
"I don't like corn flakes, daddy…"
"Well you better learn to like 'em, because I don't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal!"
My anger was thick and palpable. I wasn't mad at my daughter, but she didn't know that, and I couldn't explain it to her. I'd yelled at her for no reason other than she asked for something, something reasonable no less. I paid for the diapers and we rode home in silence. I'd told her I didn't have a bunch of money to piss away on cereal and she was none the wiser. She cried, as toddlers will do when their feelings are hurt and they don't know why you're mad at them. Of course I had no money for cereal. I'd blown it all on Wheel Of Fortune instead. It wasn't so much that I wouldn't get her the Lucky Charms that had her upset, it was that I'd barked at her for asking.
That got me into Gambler's Anonymous. I called my mother later that same day and told her I needed help, and fast. I was too embarrassed to tell her what the final impetus was. To her credit, she didn't ask a lot of questions and she didn't lecture. She called a friend who was in the program and that friend called me. She told me her story, listened to mine and had me at a GA meeting the next afternoon.
The stories I heard ranged from WAY worse than mine to not quite as bad. It would be maudlin to repeat them. Suffice it to say, that was the day I started to have compassion for addicts. That was the day I realized sometimes something is just bigger than you and though you may really want to stop, you can't. Not alone anyway. I went to GA once a week or more as needed for awhile.
Then I thought I was better. I stopped going to meetings. I hadn't gambled in 6 months. I was doing great! But slowly, the addiction crept back into my life. It seeped in slowly at first but it wasn't long before I was begging my parents for the rent money. It wasn't a matter of cereal now, it was a roof over our heads. I promised my mom and dad that if they bailed me out, I'd go back to GA. They did and I did.
That was about four years ago. Since that day, I've been a lot more tolerant than I ever was. I sympathize with people who suffer from any addiction and I have compassion for those who've owned up to them and sought help. I never judge or cajole anyone who asks me about GA. I just tell them my story and let know them know we're not worthless or weak. We're sick. And though there is no cure there is a treatment. And it can be scary as hell. The first step for me was asking for help and I had to take that step by myself.
But I've never walked alone since then and I never will.
Monday, November 3, 2008
What's in a Name?
Sometimes I like to go to the Laundromat. Not because I need to do my laundry. I get that done at home. What I don’t get at home is the chance to eavesdrop on people. I bring a few shirts, a pair of jeans, and maybe some underwear to make the ruse look realistic. Then I sit down and open a book I have no intention of reading. Nothing written by Robert B. Parker or Sue Grafton can compare with the conversations of people who are doing their laundry in public out of necessity.
I’ve heard about people kicking drug habits. I’ve seen drug addicts kick people. I’ve been privy to family squabbles that rival anything on “Wife Swap” or “Supernanny”. I’ve been thoroughly entertained as I listened to women in oversized army fatigue jackets and leggings discuss their plans for Saturday night. I had to struggle not to look up from my faux reading when one promised to “down at least 12 kamikazes and fuck the first thing that asks me to dance…”.
You can’t get this kind of stuff on any of the 280 satellite channels I aimlessly flip through everyday. The girls vying for the affection of Bret Michaels on “Rock of Love” come close, but am I really supposed to believe anyone under 30 is interested in him and shouldn’t I say “affliction” instead of “affection”? Not even on the Sci-Fi channel can I find anything like watching a guy lick the wall dispenser calmly before getting his mini box of Tide. Nor is there, as far as I know, anyone on any show on those channels whose mother screams “Goddamnit, for the last time, get out of that dryer, Talon!”.
Granted, I may have it wrong. When you are so FREAKING COOL that you name your kid after a part of a bird, or any animal, you probably don’t follow the cumbersome rules of conventional spelling. More than likely you grew up listening to Enuff Z’ Nuff, Phish, and Limp Bizkit so your kid’s name, though it’s pronounced the same as the word for an buzzard’s foot, is probably spelled Talyn. “He’s cute but he’s not as smart as his brother, Beaxk.” The “x” being silent.
Why would you do that to your kid? I guess you’re saving yourself the trouble of dressing him funny or walking him to school until he’s a sophomore to make sure he’s at the very least threatened with an ass kicking everyday. When I was little if me and my pals wanted to throw rocks at something, a kid named Talon would’ve taken precedence over houses, cars or even the aviary creatures who sported the very appendages after which the soon to be welted little guy was named.
What’s the process here? Do you first decide that Michael, Jason or even Tyler are simply too commonplace? Forget naming him after anyone in the family. Elliot or Harlan might make an OK middle name but it won’t look good tattooed in old English letters on his neck. “Of course we can’t name him Camaro! What are you, stupid?” No, you’ve got to be different. Forget the fact that your offspring will be the one to suffer for your rampant “outside-the-boxedness“. Do you run thru different animals? Why does Talon make the cut but “Antler”, “Snout” and “Hoof” don‘t? Are there kids in Australia named “Pouch”?
Even if the kid makes it out of high school alive, then what? You’ve limited his career choices with that moniker. Wanna have your colon exam done by a doctor named Talon? How’d you like to have your second grader taught P.E. by coach Talon? If he can’t be a VJ, a drummer, or a Knight, he’s pretty much screwed. Though I guess he might have some success as a divorce attorney or hairdresser.
And lastly, you’ve got to consider the last name. I might be inclined to think a guy named Talon Rexx was cool. Talon Simpson is just not the same, and Talon Goldfarb is a rock-throwing kid’s dream. Take it from someone named David Giovanni Mencarelli.
As I was moving my fake laundry from the washer to the dryer, Talon, who was probably four, sauntered over, unscrewed the lid of my brand new Diet Pepsi , and took a swig. When he was finished, he took it back to the spot where he was playing with his Hot Wheels. When his mother noticed she hollered at him to put it back.
“No, really it’s fine. I’m good.” I told her. “I’ll get another one. It’s the least I can do for him.”
“Ok. Thanks.” She half smiled. Then she noticed her daughter climbing out of her stroller.
“Get back in there, Crimson” she hissed.
I only wished I’d known if it were her idea or the daddy’s to saddle these kids with those names.
I didn’t wanna throw rocks at her if she didn’t deserve it.
I’ve heard about people kicking drug habits. I’ve seen drug addicts kick people. I’ve been privy to family squabbles that rival anything on “Wife Swap” or “Supernanny”. I’ve been thoroughly entertained as I listened to women in oversized army fatigue jackets and leggings discuss their plans for Saturday night. I had to struggle not to look up from my faux reading when one promised to “down at least 12 kamikazes and fuck the first thing that asks me to dance…”.
You can’t get this kind of stuff on any of the 280 satellite channels I aimlessly flip through everyday. The girls vying for the affection of Bret Michaels on “Rock of Love” come close, but am I really supposed to believe anyone under 30 is interested in him and shouldn’t I say “affliction” instead of “affection”? Not even on the Sci-Fi channel can I find anything like watching a guy lick the wall dispenser calmly before getting his mini box of Tide. Nor is there, as far as I know, anyone on any show on those channels whose mother screams “Goddamnit, for the last time, get out of that dryer, Talon!”.
Granted, I may have it wrong. When you are so FREAKING COOL that you name your kid after a part of a bird, or any animal, you probably don’t follow the cumbersome rules of conventional spelling. More than likely you grew up listening to Enuff Z’ Nuff, Phish, and Limp Bizkit so your kid’s name, though it’s pronounced the same as the word for an buzzard’s foot, is probably spelled Talyn. “He’s cute but he’s not as smart as his brother, Beaxk.” The “x” being silent.
Why would you do that to your kid? I guess you’re saving yourself the trouble of dressing him funny or walking him to school until he’s a sophomore to make sure he’s at the very least threatened with an ass kicking everyday. When I was little if me and my pals wanted to throw rocks at something, a kid named Talon would’ve taken precedence over houses, cars or even the aviary creatures who sported the very appendages after which the soon to be welted little guy was named.
What’s the process here? Do you first decide that Michael, Jason or even Tyler are simply too commonplace? Forget naming him after anyone in the family. Elliot or Harlan might make an OK middle name but it won’t look good tattooed in old English letters on his neck. “Of course we can’t name him Camaro! What are you, stupid?” No, you’ve got to be different. Forget the fact that your offspring will be the one to suffer for your rampant “outside-the-boxedness“. Do you run thru different animals? Why does Talon make the cut but “Antler”, “Snout” and “Hoof” don‘t? Are there kids in Australia named “Pouch”?
Even if the kid makes it out of high school alive, then what? You’ve limited his career choices with that moniker. Wanna have your colon exam done by a doctor named Talon? How’d you like to have your second grader taught P.E. by coach Talon? If he can’t be a VJ, a drummer, or a Knight, he’s pretty much screwed. Though I guess he might have some success as a divorce attorney or hairdresser.
And lastly, you’ve got to consider the last name. I might be inclined to think a guy named Talon Rexx was cool. Talon Simpson is just not the same, and Talon Goldfarb is a rock-throwing kid’s dream. Take it from someone named David Giovanni Mencarelli.
As I was moving my fake laundry from the washer to the dryer, Talon, who was probably four, sauntered over, unscrewed the lid of my brand new Diet Pepsi , and took a swig. When he was finished, he took it back to the spot where he was playing with his Hot Wheels. When his mother noticed she hollered at him to put it back.
“No, really it’s fine. I’m good.” I told her. “I’ll get another one. It’s the least I can do for him.”
“Ok. Thanks.” She half smiled. Then she noticed her daughter climbing out of her stroller.
“Get back in there, Crimson” she hissed.
I only wished I’d known if it were her idea or the daddy’s to saddle these kids with those names.
I didn’t wanna throw rocks at her if she didn’t deserve it.
To Tell The Truth
I’m not proud of it, the way I left my ex-wife. I should have been more forthcoming and I’m sorry I wasn’t. Hell, if I’m going to be honest, I’d known for more than a year it was over. I wouldn’t admit it to myself or say it out loud to even my closest friends, but I knew it. In the back of my mind and in the bottom of my heart. I ignored it, though. I didn’t have a bad marriage. She worked all day while I took care of the kid then I worked at night while she cared for the baby. I’d go out with my friends after work and come home long after she was asleep. It worked for both of us, I guess. We’d spend a few hours together on the weekends, if our schedules allowed for it, but we certainly weren’t religious about it. We just sort of fell into living separate lives. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened.
We’d had an incredibly difficult year leading up to our daughter’s birth. I got “the diabetes” and spent most of that September in the ICU and hospital. My wife was three months pregnant. In a time that should have been all about her and the baby, she was suddenly forced to take care of me, the household and our 12 year old son. By herself. I was utterly incapacitated. She handled it, all the while spending every possible moment at the hospital with me too.
About the time I was starting to get well, her father died. The doctors found a tumor in his chest and three weeks later, he was gone. She was five months pregnant and in the span of two months her husband had been extremely ill and her father died. I was barely able to muster up the strength to travel to the bay area with her for the funeral, but I felt I owed her that. So she loaded her sickly husband into the car and drove 200 miles to bury her father. He was 57. She handled that, too.
Right after Thanksgiving, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. I’d had a bit of a fever the night before, but I was feeling relatively good. Better, it turns out, than I should have. I’d grown a cyst on my pancreas, that along with the fever scared the docs a little. The words “surgery tomorrow” scared me, a lot. My first thought was how the hell could I call my wife and tell her they were admitting me to the hospital, again? Hadn’t she had enough? Not yet, apparently.
The surgery was successful and I spent another three weeks confined to a hospital bed. On the bright side, I’d lost close to 125 lbs over the last three months and besides being a maudlin shade of grey, I was looking good. My ex-wife once again weathered the storm. While I was watching Days of our Lives and getting daily sponge baths from a cute 24 year old nurse named Daisy, she went to work, took care of the house and continued to grow what would turn out to be one of the best things ever to come into this world.
The day after I got home from this hospital stay, she’d apparently reached her limit. As she laid out my pain medication on the nightstand that morning, she told me she was having what was probably a minor problem and was going to see her OBGYN at lunch. What I hoped was nothing turned out to be premature labor. 16 weeks premature. They admitted her and told her she would not be touching her feet to the floor until the baby was born. They’d try to prevent that as long they as they could. Now it was her turn to sit in a hospital room, but the difference was, I was in no shape to take care of things at home. In all honesty, had I been healthy that would have amounted to a monumental task for me. With the help of my best friend and my incredible family, I somehow managed. My sister came to stay and make sure I got off the futon for at least a half an hour a day and shove healthy food down my throat. My dad sent money. My friends at work took up a collection and brought groceries and other necessities. As the time stretched to near Christmas, two of my friends showed up with a box full of presents for my son. My mother and step-father were there everyday for my moral support and mental health.
I’d go visit my ex-wife at the hospital as much as I was able. I was weak from the surgery still and I’d make my mom or sister push me in a wheelchair until I was right outside her room, then I’d get up and walk in, trying to look like I was feeling good. I think she knew I wasn’t. Finally, in January with nine weeks left before the original due date, they couldn’t stop the baby from coming. She was born 3 lbs 3 oz and when she came out was hanging on to the umbilical cord like she was in a tug of war. We knew she’d be alright.
And she was better than alright. She spent 3 weeks in the neo-natal ICU and improved every day. I was still a little weak and sickly, and we were in the ICU everyday to visit our daughter but my ex-wife would get there before me and stay after I’d left, feeding her thru a tube, bathing her and pestering the doctors and nurses about her condition. When we took her home she weighed a hefty 4 lbs 6 oz and could eat and breathe all by herself. It had a been a hellish 4 months for everyone, but I suspect it was hardest on my ex-wife. She’d not only struggled thru my trials, she’d lost her Dad and suffered her own hospitalization. During those last six weeks she was stuck in bed, though we never spoke of it, we both wondered if our baby would make it.
She did. And we did. For a while longer. The next year went by before we knew it and by the baby’s first birthday I’d started to feel a little disconnected. I should have said something then but I told myself it was just the residue of all we’d been through. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, just bored and restless. But by the end of the summer I was just looking for a reason to leave that wouldn’t make me feel like an asshole.
I finally got it. It was something minor that I blew up big enough to use as an excuse. I convinced myself my anger was justified, though I knew it wasn’t. I mustered up the courage and told her I was moving out. It must have seemed so out of the blue to her. I hadn’t said anything was bothering me or even acted like it. Now I was leaving. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t coming back, too. I’d already met someone and though we hadn’t acted on our feelings yet, I knew we would. I left that part out when I sprung this on my ex-wife. I let her believe we could work on things and maybe save our marriage. I let that go on entirely too long and probably would have let it go on even longer had she not found out on her own one day after I‘d moved out. After fifteen years together and especially all we’d been through in the last two - she deserved better than that. She exacted some revenge, and I hope some minor satisfaction, with a pretty good right cross. It was well deserved and I think I got off easy.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the whole truth back then. It made things more difficult in that first year or so after we split. She never knew what to believe. Had I been totally honest in the beginning maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly.
We made it through that time and we have a better relationship today than we’ve ever had. We’re both re-married to people we’re much more compatible with. She was lucky enough to find a guy who loves NASCAR and camping as much as she does, and I was lucky enough to find someone who’s beautiful, smart, funny and thinks I’m at least one of those things ( I hope its “funny” but I‘ll settle for “beautiful“). Our daughter is well adjusted, compassionate and most likely a genius. She’s by far the best thing we ever did.
And I can always be proud of that.
We’d had an incredibly difficult year leading up to our daughter’s birth. I got “the diabetes” and spent most of that September in the ICU and hospital. My wife was three months pregnant. In a time that should have been all about her and the baby, she was suddenly forced to take care of me, the household and our 12 year old son. By herself. I was utterly incapacitated. She handled it, all the while spending every possible moment at the hospital with me too.
About the time I was starting to get well, her father died. The doctors found a tumor in his chest and three weeks later, he was gone. She was five months pregnant and in the span of two months her husband had been extremely ill and her father died. I was barely able to muster up the strength to travel to the bay area with her for the funeral, but I felt I owed her that. So she loaded her sickly husband into the car and drove 200 miles to bury her father. He was 57. She handled that, too.
Right after Thanksgiving, I had a routine doctor’s appointment. I’d had a bit of a fever the night before, but I was feeling relatively good. Better, it turns out, than I should have. I’d grown a cyst on my pancreas, that along with the fever scared the docs a little. The words “surgery tomorrow” scared me, a lot. My first thought was how the hell could I call my wife and tell her they were admitting me to the hospital, again? Hadn’t she had enough? Not yet, apparently.
The surgery was successful and I spent another three weeks confined to a hospital bed. On the bright side, I’d lost close to 125 lbs over the last three months and besides being a maudlin shade of grey, I was looking good. My ex-wife once again weathered the storm. While I was watching Days of our Lives and getting daily sponge baths from a cute 24 year old nurse named Daisy, she went to work, took care of the house and continued to grow what would turn out to be one of the best things ever to come into this world.
The day after I got home from this hospital stay, she’d apparently reached her limit. As she laid out my pain medication on the nightstand that morning, she told me she was having what was probably a minor problem and was going to see her OBGYN at lunch. What I hoped was nothing turned out to be premature labor. 16 weeks premature. They admitted her and told her she would not be touching her feet to the floor until the baby was born. They’d try to prevent that as long they as they could. Now it was her turn to sit in a hospital room, but the difference was, I was in no shape to take care of things at home. In all honesty, had I been healthy that would have amounted to a monumental task for me. With the help of my best friend and my incredible family, I somehow managed. My sister came to stay and make sure I got off the futon for at least a half an hour a day and shove healthy food down my throat. My dad sent money. My friends at work took up a collection and brought groceries and other necessities. As the time stretched to near Christmas, two of my friends showed up with a box full of presents for my son. My mother and step-father were there everyday for my moral support and mental health.
I’d go visit my ex-wife at the hospital as much as I was able. I was weak from the surgery still and I’d make my mom or sister push me in a wheelchair until I was right outside her room, then I’d get up and walk in, trying to look like I was feeling good. I think she knew I wasn’t. Finally, in January with nine weeks left before the original due date, they couldn’t stop the baby from coming. She was born 3 lbs 3 oz and when she came out was hanging on to the umbilical cord like she was in a tug of war. We knew she’d be alright.
And she was better than alright. She spent 3 weeks in the neo-natal ICU and improved every day. I was still a little weak and sickly, and we were in the ICU everyday to visit our daughter but my ex-wife would get there before me and stay after I’d left, feeding her thru a tube, bathing her and pestering the doctors and nurses about her condition. When we took her home she weighed a hefty 4 lbs 6 oz and could eat and breathe all by herself. It had a been a hellish 4 months for everyone, but I suspect it was hardest on my ex-wife. She’d not only struggled thru my trials, she’d lost her Dad and suffered her own hospitalization. During those last six weeks she was stuck in bed, though we never spoke of it, we both wondered if our baby would make it.
She did. And we did. For a while longer. The next year went by before we knew it and by the baby’s first birthday I’d started to feel a little disconnected. I should have said something then but I told myself it was just the residue of all we’d been through. I wasn’t miserable by any stretch, just bored and restless. But by the end of the summer I was just looking for a reason to leave that wouldn’t make me feel like an asshole.
I finally got it. It was something minor that I blew up big enough to use as an excuse. I convinced myself my anger was justified, though I knew it wasn’t. I mustered up the courage and told her I was moving out. It must have seemed so out of the blue to her. I hadn’t said anything was bothering me or even acted like it. Now I was leaving. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t coming back, too. I’d already met someone and though we hadn’t acted on our feelings yet, I knew we would. I left that part out when I sprung this on my ex-wife. I let her believe we could work on things and maybe save our marriage. I let that go on entirely too long and probably would have let it go on even longer had she not found out on her own one day after I‘d moved out. After fifteen years together and especially all we’d been through in the last two - she deserved better than that. She exacted some revenge, and I hope some minor satisfaction, with a pretty good right cross. It was well deserved and I think I got off easy.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the whole truth back then. It made things more difficult in that first year or so after we split. She never knew what to believe. Had I been totally honest in the beginning maybe things would’ve gone more smoothly.
We made it through that time and we have a better relationship today than we’ve ever had. We’re both re-married to people we’re much more compatible with. She was lucky enough to find a guy who loves NASCAR and camping as much as she does, and I was lucky enough to find someone who’s beautiful, smart, funny and thinks I’m at least one of those things ( I hope its “funny” but I‘ll settle for “beautiful“). Our daughter is well adjusted, compassionate and most likely a genius. She’s by far the best thing we ever did.
And I can always be proud of that.
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