Archive | February, 2014

Away

28 Feb

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The sun is shining and it is Friday. 

…I have had enough of the life-junk and am going on strike as soon as it hits 4:00. 

…I will not wash the dishes, or clean the bathroom.

…I will not pay the bills or go food shopping.

…Instead, I will put in my earbuds and go for a walk.

…In the sun.

…With the clean air.

…And the happy runners.

…And let all my thoughts and problems just be ignored.

…And prob’ly get a frappachino.

…The whole-milk kind.

…And point at the boats on the waterfront.

…Then feed illegal bread to the seagulls and squirrels.

…And watch that one dude by the docks, who disco dances in roller skates to silence, cuz his brain is fried and he still thinks it’s 1974.

…Because this is what I need.

…For me.

…And I need it, TODAY.

…Right now.

…Cuz enough is enough.

…And I’m tired of feeling shitty.

The sun is shining.

And it is Friday.

~D

Wordless

26 Feb

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I have to write a letter tonight, to a man I haven’t spoken to in nearly 14 years. 

…It’s about another man, whom I haven’t seen in almost as long. 

I feel side-swiped, and ill prepared, though there were signs that were telling me to get ready.  Signs that this was coming.  But I was so consumed with trying to dig out of the last family loss, that I didn’t give this next one the attention I should have, nor the people on the other side of family tree, sharing limbs with me.

Tonight, they are gathered, there.  I know what they feel. I know the loss of appetite and swell of pain ripping upward from the throat which comes from trying to hold back tears.  I know they are huddled together, speaking comforts to one another. Uncles are picking up Aunts from the airport. Everyone seems to be whispering, with grim-faced stares.  Children are fussing and crying because they don’t understand what it all means, only it is the most terrifying thing in the world to see your father cry.

…I imagine.

They are at a loss, with a loss, which seems somehow removed from me. I don’t like to admit it, but I want to comfort them, without being hypocritical. Having a loss that rips you in two deserves its proper mourning, and sympathy. They knew and grew up with this man their entire lives, and the simple fact is: I did not.

This afternoon, I found out that my Grandfather had passed away.

The man has given me my name, by once marrying my Grandmother, and adopting my Father and his sister, before carrying on to grow the family further. From them grew cousins I adore, and their sweet babies I wish I could snuggle. He may not have been of my blood directly, but it was a proud name, and he was a proud man, and his life, though almost exclusively separate from mine, helped to make me who I am today.

Our ancestors are our roots, seeding us, growing us, anchoring us into our places on this earth in a true marriage of “for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” For this, I am truly thankful to him, but I know it is not the same as the pain the others are feeling tonight.

…And I feel really badly about that.

Frankly, I feel like a total asshole.

For over an hour today, I haunted the sympathy card aisle, trying to choose something to send to my family. Something that recognized the epic loss, without making it sound as if it had nothing to do with me…yet nothing which might hurtfully presume more of a relationship which I hadn’t earned, and would have no right to presume upon them now in their grief.

…Just so you know: They don’t make those kind of cards.

I’m literally faced now with two “blanks.” Something calming on the outside of water and blooming life: on the inside: nothing.

One for my Grandmother and family.

One, for my Father.

I have a pen sitting right there, on the table, but I’ve no idea whatsoever where to begin.

…Even just starting the first one is odd.

“Dad,” it says.

Simple enough I guess, only not so much when you haven’t spoken the word in one and a half decades. Two years before that. Four before that.

I don’t know my Father, any more than I knew his.

So now I must write of one to the other, and have suddenly a minefield stretching out before me of all the things NOT to say, yet no idea how to get to the things I should.

What, for instance, can I write, which won’t dig up past ghosts, and hurl them at him blind-sidedly…triggering whatever regrets and/or guilts he might have held onto all these years, as people from broken relationships do? Now is not the time to appear to be throwing loaded emotional bombs at people in their grief…even less, at your own Father. Because you actually harbor him no ill will, that was all over…long ago.

…You just don’t know him, is the end result.

…So what in the hell do you say in a card on the loss of your “Dad’s” Dad, when you can’t seem to even think of the title yourself without quotations marking it’s specific significance?

I don’t have the proper practice it takes to say it without sounding foreign.

Love of family can be an odd happenstance, a Frankenstein-and-the-Monster kind of thing. Sometimes it is a comfort from stability and encouragement. Sometimes it is a flamethrower away from all-out war. Sometimes it resides in the symbolism. Mostly, I’d say, in the “shared experience”…good, bad, or otherwise. Because of this, you can hold that fierce connection and devotion, no matter how far apart you roam from one another. You belong to the name. You belong to the history. You belong to the gene pool, and its every harbored secret and horror and wonder and joy and regret.

…Because of this, I can say, “I love my family,” and mean it…whether I particularly know them well…whether I’ve met their spouses, or children…whether I attend the potlucks and football games, show up at Easter…or not…because we are linked by these viciously intense, and invisible tethers. They are my people, and I am there’s.

…I want to tell them: “I’m sorry for our loss” without sounding condescending or belittling the depth of their grief in any way. After all: they’ve been there through thick and through thin…and I have not.

…I want to say things of comfort, give hugs that will help, and be an ear to talk to…should any of them want or need that essential sounding board when lost in the anger, confusion and sadness of what has happened and what is yet to come, from it’s repercussions.

…And if I knew how, I’d want to tell my Dad…

…I guess I’d tell him…

…What?

…In all seriousness? Waiting for Godot would not be as long as waiting with this pen sitting in front of me tonight…

I really just need to not fuck this up.

~D

S’posed To Be…

26 Feb

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Man, we are slow at the office.  Epic slow. Painful slow. 

The storm systems are killing our sales and everyone here is done with their day by like 9:30.  Going on week two.

…This is a good chance to do things like get paid to learn lines.  Which is what I should be taking advantage of right now, and not beating computer keys with my fingers, on a blog that has about as much plot purpose as a Seinfeld episode.

I have a purpose, but am choosing to ignore it.  Some more.  As I’ve already been ignoring it a lot to begin with.  But now I’m putting in writing that as soon as I get done with this SUPER informative episode of literary genius, I will immediately bust out my script and continue on with learning Act Two.

You are my witness.

…Course, I could choose to ignore all that last paragraph and stream more Netflix instead…how the hell would you know…but I won’t.  I will be the responsible actor that I should be.  I will fill up my coffee cup.  I will pull out my cue sheets.  I will open my script to page whatever-I’m-on, and roll it up in my fist, while pacing my office, stabbing the air occasionally with my word-sword as I chant sentences in repeat sessions like a fixated schizophrenic. 

…In this case: an overbearing Canadian Mother schizophrenic.

…I still have NO IDEA what the hell that even means…but I’ll figure that out later.

First come  the words.

…And the words from the page.

…And the page is in that bag over there.

…And if I just suck it up, and get to it…I bet I can be off book by 2pm.

…None of which will happen if I stay here.

…Doing this.

…Which has now just become a sad final attempt at procrastination.

…Involving ellipses as a bastard version of a postscript in which there was nothing to be said even in the main letter.

…The end.

P.S. No, but really.

~D

Tech Murder

24 Feb

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Am eating a blob of potato salad out of a styrofoam coffee cup as a giant “fuck you!” and solace to my Monday morning.

…The damn computer kept glitching, and freezing all through the open order and morning report-running process, so I’ve spent the last three hours cussing at it and overly clicking my mouse.

Me: (click, click, click) WORK YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF TECH-SHIT!

Computer: (thinky wheel)

Me: (clickety click-click) I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS CRAP!

Computer: (thinky wheel, ongoing)

Me: (click, click-click-click) YOU HAD OFF ALL WEEKEND. YOU’VE BEEN DORMANT FOR TWO FUCKING DAYS! I CAN’T EVEN GET FIFTEEN DEDICATED SECONDS OF CONCENTRATION NOW?! WTF!

Computer: “Activation Fail.”

Me: (click, click, click, click) REALLY?!  REALLY?! YOU CAN’T EVEN OPEN A GODDAMN WEBPAGE?!

Computer: “Please contact your webmaster or administrator.”

Me: (click, clickity, click-click) WELL, I’D LOVE TO. BUT THEY NEVER PICK UP THEIR GODDAMN PHONES OVER THERE. SO IT’S YOU AND ME, PAL. YOU. AND ME! THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN EITHER THE HARD WAY OR THE HARDER WAY! YOU PICK!!

Computer: (thinky wheel)

Me: (clickty-clickty-clickity click, click) YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! YOU REGROUP AND FIGURE OUT THOSE OPTIONS! NOT A LOT OF LEEWAY, IS THERE?! IS THERE?!?!? YOU ANSWER WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU! AND SHUT UP WITH THAT FUCKING THINKY WHEEL!!!

Computer: (beep followed by blue screen of death)

(Beat.)

Me: Oh. Ohhhh…you bitch.

Computer: (black screen)

Me: You think you can just pull that? You think you actually have the leverage to pull that with me? On a Monday? Right now?

Computer: “Restart, safe mode.”

Me: …You picked the wrong person to fuck with today, friend.

Computer: “Rebooting in 5…4…3…2…”

Me: (an inch from the screen) I own you, bastard. Now: it’s on.

…I may or may not have been watching too much “Burn Notice” lately. But either way, this fucker has it coming.

~D

Little B Gets Official

20 Feb

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The Gnome just returned from her first prenatal appointment, getting poked and pried for two hours. Little B (as we will call the baby) is now official.

After eating some chicken I forced upon her to help combat the blood work woozies, she decided it was time to bite the bullet and finally tell her mom she’s pregnant.

…I guess this is a not-great thing to have to do.

…Which she decided to counteract by texting it.

…Just now.

…You know…along the daily line of, “don’t forget the milk, and also: I’m pregnant,” kind of deal.

They have that on auto-text right? (And if they don’t they obviously should. Option #2.)

We don’t know much about the familial life of The Gnome, just pieces she’s shared here and there. Mom isn’t much in the picture, though (until recently) she did live in Grandpa’s attic, who likes to watch old John Ford movies on amp 3,000 at 2 am, cuz he’s mostly deaf and can’t sleep well. We chalk the deafness up to natural causes of aging, but the lack of sleep we assume goes back to his younger days in work habits. He used to be a Pimp, apparently, and was kind of a big deal.

This is not “code” for another actual profession.

…We have our reservations on this in believability, only cuz we’ve seen his “Pimp mobile” which is what The Gnome currently drives to work in each day: a blue Astro van with tinted windows, only one working door, and no hubcaps.

…Not that “hubcaps” make the car…but I think you might be sorely lacking in trades dealing if you can’t even hold onto a couple sets of shitty fake-chrome discs on your tires.

…Or your tires, for that matter.

One day last month she was late, cuz someone in the neighborhood he used to work and still lives in, had put the whole thing on blocks and stripped even those off.

…Now, I don’t know much about Pimping, but I would assume the street cred must run similar to the Entertainment route in the, “I don’t give a shit how big a deal you USED to be, what have you done LATELY,” kind of deal. So, obviously, he’s been outta the game for a while now. But I still think that’s pretty ballsy to just go stripping another Pimps shit on his own turf…even if he IS 103 years old and packs only a Winchester rifle by the Lazy Boy. That shit will still fuck you up. Even with iffy marksmanship.

…I assume there are bodies hidden somewhere which attest to this. Naturally, I want to know more, but I’m going for the slow and subtle pump for info on this one. This is not a work history that just comes blurting out…like a pregnancy announcement, for God’s sake. This takes care and finess.

In Other News:

Thanks to the “Burn Notice” work-out, I’ve already dropped five pounds this week and gained excruciating stomach muscle spasms in my abs. I blame the Yoga Ball sit ups.

…You know that hard contraction of your guts when you’re throwing up…how it just clenches and holds like its the only thing gripping you to the side of a mountain for which if it relaxes even a little bit, you will slip and plummet to your death at the bottom of a giant ravine?

…My tummy feels like that right now.

Pretty much all the time.

It’s making even eating, uncomfortable. I’m full in five bites and feel like I have to swallow twice as hard to clear it down to my actual guts before the abs trampoline it back up again.

Fitness is stupid.

~D

Yoga, With A Burn

19 Feb

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I’m on the fourth season of “Burn Notice,” and feel like it’s some kind of alien sucking all my brains.

…Finally got around to it on my Netflix cue, and now I can’t stop watching.

The leads are “okay,” (albeit stick people with chicklet teeth, and too-orange tans), but I keep watching on account of my great devotion to and love for Sam and Maddie. Sassy broads are my stock in-trade for lovin,’ as well as corny smart-ass side-kick dudes. Put them together as drinkin’ buddies and I am SOLD!

…I feel like I haven’t slept in four days.

(Mostly, I haven’t.)

I also feel like a beached whale.

…This is due to the fact I’ve gained a slight ton since my last show. And also on account of staring at all the chicks in bikinis they keep drowning you in, with every establishing shot, for this show. Apparently Florida hides the retirees and ugly, fat, pasty tourists indoors playing Bingo or something. Also, the half naked men.

…Where’s the beach-love-fantasies for the girls who watched this show?!?!??!!

Even though, (in my head) I know this isn’t the real world (or real Miami), it still makes reaching for the bag of Cheetos less fun, while festing. I feel too physically guilty…at least, after the first season. Honestly, it started fucking with my whole finger-lickin’ Nirvana, about half way through. Now, every time I get panged with a sloth-grossness vibe, I jump up and do fifteen to twenty minutes of Yoga through the rest of the episode. I’ve been known to do this four times per night. Mat, ball, weights: permanently where my coffee table should be. I think I’ve accidentally invented a new fitness regime they’ve missed out on, in the marketing.

…Although, on the flop side, thanks to team SamMad, it also makes me want to swill Mojitos and beer like a fish. If I were a smoker, I’d be totally fucked. Thankfully, where Mojitos are awesome in theory, I hate drinks with chunks of weeds floating in them, and I don’t stock beer. So: saving grace.

…Meanwhile…

OH MY GOD, DID BURT REYNOLDS JUST COLD-COCK THAT GUY?!? I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHOW!!!

…Off to let the aliens devour me some more. Maddie is burning a Congressman with sex-threats, and Smokey’s Bandit is shootin’ shit UP. Obviously, that takes precedence.

~D

Bad Ads & Baby Growing

17 Feb

Today is unbearably slow at the office. Rain all weekend left us with shit sales, and all reports done by 9:30.

…I’ve let the Gnome go home even.  No calls for about an hour at least…plus she’s moving today, and quesy.

…The last part is on account of the fact that she is in the first month of currently growing a mini-Gnome in her belly. 

We have much concern for the child, due to practicle purposes of common sense adaptations of it’s mother.  She’s a sweet girl, so affection won’t be an issue, but we do ponder its mental and physical future. The first weeks of pregnancy have been a big enough heads-up to show us that this is sure to be a wild ride of “how comes,” “what if’s” and “why nots” from the Gnome.

…I’ve already lectured on the importance of “going to the doctor,” “eating,” and “getting prenatal vitamins,” because apparently, those things never occured to her. Nor the fact she can’t just pound IB Profin for a headache and twelve kinds of tummy antacids, in lieu of breakfast. After an Urgent Care visit, she’s been forbidden to lift anything, and when I asked her if she was put on “bed rest,” she didn’t know what I meant.  To which I told her, it was exactly like it sounds, and she’d know if she was on it, cuz the Doctor would have told her so, to which she replied, “Well…I guess not, then.”

…I advised her to get an actual note with all her restrictions written on it. “So I can add it to your file.”  And, therefor, actually know them, and inform her of them, as needed.

I also advised her, before letting her go today, NOT to lift anything in the move. 

…This was followed with a pang of realization, directly after she left, that I prob’ly should NOT have let her go early, in order to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself today by doing things she isn’t aware she isn’t supposed to be doing, because she doesn’t “think” before undergoing most of her day-to-day routine and I dunno why that would suddenly change now.  Only I also realize that I can’t babysit her every move for the next nine months, and at some point she is gonna have to either wise up…or not.  On her own.  But then there’s this whole person dependent now on HER “good choices” and outside of about three, I’ve yet to see her really make any, in the six months or whatever, that she has been here.

…For a person with like zero maternal instinct, she is totally stressing me out with worry.  And it’s only week four.

Meanwhile…

…As the office is silent today, I’ve filled the time walking back and forth to the coffee pot for refreshers, and pulling 60’s ads for the the new show trailer I’m working on.  I’m looking for ridiculous faces and clothes, so went straight to the print-ads…where I know the worst offenders reside, and I have been gafawing, (actually out loud), at some of the particularly most horrible, for the past hour.  Since it’s Monday, I’m sure you could use a grin yourself…so am sharing the wealth of a few favorites.

Like:

* The Gran Prix of Circulation…
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* Fashion for the Literary…
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* The Doctor’s most recommended…
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* Plastic: Not JUST for furniture and food anymore…
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* Fuck breath mints!
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* What wives are for…
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* Really…?
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* Um. Wow.
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* For your convenience…
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* Just…what does the photographer even SAY to get this pose?
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And…the winner:

* Thank you, Canada

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Happy Monday, friends ­čÖé

~D

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