Merryman 3.0?

After seven years of off and on conversations, and then several months of more intensive conversations, Jen and I have decided to try our hand at starting a family. A lot of people would consider this very personal, and might not discuss it until the pregnancy is firmly rooted in the second trimester, but we're not those people. While I have been told certain parts of our life together are off limits (at least in terms of blog fodder), Jen agreed pretty readily to let me talk about this. I think she was OK with my discussing it because she's so excited by the possibility. For me, I'm just happy being able to communicate that I'm getting laid.

I know all the reasons having kids is not discussed with outsiders during the planning stages: It might not be able to happen. Either Jen or I could be fundamentally flawed in some way that will send us running to the Foster Care system, robbing our own stunted genetics of their chance to scar some new life. Or, we could lose the child, something I can't even begin to understand how people cope with. Then, you're left with the conversations and awkward silences. Still, I've never been one to shut up when I should, so here we are talking about it.

I've told you all of that, so I can tell you this: I went out at lunch today and entered into a rite of passage millions of parents-to-be have undertaken. I picked up a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting". After five minutes of flipping through the book, I've decided having kids is definitely not the way to go. This is less a book of what you can expect, but rather a list of all the shit that can go wrong. And way too much shit can go wrong. It's amazing children are ever born in this world.

It's even more amazing to me who is able to have kids in spite of all the hidden dangers and conditions waiting in hiding for barebacking couples everywhere. Crackheads are squeezing out more kids than they know what to do with. Hillbilly cousins have trailerfulls of the little buggers. And I know there are twelve years olds that pull off successful pregnancies all the time, but that doesn't mean much. I've seen "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" and am well aware there are things kids are capable that I, even in my mid thirties, am not.

I'll spend some more time with the book before making a final judgment, but I'm leery now. In addition to all the lurking disaster awaiting us, I realize now that my reproductive skills being compared against those of crack heads, incestuous country bumpkins, and preteens, and it might be more than my fragile ego can handle. If they can do it, and I can't...well, let's not think those thoughts.

I'll let you know how it's going once we hit the second trimester, I guess.

Lucy Loo & Otis Too

It's early, but things are already winding down here. The dogs are curled up at the foot of the bed, snug in their cliche. Jen is already asleep, though the sun isn't down yet. The dogs and I were keeping her company while she read, but after satisfying my Facebook addiction for awhile, I find myself still sitting here, not sure what I really want to be doing.

We've been taking the dogs for walks more. Uncivilized beasts, they are. Otis is really decent for the most part, but Lucy is non stop work. To take her out we have to gear her up. Loaded with a shock collar (save your judgements) and a Gentle Leader, it's still all we can do to control the twelve pounds of fury tethered by a cute pink leash. The Gentle Leader is great because it keeps her from pulling the entire time we're walking. The shock collar is great because she gets a small zap when she barks. With it, she still barks some. Without it, she flies into a fury of barking and high-pitched squealing at the sight of flailing children, bicyclists, joggers, and chipmunks.

Our walk begins next to soccer fields that accommodate up to 8 games to be played at once (flailing children), and it's on a bike trail (bicyclists and joggers), and chipmunks are a epidemic everywhere you go (you get the idea). It's a perfect storm.

I don't know what we'd do without the battery powered taser attached to her neck. The collar might seem cruel, but trust me...walking her without one is much worse for all involved, including Lucy.

Seasonal Winds

The wind played with the hem of her dress, pulling it back tight against her. The shape of her legs, wiry and slim as cattail reeds, stood out in the folds of black fabric like engorged veins, pumping blood from her pelvis into the loose earth where her feet were planted. She was connected to her world in ways I had prayed for.

She didn’t move when I asked her to move, just kept looking at me, seeing a new piece of me that had been hidden until just this moment.

Now she knows, I thought. Not that she knows everything, but she knows enough. Enough to make her want to run. I’d want to run. I’d want to be anywhere but here.

I saw it. There was a loosening of the tension in her face, and her hands fell absently to pull the fabric out from between her knees where the wind had gathered it. I knew she had decided whether or not she was going to stay, but did not know what her answer would be.

I felt the sun on my balding head and caught small breaths of her soap in the racing wind.

I was unable to remove my eyes from the end of her dress, flapping in the wind like an overenthusiastic tail on a falling kite.

This, That, and The Other Thing

This

If you're not going to wash your hands after using the rest room, do me a favor and just rub your balls on the door handle on your way out. Stop screwing around and just do it up right.

That

Several weeks ago I was listening to the best radio show ever created (This American Life) and there was a piece by Dan Savage. Dan is a sex columnist, author, and he puts out a weekly podcast that I just recently started listening to. I downloaded one episode of the podcast, then after listening to it, went back and downloaded all 90(ish) available shows, and have been listening to very little other than that. As a result, my brain is a wee bit oversexed but I'm laughing and learning, so there's that.

The show is basically a series of voice mail messages left for Dan that he responds to "on the air". Sometimes he'll call the caller back, and other times he'll just rant by way of response. The show is funny, sad, disgusting, and ultimately enlightening. While it obviously focuses on sex, the most interesting thing the show reveals are the secret lives we're all working so hard to hide from each other. Callers are anonymous, and with that freedom comes an honesty that we almost never see in the "real world". From the young Mormon man who is struggling with coming out to his family who will most likely disown him, to minions of people calling to try to learn the origins of their particular kink or fetish, the level of honesty is shocking. And when the callers fall short of total candor or are unable to be honest with themselves, Dan is there to drag them kicking and screaming into the light.

Yesterday, I listened to Episode 53 where a 61 year old retired man called in because he felt guilty for using escort services to satisfy certain needs. It wasn't because he was ashamed of paying for sex, or because of the lack of a partner in his life. The man felt guilty for putting what he described as "extremely gorgeous looking guys" into a situation where they had to have intimate contact with him because he is extremely unattractive. He felt bad for putting people in a situation where they would have to touch him.

I'm just left thinking that so many of us are working so hard to keep our secrets, that we're missing out on a greater truth: None of us are that different from one another. When we hide what we are, our secret lives build pressure that eventually has to escape. Our judgments, our inability to laugh at ourselves, and our fears of being weird keep us from being who we are. I wish "real life" was more like The Savage Love Podcast. I think we'd all be better off.

The Other Thing

This past winter, we put up a bird feeder. Sure, it was a bad time of year to put it up, but we figured finding good eats would be tough for a bird, and we'd try to help a brotha out. We had three birds show up (that we actually saw) in a three month period. We talked to birds we saw nearby, and told them that they could take as much food as they want at Merryman Manor, but they never did.

Spring came, and while they did show up more often, it was still sporadic at best. Then, about two weeks ago, the tide turned. Our postage stamp sized front yard has become a buffet of the highest order, and Jen and I are addicted. We sit out on the porch, watch the birds in-between paragraphs of our books and sips of coffee, and we joke to each other about being the type of old married couple that sits around and watch birds.

Mmmmmmm...Birthday

Jen had a birthday yesterday. This is what I was doing by 11:30 in the morning.

Bring Out Your Dead

I believe in ghosts as much as anyone who's never seen or experienced one can. I want them to be real, but I'm not at all certain that they are. I wish they were, though.

I've known lots of people who say they've had experiences, but I normally chalk it up to bullshit. Still, every once in awhile, I'll have a conversation with someone that I've already come to like and trust, and they'll tell me about an experience they've had. I still can't say I believe the stories, but I do believe that they believe them.

I was talking to a friend about this earlier today and it got me thinking about this haunted tour of New Orleans that I went on. It was a walking tour of the city that set out shortly before dark. Our guide was a medium and worked for a company who was contracted to come out and investigate hauntings. She told us stories about working on the shoot for Oliver Stone's JFK and how they had trouble keeping night security staff because they were tormented by a presence.

We walked around the city, and even spent some time in a haunted hotel room and then a lobby that used to be a holding area for incoming slaves. At one point in this former slave holding tank, she asked us to focus, hold our hands out in front of us, and see if we felt anything. I walked around, trying as hard as I could. What I did feel was the heavy atmosphere of the history of that room, but I had no flashes of the past. My arms tingled with lack of blood flow, and when she saw me wiggling my hands she spoke to me and said that she could tell I felt something. I didn't correct her.

For me, it almost doesn't matter if they're real or not though. It's the stories that come with them that's fascinating. It's the horror of life, the sudden unfairness of death, and a soul refusing to accept the natural order of things that draw me in. Like any tale, a hint of truth will enhance it, but it doesn't make or break it for me.

I've been accused of not believing in ghosts because I'm an atheist, and having to accept the existence of ghosts means I would have to redefine my beliefs in other spiritual matters. Again, I call bullshit on that. First, I've never been afraid of my many glaring contradictions, and can't imagine this would be any different. I would have no trouble hanging out with the Ghost of Christmas Past and still saying I don't believe in God. Second, I don't mind being proven wrong from time to time. You show me the face of God, and I'll be the first one to let you know I was fucking up.

Ghost stories are my favorite though. Other supernatural tales are fine. I like zombies, vampires, and werewolves, but when it comes to spookiness and stories that make me look over my shoulder as I'm reading, it's all about the ghosts.

So, if you know where I can find one, holla at your boy. Jen and I are ready for a road trip. But, if we drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere for nothing, you're buying us beer.

Close Enough

I got up to the third floor by using a tiny stainless steel box of an elevator, and followed the signs through the dark hallway around to the left. As I rounded the corner I could see a new sign again saying "Suite 300" with an arrow pointing to the left and I started to think I was walking through a cork screw maze. Finally, after a mile of stained carpets and struggling fluorescent bulbs overhead, the door stood open before me, welcoming me inside.

I smiled at the receptionist and she said "You must be Steve." I let her know I was, and took a seat after being told it would be just a few moments before my interview would start. I looked around the room, thinking it could use some paint and a fake plant or two at the very minimum, but reminded myself that this is a small company and they're probably getting by on whatever they can. That's when I noticed the sign at the end of the receptionist's desk:

Welcome Stephanie Merryman!

I smiled to myself, and settled in to wait. After a couple of minutes, I got bored and thought I'd chat up the receptionist. She let me know that she had been there for a year and four months and really enjoyed the work there. She was eating leftovers from their Cinco de Mayo potluck the day before, and I could hear occasional crunching as her head dipped behind the high counter. The room smelled of the corn chips scattered on her paper plate.

After several moments of chit chat, Laurie, the receptionist said "Oh my goodness!" She stood, opened a drawer that contained little letters with tabs on the back of them, and started changing "Stephanie" to "Stephen". I continued to smile.