It's an amazing fall day in Columbus. Radios and televisions this morning were awash with reports of an Indian Summer, and like a lot of people I tossed on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed outside. Jen and I puttered around, working on small projects we had been putting off with her recent sleepiness, my constant laziness, and the cold snap that sent us indoors. We got some dead flowers trimmed, potted plants disposed of and their baskets put away for the season, and I took a broom to the collected cobwebs around our front and back doors.
Now, we're on the porch. Jen suddenly has plans for other projects ("Maybe we should trim these hedges today.") and I agree to all of them knowing that it won't be too long before she runs out of steam and ideas. These days she's still good out of the gates, but not much for stamina.
Out of necessity, cigars are an outdoor vice for me, so this may well be the last good day to sit on the porch, have a beverage and a smoke. The sun warms the lawns, and the winds are strong enough to kick leaves out from under the hedges, rattling them down the street sounding like children playing tag in tap shoes. Planes come and go from the airport, but I've barely noticed them after living here the first month...they're just more background noise, part of the constant hum that surrounds the condo.
---
We proctored an SAT Test this morning, a job that allows us to pick up a bit of cash, help out one of Jen's coworkers, and gives me four or five hours to sit and read. It's a fun gig for me, because I get to roam around from room to room and watch kids as they stress over bubbled answer sheets and scribble furiously in the margins of their test booklets. They're all so young, and trying to figure out who they're going to be, but as I watch them I imagine that I already know.
It's easy to pick out the ones that will have too much fun in college. It's also pretty simple to see those who will have too little. The girls are all straight-haired and pony tailed, and the boys are all casually and carefully rumpled. I make up little stories about some of them as I half-heartedly scan the room for cheaters. None of the stories I come up with for them are very nice though, so ashamed I stop and go back to reading.
---
Jen and I have had a couple of doctor appointments, and they've gone well. We got to watch the twitching fussing fetus for half an hour on the flat screen in the doctors office as they took dozens of measurements. Jen cried when we saw him reach for his nose. I found myself groping backwards for my chair, not wanting to take my eyes off the screen where she just kicked away from the prodding ultrasound wand. A few days later, in another office, we heard the electronic chugging train of her heartbeat, and we laughed as everything became even more real.
---
Fortunately, Jen has forgotten the hedges and suggested a walk. I'm down with a stroll around the woods, so it's time to throw on some jeans and go see the sun while we still can.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
My Wife and the Roach
Last Halloween, Jen and I did some shopping in one of those Halloween USA stores that pop up in strip malls each September. We picked up a couple of things for her to wear to school, and spent twenty-five hard earned cents on a fake rubber cockroach. Jen quickly admitted that it creeped her out, even though she knew it was fake. In fact, she had a hard time reaching into the bag to pull it out. This, of course, gave me an idea.
When she found roach waiting on her phone when she reached to grab it the next morning, she screamed. I found it on the soap in the shower soon after, and laughed. She found it in the fridge on her favorite salad dressing, and screamed. I found it the next day when I was pouring cereal into a bowl (she swears she washed it), and laughed. This continued, off and on, for months.
A few days ago, I came across the roach, neglected and waiting for some fun. I found a small container of grapes Jen had packed for her lunch, and nestled him into place amongst them so she would come across him later that day at work. She called me that afternoon laughing.
When she found roach waiting on her phone when she reached to grab it the next morning, she screamed. I found it on the soap in the shower soon after, and laughed. She found it in the fridge on her favorite salad dressing, and screamed. I found it the next day when I was pouring cereal into a bowl (she swears she washed it), and laughed. This continued, off and on, for months.
A few days ago, I came across the roach, neglected and waiting for some fun. I found a small container of grapes Jen had packed for her lunch, and nestled him into place amongst them so she would come across him later that day at work. She called me that afternoon laughing.
Then, the roach disappeared. I didn't see him for days. Until, that is, the day the following picture was taken. She said she opened it, placed him in with his head poking out, and then sealed him in with a bit of super glue. She's a good wife.
Excuse the blurry pic, but you get the idea.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Funeral By Numbers
2 Days.
1150 miles.
6 dirty public bathrooms
1 awesome iPod Playlist.
2 breaks to walk dogs, feed dogs, pet dogs, and pee.
1 small cooler filled with
-6 cans Coke Zero (fuelled by diet colas)
-1 ham sandwich
-2 pieces Light String Cheese
-2 Light Yogurt cups
2 boxes Jelly Belly assorted jelly beans.
2 funeral viewings.
7 pairs of wax lips from Farm & Fleet.
8-10 beers.
1 Butt Sex "shooter".
1 crying, laughing, happy, and sad wife.
1 hangover.
17 hours in the driver's seat.
1 numb ass.
1 funeral.
1 graveside service.
1 family luncheon.
1 mother crying as she says good-bye.
1 return home.
4 hours sleep.
1150 miles.
6 dirty public bathrooms
1 awesome iPod Playlist.
2 breaks to walk dogs, feed dogs, pet dogs, and pee.
1 small cooler filled with
-6 cans Coke Zero (fuelled by diet colas)
-1 ham sandwich
-2 pieces Light String Cheese
-2 Light Yogurt cups
2 boxes Jelly Belly assorted jelly beans.
2 funeral viewings.
7 pairs of wax lips from Farm & Fleet.
8-10 beers.
1 Butt Sex "shooter".
1 crying, laughing, happy, and sad wife.
1 hangover.
17 hours in the driver's seat.
1 numb ass.
1 funeral.
1 graveside service.
1 family luncheon.
1 mother crying as she says good-bye.
1 return home.
4 hours sleep.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Christmas Dorks
I know I can be a bit of a sarcastic dick at times, but I love this time of year. While you'll hear me groan a bit when the Christmas decorations come out before Halloween is over, there is a part of me that likes it. I tend to like it more as Thanksgiving gets closer, and this year I've been looking forward to Christmas even more than usual. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think our last Christmas had something to do with it.
We were total scrooges last year. There was a potential move for us on the horizon, and we told ourselves there was no reason to drag out boxes of Christmas stuff just to have to pack it all back up in the event of a move. We were collecting boxes and had even thrown some of our books into them in preparation. We didn't want to spend money on presents for each other since we were going to need every penny, so we only bought presents for our super cute and always wonderful nephews. There was no tree and nothing to put under it. We told ourselves it was fine. We're adults and don't need to spend money on each other due to tradition. We don't need to string up lights or force our dogs to wear antlers purchased from Petsmart.
We were wrong. By the time last Christmas finally came, we were both in a bit of a funk and depressed. We had fun with the family, but without our little quiet celebration with the two of us things just didn't feel quite right. So, this year, we're going to fix that.
Normally, I'm the big dork that gets us moving towards the Christmas Spirit, but it was a call from Jen this morning that got me thinking these thoughts.
Jen: Hey.
Me: Hey back.
Jen: So, I was thinking...
Me: Did you hurt yourself?
Jen: Dick.
Me: Hehe.
Jen: Anyway, I was thinking we should do the outside lights this year. And since we're rearranging stuff this week anyway to get ready for my mom's visit, maybe we could do the living room too so there's more room for the tree.
Me: Sure. What's got you all gun ho for Christmas?
Jen: I refuse to admit that it was the snow.
It was funny because the snow made me feel the same way. There were a few flurries yesterday, but they were thin anemic flakes that fell as fast as raindrops. This morning though, the flakes had fattened up, and lazed their way down into rush hour. Drivers slowed as if twelve inches of fresh powder had fallen, and the radio accident report sounded like a crash course in our city's geography. It was nice to know that in the midst of cars slamming into each other all around us because of the damp roads, Jen and I were being big dorks at the same time.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Snooze
Ahhh, the quiet life.
Jen, still trying to get over a cold and failing miserably, spent the weekend on the couch, leaving me to my own devices. I failed to get creative and spent most of the time hanging around her, fetching soup and Diet 7Up with liberal doses of cranberry juice added.
Saturday morning we had to go do ACT testing. This is something we each do for some extra spending money, and it's easy work. The supervisors are set up in individual classrooms, and I just roam around my assigned rooms, giving them breaks if they want them. Basically, I get paid to read my book in the company of teenagers. (Speaking of books, I'm reading "Heart Shaped Box" by Joe Hill. Good stuff. It wasn't until someone saw me reading it that they mentioned Joe is Stephen King's son. I hadn't realized, but now looking at his picture I don't know how I didn't see it. I'm about half through the book though, and it is really good. I've been striking out with my reading lately, so it's been fun to get into something again.) Not a bad gig. Plus, it's paying for my Kim Jong iLL frames and will finance a new creative endeavor I've got in the works.
It's strange to go back to a school though. Like the hospital, it's one of those worlds that are so easy to forget, but feel so familiar once you're forced to step back into it.
My view while patrolling the halls.
After testing, we had plans to go run around and do some shopping and then head over to my brother's place to see my sister-in-law (home from the hospital and doing well) and watch a football game that neither Jen nor I had much interest ing. She was feeling worse than ever though, so we cut our errands short and headed home. That's where she stayed the rest of the weekend.
I watched some slasher (Hatchet, Mr. Brooks) movies, played Dr. Mario with the infected one, did what cleaning I felt like and headed out on Sunday for our weekly supplies of frozen whole wheat waffles and Coke Zero. Jen slept on the couch both Saturday and Sunday, so I fell asleep each night watching reruns of the US version of The Office.
Big times, kids. Big. Times.
Jen, still trying to get over a cold and failing miserably, spent the weekend on the couch, leaving me to my own devices. I failed to get creative and spent most of the time hanging around her, fetching soup and Diet 7Up with liberal doses of cranberry juice added.
Saturday morning we had to go do ACT testing. This is something we each do for some extra spending money, and it's easy work. The supervisors are set up in individual classrooms, and I just roam around my assigned rooms, giving them breaks if they want them. Basically, I get paid to read my book in the company of teenagers. (Speaking of books, I'm reading "Heart Shaped Box" by Joe Hill. Good stuff. It wasn't until someone saw me reading it that they mentioned Joe is Stephen King's son. I hadn't realized, but now looking at his picture I don't know how I didn't see it. I'm about half through the book though, and it is really good. I've been striking out with my reading lately, so it's been fun to get into something again.) Not a bad gig. Plus, it's paying for my Kim Jong iLL frames and will finance a new creative endeavor I've got in the works.
It's strange to go back to a school though. Like the hospital, it's one of those worlds that are so easy to forget, but feel so familiar once you're forced to step back into it.
My view while patrolling the halls.
After testing, we had plans to go run around and do some shopping and then head over to my brother's place to see my sister-in-law (home from the hospital and doing well) and watch a football game that neither Jen nor I had much interest ing. She was feeling worse than ever though, so we cut our errands short and headed home. That's where she stayed the rest of the weekend.
I watched some slasher (Hatchet, Mr. Brooks) movies, played Dr. Mario with the infected one, did what cleaning I felt like and headed out on Sunday for our weekly supplies of frozen whole wheat waffles and Coke Zero. Jen slept on the couch both Saturday and Sunday, so I fell asleep each night watching reruns of the US version of The Office.
Big times, kids. Big. Times.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Playing Hooky
So, Jen and I get up early on Thursday to go get a bit of her cancerous neck removed. We get to the office, and after some discussion, they let us know that they're not going to remove it that morning, rather schedule us out for another month. We were bummed...it was going to be nice to just have it all taken care of and be able to put it out of our thoughts for a bit. Jen apologized for having me take off work and waste our time, and I decided the day wouldn't be a waste at all.
We went and did some shopping. We picked up the new Ben Folds and a pair of running pants for her at Target, and then went in to the jewelry store where we bought our wedding rings to get mine re sized. I haven't worn my ring in the past couple of months because it was falling off my finger, and since I've kind of leveled out weight-wise I figured it would be good to appear married to the general public once again.
The salesman at the store was pretty funny. He had taken my plain gold wedding band into custody and was writing up the work order for me while joking about getting Jen a bigger diamond for her ring. He kept pulling out full carat loose diamonds and teasing me for not upgrading her ring. I told him that I had been thinking about becoming the kind of guy who wears pinkie rings, and he busted out a nice square ring with about a million little diamonds in it. For two grand, I could look fly.
"Well, if you're done messing around and are ready for some serious bling, let's go get you a watch." the salesguy said. He led me over to a watch case and pulled out a gold Rolex. When he strapped it to my wrist I swear I wouldn't be able to hold my hand up. That thing must have weighed eight pounds. Jen thought it was funny to see me wearing a Rolex since I don't wear anything but my wedding ring. Funny, that is, until she saw the $30,000 price tag on it. Once she saw that, she was ready to have me give it back.
Once we were done screwing around there we went over to the Japanese steakhouse that we go to every once in awhile for lunch. It was funny being there on a work day, getting drunk on over sized bottles of Sapporo and glasses of plum wine. Everyone else around us seemed to be on a schedule while we sat around and drank and ate spicy tuna roll.
From there we just bummed around. We made a stop at a tattoo shop where I went through their books of fonts, wanting to pick something out for my arms. Finding nothing, I settled on a stop at Best Buy (Iron Man and the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre hit Blu-ray this week) and went home to watch a comic book character blow shit up.
I really hope that the next time we go to have doctor hack into her face we have another day like that one. Beats working any day.
We went and did some shopping. We picked up the new Ben Folds and a pair of running pants for her at Target, and then went in to the jewelry store where we bought our wedding rings to get mine re sized. I haven't worn my ring in the past couple of months because it was falling off my finger, and since I've kind of leveled out weight-wise I figured it would be good to appear married to the general public once again.
The salesman at the store was pretty funny. He had taken my plain gold wedding band into custody and was writing up the work order for me while joking about getting Jen a bigger diamond for her ring. He kept pulling out full carat loose diamonds and teasing me for not upgrading her ring. I told him that I had been thinking about becoming the kind of guy who wears pinkie rings, and he busted out a nice square ring with about a million little diamonds in it. For two grand, I could look fly.
"Well, if you're done messing around and are ready for some serious bling, let's go get you a watch." the salesguy said. He led me over to a watch case and pulled out a gold Rolex. When he strapped it to my wrist I swear I wouldn't be able to hold my hand up. That thing must have weighed eight pounds. Jen thought it was funny to see me wearing a Rolex since I don't wear anything but my wedding ring. Funny, that is, until she saw the $30,000 price tag on it. Once she saw that, she was ready to have me give it back.
Once we were done screwing around there we went over to the Japanese steakhouse that we go to every once in awhile for lunch. It was funny being there on a work day, getting drunk on over sized bottles of Sapporo and glasses of plum wine. Everyone else around us seemed to be on a schedule while we sat around and drank and ate spicy tuna roll.
From there we just bummed around. We made a stop at a tattoo shop where I went through their books of fonts, wanting to pick something out for my arms. Finding nothing, I settled on a stop at Best Buy (Iron Man and the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre hit Blu-ray this week) and went home to watch a comic book character blow shit up.
I really hope that the next time we go to have doctor hack into her face we have another day like that one. Beats working any day.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Moley Moley Mole
Jen's mole turned blue. Tucked under the jawline, it was barely noticeable among the other small moles and shadows thrown across her neck, but she saw it and asked me what I thought. While I don't know much, I have heard that moles randomly swapping shades of blue might not be the best thing, so I encouraged a doctor visit that she quickly scheduled.
I took last Friday off and we went to an appointment where they shaved the mole off the side of her neck and shipped it off to a lab. Yesterday, we get a call.
"This call is for Jennifer Merryman. You have been left a message in your secure voice mail box. Please call 1-800 blah blah blah for your results."
This is something new. You get a secure voice mail that you call and enter a code that was given to you at the time of your appointment. When the doctor gets the results, the receptionist calls and records a message for the patient. Jen's message went something like this:
"Hi Jennifer, this is Sally with Doctor Jenning's office. The results of your biopsy were received, and they were positive for Basal Cell Carcinoma. The doctor is going to want to see you soon, so please give us a call so we can schedule your next appointment. Have a great day."
We spent the rest of the morning laughing about what an odd job that must be, and how we would do it differently. "Good Morning, this is Sally with Doctor Jenning's office. The results of your biopsy were received and...well, honey I just don't even know how to say this. That mole was just ten different kinds of fucked up. I mean really, there are like twelve other kinds of cancer that are scared shitless of the stuff you have growing on your face. You best get your butt in here with a quickness."
Seriously, if you can't laugh at cancer, what can you laugh at?
And, to be fair, calling it cancer at all is an insult to the invasive horrible shit that other people have to go through. It's more like cancerish. They'll cut it off, she'll have a couple of stitches, and we'll just have to be more careful about watching for more of the same. It's a bit of a freak out the moment you hear the word cancer at first, but we're still pretty flippant about the whole thing. I imagine that will change closer to her next appointment, but it's how we deal with stuff round these parts. We poke inappropriate fun at the issue until it's actually time to get down to business.
So, in the meantime, I'll make fun of her scar by calling it her "cancer dimple" and she'll finish every outlandish inconvenient (to me) request with "But I have cancer!" We're very lucky actually. If you had to pick from a list of cancers from a menu, this is the one you would choose. We'll take it. Then, we'll get rid of it.
I took last Friday off and we went to an appointment where they shaved the mole off the side of her neck and shipped it off to a lab. Yesterday, we get a call.
"This call is for Jennifer Merryman. You have been left a message in your secure voice mail box. Please call 1-800 blah blah blah for your results."
This is something new. You get a secure voice mail that you call and enter a code that was given to you at the time of your appointment. When the doctor gets the results, the receptionist calls and records a message for the patient. Jen's message went something like this:
"Hi Jennifer, this is Sally with Doctor Jenning's office. The results of your biopsy were received, and they were positive for Basal Cell Carcinoma. The doctor is going to want to see you soon, so please give us a call so we can schedule your next appointment. Have a great day."
We spent the rest of the morning laughing about what an odd job that must be, and how we would do it differently. "Good Morning, this is Sally with Doctor Jenning's office. The results of your biopsy were received and...well, honey I just don't even know how to say this. That mole was just ten different kinds of fucked up. I mean really, there are like twelve other kinds of cancer that are scared shitless of the stuff you have growing on your face. You best get your butt in here with a quickness."
Seriously, if you can't laugh at cancer, what can you laugh at?
And, to be fair, calling it cancer at all is an insult to the invasive horrible shit that other people have to go through. It's more like cancerish. They'll cut it off, she'll have a couple of stitches, and we'll just have to be more careful about watching for more of the same. It's a bit of a freak out the moment you hear the word cancer at first, but we're still pretty flippant about the whole thing. I imagine that will change closer to her next appointment, but it's how we deal with stuff round these parts. We poke inappropriate fun at the issue until it's actually time to get down to business.
So, in the meantime, I'll make fun of her scar by calling it her "cancer dimple" and she'll finish every outlandish inconvenient (to me) request with "But I have cancer!" We're very lucky actually. If you had to pick from a list of cancers from a menu, this is the one you would choose. We'll take it. Then, we'll get rid of it.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Fall
The leaves are noisier now than they were a week ago. Their dry edges and they scrape against each other in the wind. When you're quiet, it's so loud. Last night, Jen and I stood still on a bridge that crosses a small creek not too far from our home and listened. It was a good night.
Some of the leaves are even starting to fall already. We rode our bikes the other day and leaves drifted with cinematic grace around us and on us as we pedaled along slowly, talking. Enough had fallen on the trail that they were being ground into smaller pieces and the air was full of the good sweet smell of them. Even though it was almost 90 degrees that day, it was the first hint of fall and it made me want more.
I've been stuck working a lot of overtime at work lately, and it's kept me from riding to work. The weather the last two days has been so amazing that I couldn't keep myself from taking my bike in, so I woke up at 4:00 this morning to I could get ready and get to work by 6:00. On the trail by 5:00, there was one thing that I hadn't considered before getting out there. It's creepy out there in the dark alone. Just plain creepy.
There was a bit of fog collected along the stream banks, and it swallowed the small straining headlight I had mounted to my bike, reducing my visibility to about 6 feet. Small animals moved in my periphery making me hope I wouldn't scare a skunk in the dark. The things that I don't like about the trail during the day (neighborhoods, apartment complexes, open fields) became the places I loved in the dark (street lights, security lights, the half moon above me). The whole time I was riding though, the smell of the leaves filled the air, and in the darkness seemed even stronger.
Some of the leaves are even starting to fall already. We rode our bikes the other day and leaves drifted with cinematic grace around us and on us as we pedaled along slowly, talking. Enough had fallen on the trail that they were being ground into smaller pieces and the air was full of the good sweet smell of them. Even though it was almost 90 degrees that day, it was the first hint of fall and it made me want more.
I've been stuck working a lot of overtime at work lately, and it's kept me from riding to work. The weather the last two days has been so amazing that I couldn't keep myself from taking my bike in, so I woke up at 4:00 this morning to I could get ready and get to work by 6:00. On the trail by 5:00, there was one thing that I hadn't considered before getting out there. It's creepy out there in the dark alone. Just plain creepy.
There was a bit of fog collected along the stream banks, and it swallowed the small straining headlight I had mounted to my bike, reducing my visibility to about 6 feet. Small animals moved in my periphery making me hope I wouldn't scare a skunk in the dark. The things that I don't like about the trail during the day (neighborhoods, apartment complexes, open fields) became the places I loved in the dark (street lights, security lights, the half moon above me). The whole time I was riding though, the smell of the leaves filled the air, and in the darkness seemed even stronger.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Retraction
I take it all back. After this morning, I was more than ready to put her on a plane. Further, I'm thinking about having her consider staying for another week.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Miss Me When You're Gone
Jen's suspicious of my timing.
On Sunday, she's heading to Wisconsin to hang out with her mom for a week, and leaving me to log some serious Grand Theft Auto time. This is a trip she makes each year, and I always look forward to it too.
In my mind, it's a week of bachelorhood. I can do what I want, when I want. I'll be able to watch Kill Bill without having to get up and hang laundry in the middle of it. I won't have someone standing over my shoulder reminding me I should drink another 48 ounces of water before bed. No one will be standing there, shaking their head at me as I stand weaving in front of the coffee pot, asking me what time I finally made it to bed. The idea of it is great.
The reality is a bit different. I generally don't sleep well that week. I find myself working on little projects that she has been bugging me to do, that I've been putting off. We text each other a lot. I hear every little noise in the house. I do get to play a lot of games and scratch where it itches, but you can only do that so long. By the time she comes back, I will be more than ready for the company. I'm such a hermit, but she's my partner in being housebound.
Still, she's suspicious of my timing. This morning, I broke down and took my wedding ring off. It's been seriously loose for a while, but this morning it almost fell off in the shower, so I took it off and put it in her jewelry box. She watched me do and asked if I was making plans for a big week while she was gone.
"Honey, if I don't take the ring off now and try to get rid of the tan line, everyone at the bar will know I'm married."
"Nice. Jackass."
On Sunday, she's heading to Wisconsin to hang out with her mom for a week, and leaving me to log some serious Grand Theft Auto time. This is a trip she makes each year, and I always look forward to it too.
In my mind, it's a week of bachelorhood. I can do what I want, when I want. I'll be able to watch Kill Bill without having to get up and hang laundry in the middle of it. I won't have someone standing over my shoulder reminding me I should drink another 48 ounces of water before bed. No one will be standing there, shaking their head at me as I stand weaving in front of the coffee pot, asking me what time I finally made it to bed. The idea of it is great.
The reality is a bit different. I generally don't sleep well that week. I find myself working on little projects that she has been bugging me to do, that I've been putting off. We text each other a lot. I hear every little noise in the house. I do get to play a lot of games and scratch where it itches, but you can only do that so long. By the time she comes back, I will be more than ready for the company. I'm such a hermit, but she's my partner in being housebound.
Still, she's suspicious of my timing. This morning, I broke down and took my wedding ring off. It's been seriously loose for a while, but this morning it almost fell off in the shower, so I took it off and put it in her jewelry box. She watched me do and asked if I was making plans for a big week while she was gone.
"Honey, if I don't take the ring off now and try to get rid of the tan line, everyone at the bar will know I'm married."
"Nice. Jackass."
Monday, June 9, 2008
Weekend Update
It's true. I've been morose a bit lately, but that ends today. Mrs. Merryman and I just wrapped up an excellent weekend together. Saturday we had mom come over and we headed over to the North Market. For my two out of state readers, the North Market is an institution in CBus. It's a combination outdoor Farmer's Market (all organic, grown by local farmers) with an indoor market with dozens of vendors selling everything from Vietnamese groceries, fresh baked bread, fresh fish (never frozen and from sustainable sources), and restaurant type food. It's an amazing place.
I bought Jen some Corkscrew Grass (weird grass that's as twisted and bushy as After-Sex Hair). We also bought some fresh salad greens, two big bundles of asparagus, some organic Pumpkin Apple Butter and some salmon steaks. We're getting a bit like hippies when it comes to food, but we're trying not to get carried away. We're digging the idea of clean eating, but the thing that I really like is supporting the local farmers. The prices are decent, and you know you're helping someone stay independent. Good stuff.
After heading back to Merryman Manor, we grilled up and tossed together our lunch, grubbed down and then Jen and I headed out to see The Strangers. It really was a decent movie. I was on edge most of the film and it was fun, but it's yet another horror movie with sketched characters and very little story. Yes, I get that it's kind of the point...random violence can happen to anyone without a reason or backstory, it's just not the most engaging story telling. Still, it was a bit disturbing, and very tense, so we had fun.
When we got back to the house we decided we didn't want to be inside yet, so we grabbed some water and headed over to Sharon Woods Metropark to walk around for a bit. It's a nice enough place, and it was cool because there were so many families out for graduation parties. Every picnic shelter was full of people. Kids swarmed around volleyball nets and old men played horseshoes. Normally, we like going to the park for some quiet and to be left alone, but there was something infectious about all the activity, and the five mile walk was over before we knew it.
Sunday morning was all about the Bike Gang. We got up early and headed out to do a trail that stretches between Johnstown and Newark. It's about 30 miles round trip, and we about died halfway back. It was so fucking hot. So hot. Still, it was fun. It's a great ride through the country and it's mostly a shaded ride. We saw some small animals along the way (baby raccoons are pretty cute, ya'll) and survived, so we were proud of ourselves. Of course I was useless the rest of the day and did very little else, but still...
I bought Jen some Corkscrew Grass (weird grass that's as twisted and bushy as After-Sex Hair). We also bought some fresh salad greens, two big bundles of asparagus, some organic Pumpkin Apple Butter and some salmon steaks. We're getting a bit like hippies when it comes to food, but we're trying not to get carried away. We're digging the idea of clean eating, but the thing that I really like is supporting the local farmers. The prices are decent, and you know you're helping someone stay independent. Good stuff.
After heading back to Merryman Manor, we grilled up and tossed together our lunch, grubbed down and then Jen and I headed out to see The Strangers. It really was a decent movie. I was on edge most of the film and it was fun, but it's yet another horror movie with sketched characters and very little story. Yes, I get that it's kind of the point...random violence can happen to anyone without a reason or backstory, it's just not the most engaging story telling. Still, it was a bit disturbing, and very tense, so we had fun.
When we got back to the house we decided we didn't want to be inside yet, so we grabbed some water and headed over to Sharon Woods Metropark to walk around for a bit. It's a nice enough place, and it was cool because there were so many families out for graduation parties. Every picnic shelter was full of people. Kids swarmed around volleyball nets and old men played horseshoes. Normally, we like going to the park for some quiet and to be left alone, but there was something infectious about all the activity, and the five mile walk was over before we knew it.
Sunday morning was all about the Bike Gang. We got up early and headed out to do a trail that stretches between Johnstown and Newark. It's about 30 miles round trip, and we about died halfway back. It was so fucking hot. So hot. Still, it was fun. It's a great ride through the country and it's mostly a shaded ride. We saw some small animals along the way (baby raccoons are pretty cute, ya'll) and survived, so we were proud of ourselves. Of course I was useless the rest of the day and did very little else, but still...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Strange Days Have Found Us
Busy busy. For the most part, it's all boring day to day stuff. We go to work to make money to buy books and movies that we don't have time to watch lately because we're too busy exercising or running around. Seriously, I have a copy of "There Will Be Blood" that I bought the day it came out that I still haven't seen.
I haven't finished a book in weeks, and the pile of stuff I have to be read is starting to overflow. Recently I picked up a handful of Jack Ketchum's paperbacks (haven't read anything yet, but appears to be pretty intense horror), some healthy grilling cookbooks, and "The Raw Shark Texts" by Steven Hall. Imaginary monsters feeding on your memories? Yes, please.
I think by far the most interesting thing in our little lives came in the form of a threat posted by a sophomore high school student against the school my wife works at. Tuesday was her birthday, and I had flowers and balloons delivered to her, but found it odd by mid-afternoon when she hadn't called to say that she had received them. I called under the guise of wanting to talk about something else and I get:
"Hey. Got the flowers. They're nice. Gotta run. Love you, bye." She didn't take a breath nor did she give me a chance to say anything. Click. She hung up.
Thirty minutes later I call home to check messages and hear the Superintendent's automated message saying that students had been sent home, all evening activities had been cancelled and the following day's classes were cancelled as well due to a threat made against the school. Immediately you think it's some fucking knucklehead calling in a bomb threat or otherwise being douche, but part of you wonders. I immediately thought of the grainy black and white surveillance video from Columbine I saw, and wished she'd call to tell me what's going on.
So, it turns out (per another automated call received from the school tonight) that the kid had made the "threat" in an online forum, saying he needed grenades, but had guns already. He posted that he thought he could kill 60 people before he was taken out and that this was set to go down Thursday. The FBI tracked his IP address back to Columbus, and had a heart to heart with the boy to see exactly what the deal was.
He was just a kid being stupid. There were no guns. There was no real threat.
When things like this happen though, my imagination always gets carried away. I spend some time at the school to proctor ACT and SAT tests for extra cash, and to be honest, the place can be a bit creepy. I think maybe it's high schools in general that can be creepy when you aren't used to them. I pictured kids running down the institutional-green hallways, and the front office where my wife works under siege. I know Jen did too.
We tried not to get too carried away with the whole ordeal, but when she called me from the office to catch me up on what was going on, I could hear that she was upset. To have a place you consider yours, a safe place, be threatened and suddenly not be a place of comfort is unsettling. Even knowing the kid was just a bored punk online won't set things back to the way they were right away. This will probably be with her for a while, and I hate that for her. Hopefully it won't be too long before it's at least at the back of her mind though.
Enough of that.
This weekend I get to partake in the first adult beverage I've had in almost four months. I will be with some professional drinkers, so I will have to take my time and really pace myself, but I can't wait. More than anything it'll just be good to get away from here for a few days and hang with some good folks. Somewhere along the way I'm going to finish the fifth (sixth?) draft of a short story that I did about a man and his dog. Aw. Sounds wholesome, huh? It's not.
I haven't finished a book in weeks, and the pile of stuff I have to be read is starting to overflow. Recently I picked up a handful of Jack Ketchum's paperbacks (haven't read anything yet, but appears to be pretty intense horror), some healthy grilling cookbooks, and "The Raw Shark Texts" by Steven Hall. Imaginary monsters feeding on your memories? Yes, please.
I think by far the most interesting thing in our little lives came in the form of a threat posted by a sophomore high school student against the school my wife works at. Tuesday was her birthday, and I had flowers and balloons delivered to her, but found it odd by mid-afternoon when she hadn't called to say that she had received them. I called under the guise of wanting to talk about something else and I get:
"Hey. Got the flowers. They're nice. Gotta run. Love you, bye." She didn't take a breath nor did she give me a chance to say anything. Click. She hung up.
Thirty minutes later I call home to check messages and hear the Superintendent's automated message saying that students had been sent home, all evening activities had been cancelled and the following day's classes were cancelled as well due to a threat made against the school. Immediately you think it's some fucking knucklehead calling in a bomb threat or otherwise being douche, but part of you wonders. I immediately thought of the grainy black and white surveillance video from Columbine I saw, and wished she'd call to tell me what's going on.
So, it turns out (per another automated call received from the school tonight) that the kid had made the "threat" in an online forum, saying he needed grenades, but had guns already. He posted that he thought he could kill 60 people before he was taken out and that this was set to go down Thursday. The FBI tracked his IP address back to Columbus, and had a heart to heart with the boy to see exactly what the deal was.
He was just a kid being stupid. There were no guns. There was no real threat.
When things like this happen though, my imagination always gets carried away. I spend some time at the school to proctor ACT and SAT tests for extra cash, and to be honest, the place can be a bit creepy. I think maybe it's high schools in general that can be creepy when you aren't used to them. I pictured kids running down the institutional-green hallways, and the front office where my wife works under siege. I know Jen did too.
We tried not to get too carried away with the whole ordeal, but when she called me from the office to catch me up on what was going on, I could hear that she was upset. To have a place you consider yours, a safe place, be threatened and suddenly not be a place of comfort is unsettling. Even knowing the kid was just a bored punk online won't set things back to the way they were right away. This will probably be with her for a while, and I hate that for her. Hopefully it won't be too long before it's at least at the back of her mind though.
Enough of that.
This weekend I get to partake in the first adult beverage I've had in almost four months. I will be with some professional drinkers, so I will have to take my time and really pace myself, but I can't wait. More than anything it'll just be good to get away from here for a few days and hang with some good folks. Somewhere along the way I'm going to finish the fifth (sixth?) draft of a short story that I did about a man and his dog. Aw. Sounds wholesome, huh? It's not.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Pops
My father started preaching the gospel when he was 8 years old. At first, he was a novelty, the cute kid who they would pull up to speak at Camp Meetings who would speak for a few minutes about Jesus' love. By the time he was 13 though, he was getting press in the local papers when he would be speaking at a revival. True, the novelty was still there, but he began to build steam. He wasn't yet 15 when he started getting air time on the local radio station to preach.
I don't know a whole lot else about him or his childhood. I know his father was abusive, and he once told me about catching a beating because he climbed up on their new camper after he was told not to. The fact that they were all playing hide-and-seek and the kids whose parents owned the camper were all hiding on top of it didn't factor in. I know that he was locked in closets as punishment, sometimes for as much as 24 hours. I know his favorite toy (a scooter) was taken away from him each Sunday as his sacrifice for the Sabbath. My mother told me he had a homosexual experience in high school and then again in college, but I have no idea how he figured those actions into his narrow interpretation of religion.
She met him in a church run university where he was the most popular boy in school. Girls flocked to hear him preach, and while he wasn't much of a student in general, his passion for the Word of God carried him through school. My mother dropped out to marry him after he graduated, and they became traveling evangelists until she got pregnant with my brother. They settled down in a small house to focus on building a family, and he took on his first church.
An amazing speaker, my father was really best suited for evangelism. He could sweep into a town, hold a week long revival, get people running the aisles and then head on to the next town. Taking on a church required paperwork, money management, and working with a board of individuals that want to see the corporation of Jesus run in a certain way. This was a challenge for him, and he leaned on my mother to fill in the gaps which she did to the best of her ability.
Still, it would usually just be a handful of years until things would start to go bad. The Church Board would be against him, or circumstance, and then God would call our family to a new city and a new church. So we started a cycle of moving around through Indiana and Ohio, from church to church, holding what I've come to think of as "Extended Revivals".
When it comes to his adult life, I know almost less than I do of his childhood. He left the family when I was ten, so my memories are of a caricature...not a fully formed person. I know that he had affairs. I know he was always seeking out get rich quick schemes, investing money we didn't have into pyramid schemes and roofing businesses. He sold advertising. He sold sleeping bags along road sides. The electricity would get turned off. We ate a lot of fried bread.
He loved to pick up hitchhikers, something that made my mother so uncomfortable she wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He was devoted to his congregation and loved to be a part of that bigger family. He loved to give gifts, and is truly a person that I think liked giving more than receiving.
But in all this, I never saw someone speak the way he did. He would get entire congregations moving.
He would be speaking, preaching, teaching and then the mood would strike him. He would jump from the pulpit and sit behind the organ and start to play and sing, getting the congregation to stand and join him. It wasn't choreographed, it felt organic and natural. A piece of scripture would trigger a song, or vice versa. His sermon notes were just a blueprint, a jumping off place, and he rarely gave the same teaching the same way twice. He had years of notes and sermons, and that was just his own work. He also had hundreds from his father as well and would sometimes pull an old sermon out he remembered from his childhood.
After I moved out of my mom's house, years would go by without contact with my father. My anger over my childhood eventually fizzled out and just became a kind of sadness for him, and eventually became a gentle apathy. I no longer wished ill on him, I just didn't care. Things could be great or rough for him. In the end, he was another in a long line of strangers out there.
When we heard he was dying, my brother and I made several trips to see him. He was weak and the cancer was robbing his personality along with everything else. We would just sit and chat. He would call Jennifer "your wife" because he didn't know her name, but he would ask about her, and it seemed like he really wanted to know about who she was. His current congregation loved him, and he always had a room full of flowers and visitors.
When he passed, one at a time, the members of his church stood and told stories about this stranger. They would talk about how he would stop talking mid-sentence and go over to play the organ, and how they loved not knowing what would happen on Sunday mornings. They talked about how he was always at the hospital to visit with them and their families. They talked inviting to their homes after services for dinner, and how he was an engaging delightful guest.
In the end, I think that sums him up pretty well. He really was an engaging delightful guest. I guess in the end, there are a lot worse things you could be.
This morning, here at work, a Ben Folds song came on about a kid that climbed a tree tripping on acid and in the morning he came down a born again Christian. It got me thinking about my dad, and I wondered what he would have seen if he had dosed some blotter and climbed a tree.
I don't know a whole lot else about him or his childhood. I know his father was abusive, and he once told me about catching a beating because he climbed up on their new camper after he was told not to. The fact that they were all playing hide-and-seek and the kids whose parents owned the camper were all hiding on top of it didn't factor in. I know that he was locked in closets as punishment, sometimes for as much as 24 hours. I know his favorite toy (a scooter) was taken away from him each Sunday as his sacrifice for the Sabbath. My mother told me he had a homosexual experience in high school and then again in college, but I have no idea how he figured those actions into his narrow interpretation of religion.
She met him in a church run university where he was the most popular boy in school. Girls flocked to hear him preach, and while he wasn't much of a student in general, his passion for the Word of God carried him through school. My mother dropped out to marry him after he graduated, and they became traveling evangelists until she got pregnant with my brother. They settled down in a small house to focus on building a family, and he took on his first church.
An amazing speaker, my father was really best suited for evangelism. He could sweep into a town, hold a week long revival, get people running the aisles and then head on to the next town. Taking on a church required paperwork, money management, and working with a board of individuals that want to see the corporation of Jesus run in a certain way. This was a challenge for him, and he leaned on my mother to fill in the gaps which she did to the best of her ability.
Still, it would usually just be a handful of years until things would start to go bad. The Church Board would be against him, or circumstance, and then God would call our family to a new city and a new church. So we started a cycle of moving around through Indiana and Ohio, from church to church, holding what I've come to think of as "Extended Revivals".
When it comes to his adult life, I know almost less than I do of his childhood. He left the family when I was ten, so my memories are of a caricature...not a fully formed person. I know that he had affairs. I know he was always seeking out get rich quick schemes, investing money we didn't have into pyramid schemes and roofing businesses. He sold advertising. He sold sleeping bags along road sides. The electricity would get turned off. We ate a lot of fried bread.
He loved to pick up hitchhikers, something that made my mother so uncomfortable she wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the day. He was devoted to his congregation and loved to be a part of that bigger family. He loved to give gifts, and is truly a person that I think liked giving more than receiving.
But in all this, I never saw someone speak the way he did. He would get entire congregations moving.
He would be speaking, preaching, teaching and then the mood would strike him. He would jump from the pulpit and sit behind the organ and start to play and sing, getting the congregation to stand and join him. It wasn't choreographed, it felt organic and natural. A piece of scripture would trigger a song, or vice versa. His sermon notes were just a blueprint, a jumping off place, and he rarely gave the same teaching the same way twice. He had years of notes and sermons, and that was just his own work. He also had hundreds from his father as well and would sometimes pull an old sermon out he remembered from his childhood.
After I moved out of my mom's house, years would go by without contact with my father. My anger over my childhood eventually fizzled out and just became a kind of sadness for him, and eventually became a gentle apathy. I no longer wished ill on him, I just didn't care. Things could be great or rough for him. In the end, he was another in a long line of strangers out there.
When we heard he was dying, my brother and I made several trips to see him. He was weak and the cancer was robbing his personality along with everything else. We would just sit and chat. He would call Jennifer "your wife" because he didn't know her name, but he would ask about her, and it seemed like he really wanted to know about who she was. His current congregation loved him, and he always had a room full of flowers and visitors.
When he passed, one at a time, the members of his church stood and told stories about this stranger. They would talk about how he would stop talking mid-sentence and go over to play the organ, and how they loved not knowing what would happen on Sunday mornings. They talked about how he was always at the hospital to visit with them and their families. They talked inviting to their homes after services for dinner, and how he was an engaging delightful guest.
In the end, I think that sums him up pretty well. He really was an engaging delightful guest. I guess in the end, there are a lot worse things you could be.
This morning, here at work, a Ben Folds song came on about a kid that climbed a tree tripping on acid and in the morning he came down a born again Christian. It got me thinking about my dad, and I wondered what he would have seen if he had dosed some blotter and climbed a tree.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
That Time
Do you remember that time we danced in the living room to Otis Redding?
Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?
Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?
Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?
Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?
Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?
Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?
Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?
Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?
Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?
Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?
Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?
Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?
Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?
(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)
Do you remember that time I shot my brother's nine millimeter into the air, and only wondered where the bullet would come down after I pulled the trigger?
Do you remember that time I stole the bottle of Adidas cologne out of that kid's pocket in middle school, even though I knew he would know it was me?
Do you remember that time we used to smoke the crushed butts of Viceroys out of your old man's ashtray?
Do you remember that time you brought vodka to the Youth Group trip to Chicago?
Do you remember that time that guy we knew got his hands of six pint bottles of raw ether and the way we screamed when you tried to light a cigarette?
Do you remember that time when we couldn't stop laughing?
Do you remember that time we walked up on that group of six deer and they just stood there and looked at us?
Do you remember that time I was looking down into the Valley of Armageddon, and didn't even realize it?
Do you remember that time we held hands while walking on the beach and then cracked up at what a cliche we were?
Do you remember that time I told the kids at school I had lots of GI Joe vehicles and figures because I wanted them to like me even though they probably already did?
Do you remember that time I saw the neighbor kid's dad punch him for not helping with the groceries fast enough?
Do you remember that time you told me that you hate people that do the things you do?
Do you remember that time we sat in your car in the parking lot at Kroger trying to pick up the Indianapolis station long enough to hear Radiohead's "Creep"?
(Regina Spektor's "That Time" came up on my iPod and got me rolling.)
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
A Veritable Potpourri of Whatnots
Every morning when I drive to work, and then each evening when I drive home, I look for deer along the edges of yards and in the fields along the highway. While I often see them, I don't know why I spend so much time looking for them in the first place.
---
Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.
---
The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.
---
I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.
---
I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!
---
I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.
I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.
---
Most days I will chew an entire pack of Orbit gum at work. It first started because the diet I'm on gives you funny smelling breath. They say it has something to do with being in ketosis. Well, it started with that, but now it's an obsession. Unless I am having the one cup of coffee I allow myself in the morning, I am chewing gum while at work. Rarely do I chew gum at home though.
---
The other day I got home from work and was talking to Jen. I turned to go to upstairs and she called me back. She had noticed that the back of the jeans I was wearing had ripped from the top of the pocket down to the top of my thigh. I had worn the jeans all day at work, but have no idea when or how they ripped. It's possible I spent the entire day at work with my butt hanging out, although everyone denies having noticed. Fortunately, I was rockin' some super swanky boxers.
---
I like being outside on Wednesday's at noon when the city does the Tornado Siren testing each week. I didn't realize that until today, but every time I'm out and about at that time and I hear the whine in the air I like it. Although,I liked the sirens considerably less last year when they went off for real and Jen and I had to hang out in our downstairs bathroom waiting for the funnel clouds to pass.
---
I preordered Wii Fit today. I'm going to get the new Mario Kart soon too. Bask in my geekiness! I SAID BASK!
---
I love tattoos. Well, some tattoos. I've always wanted some ink done, but never had anything in mind that I loved enough to get on my own skin. I see other people's tatts and think that they look cool, but they're never anything I would want on my own skin. A long time ago I read East of Eden and fell in love with the book. It's still my favorite book of all time. In the book, they discuss the word "timshel" which in Hebrew translates to "Thou Mayest". Biblically it refers to free will. The reference is to the passage that says "Thou mayest rule over sin". I love affirmation of free will. You may rule over sin. You may choose not to. You may choose to romp and roll in it. For me, not being a born again (the first time was enough, thanks) gentleman, I just like the idea it conveys about personal choice, and the responsibility that comes with it.
I decided years ago that if I got work done, it would be the original Hebrew characters on one inner arm, and then "timshel" inside the other arm. I always said that I would wait until I dropped some pounds first though. 100 of them to be exact. Well, here I am, realistically within three weeks of hitting that goal and still not sure if I want to do it. I really love tattoos, but again, I really love other people's tattoos. We'll see.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Assortments of Assorted Assortments
My wife is pretty sick, yo. While she seems pretty shy and sweet on the surface, there are things going on under the surface that I don't understand. Here's the thing.
I've been working on a pretty gruesome short story for way too long now. It's called "Bridge" (for now) and it's the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written. I like it quite a bit. Still, there was a part of the story which was a bit too graphic for even me. After consulting with a couple of people that I respect their opinion, I removed the super-extra disturbing phrase from the piece, and felt good about it.
The next day I tell Jen about it and while she reserves her opinion, I detect a tone. When I press her about it, she just says that she'll have to read it. I argue my point, saying that knowing that this heinous little thought was in my main character's mind makes him less likable. She says, "OK."
So I start thinking about it. Why do I care if my character is likable? Why this weird need to defend him? So we started talking about it during the course of drive, discussing possible motivations for the man. In the end, the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written just got ten times worse (in my mind, at least). My character now just isn't less likable, he's a monster.
I read the story (all 25 pages) aloud to her tonight (reading aloud lets me catch so many mistakes that I would normally miss). When I got to the part where my gross little story takes a nosedive into hell, I glance over at my sweet innocent bride.
She's smiling. Ick.
In happier news, I've been quite the good consumer lately. Last weekend I was able to get a couple of tickets for this summer's Radiohead show at Blossom Music Center outside of Cleveland. I'm hoping an out of town friend will be able to join me, but if not, I'll drag my brother along again. He went with me the first time I saw them after Kid A/Amnesiac. I really like the new album, and I even liked a bunch of stuff off of Hail to the Thief, when a lot of people don't. It wasn't their best record, but even when Radiohead is so-so, I still like them better than 95% of everything else out there.
I also bought a new gas grill over the weekend and hope to be able to pick it up tomorrow. We'll be mixing in some dinners here soon (stupid diet) and I wanted the grill for all of the fish, chicken and veggies we'll be cookin' up. Gotta tell ya, I love my funky red grill.
I've been working on a pretty gruesome short story for way too long now. It's called "Bridge" (for now) and it's the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written. I like it quite a bit. Still, there was a part of the story which was a bit too graphic for even me. After consulting with a couple of people that I respect their opinion, I removed the super-extra disturbing phrase from the piece, and felt good about it.
The next day I tell Jen about it and while she reserves her opinion, I detect a tone. When I press her about it, she just says that she'll have to read it. I argue my point, saying that knowing that this heinous little thought was in my main character's mind makes him less likable. She says, "OK."
So I start thinking about it. Why do I care if my character is likable? Why this weird need to defend him? So we started talking about it during the course of drive, discussing possible motivations for the man. In the end, the ugliest, most graphic, and evil thing I've ever written just got ten times worse (in my mind, at least). My character now just isn't less likable, he's a monster.
I read the story (all 25 pages) aloud to her tonight (reading aloud lets me catch so many mistakes that I would normally miss). When I got to the part where my gross little story takes a nosedive into hell, I glance over at my sweet innocent bride.
She's smiling. Ick.
In happier news, I've been quite the good consumer lately. Last weekend I was able to get a couple of tickets for this summer's Radiohead show at Blossom Music Center outside of Cleveland. I'm hoping an out of town friend will be able to join me, but if not, I'll drag my brother along again. He went with me the first time I saw them after Kid A/Amnesiac. I really like the new album, and I even liked a bunch of stuff off of Hail to the Thief, when a lot of people don't. It wasn't their best record, but even when Radiohead is so-so, I still like them better than 95% of everything else out there.
I also bought a new gas grill over the weekend and hope to be able to pick it up tomorrow. We'll be mixing in some dinners here soon (stupid diet) and I wanted the grill for all of the fish, chicken and veggies we'll be cookin' up. Gotta tell ya, I love my funky red grill.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
We Have Rules for a Reason, Damnit!
The novelty of owning bicycles is gone now, and we're getting more and more serious about riding. While we haven't gotten out tons yet, we find ourselves watching the clock and wanting to beat our previous times. There was a hill that we had to walk part of the way up our first outing, but now we own it. (By "Own It" I mean we pedal slowly huffing and puffing our way to the top cursing anything that moves. Fucking chipmunks.)
It's still really fun though. That part hasn't changed for us at all. It's great to be outside, riding through the trees. Sure, you have to make yourself ignore the highway hiss from time to time, but it's not like you're in the middle of nowhere. In fact, not being in the middle of nowhere has other issues that come with it too.
Our first couple of outings were when the weather hadn't really turned yet. We were out there with a handful of others who were sick of their couches and treadmills and were ready to get out and about. Now though, as the weather warms and the evenings are longer, the multi-purpose trails in the Metro Parks are getting a bit crowded. Not overly crowded yet, but you have to keep an eye out so you don't mow down a family of three when doing 20 mph down a hill.
The main trail that we go to has the left side dedicated to bike traffic, but people drift in and out of lanes taking up the entire paved surface. Normally soft spoken, Jen (who generally leads), had a hard time speaking up to let people know we were passing on the left.
"Ah hem. On the left." she'd stage whisper.
Now though, the bike trail is Jen's trail.
"Passing on the left!" she says loudly as she buzzzes the newlyweds.
"This is the bike lane, buddy." she declares to the Hispanic gentleman who was so confused by the site of two bikes barreling down on him that he froze in the middle of our lane, unable to move left or right.
We encouter the occasional jogger who refuses to give up the lane, even though they're jogging the wrong direction and on the wrong side. I pity these men and women who unwittingly open themselves to unrequested direction.
"Simple-minded motherfuckers, every one of them!" she says drinking from her bottle of water while I lift the bikes back onto the rack, still trying to catch my breath.
It's not that my wife is mean. Far from it. It isn't even that she likes to strike fear in the hearts of the unsuspecting as she passes them so fast and close they can smell a trace of the perfume she wore to work that day. My wife simply believes rules were meant to be followed because they are there to protect us all. She believes this so deeply, she is willing to share her beliefs with anyone who may even look suspect of riding clockwise on the counter clockwise path.
I laugh at her on the way home, picking at her for the improptu "education" she was dumping on park-goers. She remains steadfast in the idea that the next time those people go to the trail, they'll keep in mind what she said and will stay on the walking path. Over a period of months, traffic will flow evenly and smoothly and we will all commune with the outdoors together in harmony.
It's this distance between reality and her ideas that makes Jen fun. She lives in that gap, hoping to bring everyone over to her side. Not just at the trail, but in most things. Recognizing the parallax, but choosing to ignore it, she treads on with her perspective of how it should be and just hopes that enough people will come around to see it her way.
I hope everyone on that trail knows how hard she's working to keep them all safe. She's exhausted.
It's still really fun though. That part hasn't changed for us at all. It's great to be outside, riding through the trees. Sure, you have to make yourself ignore the highway hiss from time to time, but it's not like you're in the middle of nowhere. In fact, not being in the middle of nowhere has other issues that come with it too.
Our first couple of outings were when the weather hadn't really turned yet. We were out there with a handful of others who were sick of their couches and treadmills and were ready to get out and about. Now though, as the weather warms and the evenings are longer, the multi-purpose trails in the Metro Parks are getting a bit crowded. Not overly crowded yet, but you have to keep an eye out so you don't mow down a family of three when doing 20 mph down a hill.
The main trail that we go to has the left side dedicated to bike traffic, but people drift in and out of lanes taking up the entire paved surface. Normally soft spoken, Jen (who generally leads), had a hard time speaking up to let people know we were passing on the left.
"Ah hem. On the left." she'd stage whisper.
Now though, the bike trail is Jen's trail.
"Passing on the left!" she says loudly as she buzzzes the newlyweds.
"This is the bike lane, buddy." she declares to the Hispanic gentleman who was so confused by the site of two bikes barreling down on him that he froze in the middle of our lane, unable to move left or right.
We encouter the occasional jogger who refuses to give up the lane, even though they're jogging the wrong direction and on the wrong side. I pity these men and women who unwittingly open themselves to unrequested direction.
"Simple-minded motherfuckers, every one of them!" she says drinking from her bottle of water while I lift the bikes back onto the rack, still trying to catch my breath.
It's not that my wife is mean. Far from it. It isn't even that she likes to strike fear in the hearts of the unsuspecting as she passes them so fast and close they can smell a trace of the perfume she wore to work that day. My wife simply believes rules were meant to be followed because they are there to protect us all. She believes this so deeply, she is willing to share her beliefs with anyone who may even look suspect of riding clockwise on the counter clockwise path.
I laugh at her on the way home, picking at her for the improptu "education" she was dumping on park-goers. She remains steadfast in the idea that the next time those people go to the trail, they'll keep in mind what she said and will stay on the walking path. Over a period of months, traffic will flow evenly and smoothly and we will all commune with the outdoors together in harmony.
It's this distance between reality and her ideas that makes Jen fun. She lives in that gap, hoping to bring everyone over to her side. Not just at the trail, but in most things. Recognizing the parallax, but choosing to ignore it, she treads on with her perspective of how it should be and just hopes that enough people will come around to see it her way.
I hope everyone on that trail knows how hard she's working to keep them all safe. She's exhausted.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Untitled (First Draft Doodling -Now with extra edits!)
(NOTE: The following post has been cleaned up a bit since it was first posted. My lovely wife is the best editor I could ask for when it comes to grammar and punctuation. It's nice to have someone you care about point out how bad you are at something. Thanks, honey.)
"Why don't we hear birds singing more often here?" she asked as they walked through the forest, following the ragged, rock-studded trail. Phillip had stopped walking and closed his eyes listening, noticing for the first time the oddly quiet trees. It did seem strange to be in the middle of the forest and to hear so few birds.
"Maybe it's too early for most of them?" he said, guessing. He heard his wife sigh as she started walking again. She had little use for guesses as a rule, and even less patience for guesses that came from him. She had once complained that he had to have an answer for everything, and even if he didn't know, he would make up an answer just to have something to say.
It was the lack of bird song in the air that Phillip found himself thinking about as he regained consciousness. He was on his back, and his blurry gaze smeared the electric-green pines across a clouding sky. He lay still, letting his over-tasked mind take stock of the dozens of messages his body was sending him all at once. The left leg screamed the loudest, its voice cracking and breaking with the force, pushing the slightly softer voices coming from the rest of his body to the background. Phillip started to reach instinctively with his right arm to run down the outside edge of his leg, but it wouldn't move. Best to think about the arm in a minute, he thought, and decided to try his left.
Phillip's index and middle fingers walked slowly down the outside of his hip and down his leg, pulling its arm behind it until he felt his left shoulder lower just slightly, causing a jagged flash of pain to rip across his chest. His fingertips rested on jagged splinters of what he reasoned must be bone. "Shit" he muttered.
Slowly he tried to account for his injuries as best as he could without moving. His left leg was broken into kindling, right arm still immobile, left wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. Phillip's chest felt like a barbed-wire tumbleweed was blowing around, scraping at the inside of his skin and lungs with each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, not wanting the panic that was tapping him on the shoulder to crawl on top of him and start screaming the truth of his situation in his face.
In movies, when someone wakes up after being knocked unconscious they awaken confused, never sure what happened to them. It takes a doctor or sensative-eyed police officer gently breaking the news before realization and memory comes flooding back. For Phillip though, he remembered everything. He remembered standing on the overlook, watching the swaying treetops at eye level. He remembered the sudden absence of ground under his feet. He remembered the blur of rock and sky. He remembered the warmth of Janelle's palms in the middle of his back and being surprised at the force and strength behind them as she pushed.
Slowly, Phillip opened his eyes and looked to the cliff face above where she still stood, looking down on him. Small in the distance, he imagined a look of disappointment on her face as she looked down at his small movements. They stayed that way, Janelle with arms crossed glaring down the cliff, Phillip reclining amongst the rocks his limbs improbably folded in 45 degree angles, looking at each other through the distance. Slowly, Janelle turned and disappeared from sight.
A soft red movement caught Phillip's eye, and he turned his head to examine the source. High above, perched near the top of a still-budding Maple, a Robin had lighted and swayed in the breeze watching him. Feeling insecure with its perch, the Robin flitted and adjusted, finding purchase on a thicker branch. The bird seemed unafraid, accustomed to the heavy weekend traffic of the state park. Still, it kept its distance while appearing to maintain eye contact and Phillip found himself seeing the same disappointed look that had clouded his wife's face in the sharp intelligence of the Robin's eyes.
Without telegraphing intention, the Robin swooped down and found rest on a lower branch, this one a mere ten feet from Phillip. Still it seemed to keep its focus on him, never looking side to side.
Phillip smiled up at the bird. He saw it breathe in and open its mouth.
"Are you going to sing for me?" he whispered up, his chest pinching around the words.
The bird closed its mouth, turned to the side and flew away.
"Why don't we hear birds singing more often here?" she asked as they walked through the forest, following the ragged, rock-studded trail. Phillip had stopped walking and closed his eyes listening, noticing for the first time the oddly quiet trees. It did seem strange to be in the middle of the forest and to hear so few birds.
"Maybe it's too early for most of them?" he said, guessing. He heard his wife sigh as she started walking again. She had little use for guesses as a rule, and even less patience for guesses that came from him. She had once complained that he had to have an answer for everything, and even if he didn't know, he would make up an answer just to have something to say.
It was the lack of bird song in the air that Phillip found himself thinking about as he regained consciousness. He was on his back, and his blurry gaze smeared the electric-green pines across a clouding sky. He lay still, letting his over-tasked mind take stock of the dozens of messages his body was sending him all at once. The left leg screamed the loudest, its voice cracking and breaking with the force, pushing the slightly softer voices coming from the rest of his body to the background. Phillip started to reach instinctively with his right arm to run down the outside edge of his leg, but it wouldn't move. Best to think about the arm in a minute, he thought, and decided to try his left.
Phillip's index and middle fingers walked slowly down the outside of his hip and down his leg, pulling its arm behind it until he felt his left shoulder lower just slightly, causing a jagged flash of pain to rip across his chest. His fingertips rested on jagged splinters of what he reasoned must be bone. "Shit" he muttered.
Slowly he tried to account for his injuries as best as he could without moving. His left leg was broken into kindling, right arm still immobile, left wrist throbbing with each beat of his heart. Phillip's chest felt like a barbed-wire tumbleweed was blowing around, scraping at the inside of his skin and lungs with each breath. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing, not wanting the panic that was tapping him on the shoulder to crawl on top of him and start screaming the truth of his situation in his face.
In movies, when someone wakes up after being knocked unconscious they awaken confused, never sure what happened to them. It takes a doctor or sensative-eyed police officer gently breaking the news before realization and memory comes flooding back. For Phillip though, he remembered everything. He remembered standing on the overlook, watching the swaying treetops at eye level. He remembered the sudden absence of ground under his feet. He remembered the blur of rock and sky. He remembered the warmth of Janelle's palms in the middle of his back and being surprised at the force and strength behind them as she pushed.
Slowly, Phillip opened his eyes and looked to the cliff face above where she still stood, looking down on him. Small in the distance, he imagined a look of disappointment on her face as she looked down at his small movements. They stayed that way, Janelle with arms crossed glaring down the cliff, Phillip reclining amongst the rocks his limbs improbably folded in 45 degree angles, looking at each other through the distance. Slowly, Janelle turned and disappeared from sight.
A soft red movement caught Phillip's eye, and he turned his head to examine the source. High above, perched near the top of a still-budding Maple, a Robin had lighted and swayed in the breeze watching him. Feeling insecure with its perch, the Robin flitted and adjusted, finding purchase on a thicker branch. The bird seemed unafraid, accustomed to the heavy weekend traffic of the state park. Still, it kept its distance while appearing to maintain eye contact and Phillip found himself seeing the same disappointed look that had clouded his wife's face in the sharp intelligence of the Robin's eyes.
Without telegraphing intention, the Robin swooped down and found rest on a lower branch, this one a mere ten feet from Phillip. Still it seemed to keep its focus on him, never looking side to side.
Phillip smiled up at the bird. He saw it breathe in and open its mouth.
"Are you going to sing for me?" he whispered up, his chest pinching around the words.
The bird closed its mouth, turned to the side and flew away.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Don't Mess With Texas
I may not have been intoxicated at the exact moment I stood up in the front of the ornate church in some Texas town I've forgotten the name of, but during that period in my life I was rarely without my medication. It's influence was obvious in most of the major decisions I was making at the time. (Note that I said "...when I got married the first time.")
And so it was that I was lying on a mattress that sat on the floor of our little apartment over a garage with my soon to be ex wife trying to sleep when I heard the screaming. It was after ten, which in my mind made things worse. Somehow I thought if a woman were screaming her head off before seven it would be less sinister. Deciding I wanted a cigarette anyway, I searched around for my shoes and headed downstairs with my hunny-bunny bride in tow.
We followed the yells to the edge of the property we lived at to a bridge that crossed a small stream that the neighboring farmer let his cows drink from. We had had a man staying down there a few weeks before, a drifter who was passing through. It wasn't the first of the drifters, but we had gotten used to them quickly as they all seemed to be harmless hippies for the most part. When I heard the screams I was just positive that I would be face to face with a mild-mannered hippie turned rapist, and I was not pleased about it.
Far from sober, it took me a few minutes of looking down at the little stream to realize that the lights coming up out of the dark belonged to a car on its roof - not a sex crazed madman's campfire. I remember standing there, stoned and detached, being so grateful it was just a car accident.
I scrambled down the embankment and a woman was pulling herself through the driver's side window. She had a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise seemed OK. I asked her if there was anyone else in the car, and she said no. To be sure, I got down on my knees in the water and the leaking gasoline peering into a backseat that looked like a traveling yard sale. There was so much shit in there I couldn't even begin to list it.
I called up to have exie call the squad, and the woman and I sat on the side of the hill, me holding her in my arms. She stank of gasoline and beer, and she bawled as I held her. I just hugged her tighter and told her she was OK and to try to be as still as she could because she might be hurt and not realize it. After a few minutes she quieted.
Suddenly, she pushed back against my chest, looking at me for the first time. My hair was an all one length grunge grease mess that just hit my shoulders and I had a goatee so long it tickled my neck and chest when I would read at night in bed. Sometimes it was dyed bright red. I don't recall if it was at the time. Regardless, she saw enough of me in the fading light of her headlights to reconsider our snuggling.
"I don't even know you!" she slurred.
"No. No, you don't."
We didn't talk the rest of the time. The police showed up first. One cop made it down the embankment to check out the situation, and then asked me to stay with her while he called it in. I stayed. Shortly after, the squad showed and they carried her out of the stream on a backboard.
I climbed the embankment and watched them load her into the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Begrudgingly, one of the officers on the scene came over and mumbled "Thanks" and shook my hand with three halfhearted pumps. I guess he didn't like my goatee either.
I sat out on the porch and re medicated (how else does one fall asleep?) and then took a shower to get the gas and mud off of me.
That really encapsulates my Texas experience. Medication, marriage, divorce, being called "faggot-assed faggot" by a farmer while visiting our local Dairy Queen, and just trying to wash it all away in a nice hot shower.
And so it was that I was lying on a mattress that sat on the floor of our little apartment over a garage with my soon to be ex wife trying to sleep when I heard the screaming. It was after ten, which in my mind made things worse. Somehow I thought if a woman were screaming her head off before seven it would be less sinister. Deciding I wanted a cigarette anyway, I searched around for my shoes and headed downstairs with my hunny-bunny bride in tow.
We followed the yells to the edge of the property we lived at to a bridge that crossed a small stream that the neighboring farmer let his cows drink from. We had had a man staying down there a few weeks before, a drifter who was passing through. It wasn't the first of the drifters, but we had gotten used to them quickly as they all seemed to be harmless hippies for the most part. When I heard the screams I was just positive that I would be face to face with a mild-mannered hippie turned rapist, and I was not pleased about it.
Far from sober, it took me a few minutes of looking down at the little stream to realize that the lights coming up out of the dark belonged to a car on its roof - not a sex crazed madman's campfire. I remember standing there, stoned and detached, being so grateful it was just a car accident.
I scrambled down the embankment and a woman was pulling herself through the driver's side window. She had a small cut on her forehead, but otherwise seemed OK. I asked her if there was anyone else in the car, and she said no. To be sure, I got down on my knees in the water and the leaking gasoline peering into a backseat that looked like a traveling yard sale. There was so much shit in there I couldn't even begin to list it.
I called up to have exie call the squad, and the woman and I sat on the side of the hill, me holding her in my arms. She stank of gasoline and beer, and she bawled as I held her. I just hugged her tighter and told her she was OK and to try to be as still as she could because she might be hurt and not realize it. After a few minutes she quieted.
Suddenly, she pushed back against my chest, looking at me for the first time. My hair was an all one length grunge grease mess that just hit my shoulders and I had a goatee so long it tickled my neck and chest when I would read at night in bed. Sometimes it was dyed bright red. I don't recall if it was at the time. Regardless, she saw enough of me in the fading light of her headlights to reconsider our snuggling.
"I don't even know you!" she slurred.
"No. No, you don't."
We didn't talk the rest of the time. The police showed up first. One cop made it down the embankment to check out the situation, and then asked me to stay with her while he called it in. I stayed. Shortly after, the squad showed and they carried her out of the stream on a backboard.
I climbed the embankment and watched them load her into the ambulance smoking a cigarette. Begrudgingly, one of the officers on the scene came over and mumbled "Thanks" and shook my hand with three halfhearted pumps. I guess he didn't like my goatee either.
I sat out on the porch and re medicated (how else does one fall asleep?) and then took a shower to get the gas and mud off of me.
That really encapsulates my Texas experience. Medication, marriage, divorce, being called "faggot-assed faggot" by a farmer while visiting our local Dairy Queen, and just trying to wash it all away in a nice hot shower.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Putting the Day to Bed
Jen was done tonight. Anxiety woke her up around 2:30 in the morning last night and she wasn't able to fall back asleep. Instead, she got up to do laundry and some general house cleaning. This evening, I painted while she nodded out during the first hour of The Biggest Loser. I used some bold blue in the midst of a red field. She snored softly, still trying to shake off the last of our shared cold.
I put the dogs out while she came upstairs to brush her teeth. She was in bed by the time I got up to say goodnight to her. She was already on her way out, drifting.
Her face is changing. It's different than it was 40 pounds ago, and for a moment she was a stranger bundled under a familiar comforter. In my mind, I saw what she may look like thirty years from now buried under the skin of a cranky sleep deprived brow. I liked what I saw. I kissed her forehead, smoothing out some of the furrowed skin there that seems more familiar on the faces of my young nephews than it does on my wife, and she was gone.
I had one of those "This is not my beautiful house / This is not my beautiful wife!" moments. Suddenly everything current in my life felt like completely new to me, and I stood there beside the bed looking down on her wondering how I ever got to this point.
It seems like a year ago we were all sitting in the grass outside of that North Dallas apartment complex singing into the night. It was a month ago I came crawling back north confused and looking for a place to live. A week ago I lived in that old house downtown drinking too much and living in fear of parking on the street.
The moment was gone before it fully arrived. I felt it pass the moment it touched me and was left feeling simply grateful.
I put the dogs out while she came upstairs to brush her teeth. She was in bed by the time I got up to say goodnight to her. She was already on her way out, drifting.
Her face is changing. It's different than it was 40 pounds ago, and for a moment she was a stranger bundled under a familiar comforter. In my mind, I saw what she may look like thirty years from now buried under the skin of a cranky sleep deprived brow. I liked what I saw. I kissed her forehead, smoothing out some of the furrowed skin there that seems more familiar on the faces of my young nephews than it does on my wife, and she was gone.
I had one of those "This is not my beautiful house / This is not my beautiful wife!" moments. Suddenly everything current in my life felt like completely new to me, and I stood there beside the bed looking down on her wondering how I ever got to this point.
It seems like a year ago we were all sitting in the grass outside of that North Dallas apartment complex singing into the night. It was a month ago I came crawling back north confused and looking for a place to live. A week ago I lived in that old house downtown drinking too much and living in fear of parking on the street.
The moment was gone before it fully arrived. I felt it pass the moment it touched me and was left feeling simply grateful.
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