I realized I had a crappy first name when I was five.
Our family was moving from Chicago to Peoria. One day, close to moving time, sitting shotgun, my mother was running errands. At a stoplight she turned and said, “We’re moving somewhere where nobody knows you. If you’d like to change your first name, now is the time.” I had always gone by D.J. (and still do today), but the message I received in that moment was clear.
The voice echoed from behind my right shoulder and I was surprised to hear my name.
“Uncle D.J. is going to read you a bedtime story. Go pick one out.”
I stopped and spun around. My friend Justin was walking his youngest son Jude to his bedroom. Not knowing much about four year olds, a bunch of questions raced through my head. How long do you have to read before a child falls asleep? Can’t they read themselves? I couldn’t recall a memory from my childhood where someone read to me. My earliest memories of life start at six years old, and I had been reading on my own for a few years at that point. My mother brags that I taught myself how to read at age four. And I guess now I’m bragging to you. Anyway, since I couldn’t recall a personal experience of being read to, what came to mind was Peter Faulk reading to that boy in The Princess Bride. And that movie was two hours long, for chrissakes. I can’t read aloud for that long. As a self-centered adult without children, if I spend more than ten minutes with one, I get nuts.
I sighed and followed Jude into his bedroom. He told me to shut the door and to climb into bed. He was rifling through a series of books strewn about the comforter. I went to shut the door and when it latched I noticed my discomfort. Not only was I not used to being around kids, but I had never climbed into one of their beds. It’s funny because, albeit innocent, I felt like I was doing something wrong. It was too intimate. Remember when Michael Jackson talked about sleeping in bed with kids and how we all retched at the news? But this is my close friend’s son and I’m a good soldier. I climbed into bed into the space that he had made for me.
The book Jude chose was a series of short stories about zombies who live among us. Except in this version the undead were just like you and me except they looked different (rotten flesh) and didn’t murder humans for their succulent brains. In these stories the public treated these zombies as if they were real pieces of crap. It was an attempt to teach tolerance of people who looked different. Which is just what a four year old understands – subtle metaphors about discrimination.
About halfway through the first fable I realized that stories about zombies are pretty energizing. It’s not exactly the literary equivalent of chamomile tea. Try to put a child to bed reading aloud a story about teenage dracula figuring out how to get his blood fix halfway through the senior prom. That’s a thrilling narrative! Nobody falls asleep during the last ten minutes of a Walking Dead episode, you know? I should have picked one of those Berenstain Bears novellas. Those bears never did anything interesting.
And, no, I spelled it right. It’s Berenstain. We all called them the Berenstein Bears growing up but we were wrong. They don’t celebrate Purim and I don’t recall the bear son ever getting Bar Mitzvah’ed.
I recently came to terms that I’m going to have to give up my cat Pantaloons.
My girlfriend is allergic. She’s a good sport when she visits and takes a Benadryl which clears up her symptoms. But how long am I going to make her pop meds to be comfortable?
We’re only six months into our relationship. Neither of us has gone ring shopping or started practicing the Viennese waltz for our first dance. This partnership is healthy and progressing at a normal clip. We both have our own homes and see each other a few times a week. That’s plenty.
This is the healthiest relationship I’ve experienced. Part of it is choosing the most compatible woman for my craziness. The other part is all the work I’ve done to minimize my craziness. While we just crossed the half-year mark in the relationship, I just passed the five-year relationship mark with my therapist. I work on stuff.
My cat is important to my well-being. She’s coming up on six years and has been a loving companion. When I arrive home from work she runs over and brushes up against my leg. Pantaloons is affectionate without being needy.
She’s also in love with the dog.
You already know that I bring my dog to work in a backpack that I take on the subway. After greeting me she rushes over to the backpack and waits for it to be unzipped. The dog springs free and the cat follows her and starts to rub her head against the dog’s body. They sleep together, too. Pantaloons is actually much bigger than Meepers the chihuahua. The often curl up together next to my body while we all pass out. I’ve noticed that their sleep cycles are synced – within seven minutes of falling asleep (I’ve timed this) they start dreaming simultaneously and have paw, nose, and eye twitches. It’s wild to see them shaking together.
There’s a ritual that happens every night before we drift off. The dog, since she’s the alpha, walks over to Pantaloons and extends her neck in front of the cat’s face. The dog is then groomed, first with the neck, then moving down to her shoulders and back, by the cat’s tongue. She licks the dog for five minutes. Since cats have that sandpaper tongue thing, I imagine the dog likes the sensation. Pantaloons is purring wildly during the entire cleaning.
Now, many cats are stinkers. We’ve all met some. Your grandmother’s, for example. Standoffish and stoic, these unholy terrors bite and scratch anyone who dares come near. For these felines, drowning them in a river would not be unjust. So, it’s not like I’m a de facto cat lover.
But mine is solid. Sure she spees on anything I leave on the floor, and I don’t trust her not to soil the bedspread in my second bedroom, but other than the urination thing, she’s great.
The cat also loves my girlfriend, Beth. Even though Beth cannot touch her due to allergies, Pantaloons is crazy for her. She constantly brushes up against her while sitting on the couch and tries to sit in Beth’s lap. The cat never even sits in my lap, for chrissakes. Also, when we sleep Beth will wake up with Pantaloons perched atop her belly, purring loudly.
The reality is, though, that you can’t marry a broad who is allergic to cats and have a cat. It’s unfair.
Last week I started to come out of the denial that we would all live together. I’m sure if Beth and I were to take the next step it would be at least a year away. That means I have some good time left with Pantaloons. It’s sad to look at her and realize that she won’t be with me forever. I know this horrible inevitability that she doesn’t.
Once it happens I’ll be sad and then get over it with time. Loss has a predictable grief cycle. However, I’m wondering if now isn’t the hardest part. To stay with the discomfort of a future loss is not easy for me. There’s no solution for this pain except to celebrate the cat as often as I can.
Now, if you excuse me I have to go beat the shit out of her for missing the litter box. AGAIN.
Tonight the girlfriend met my entire family.
Beth had already been introduced to my mother a few months ago. We were back in Peoria at a friend’s wedding and my mom happened to be in town. My father had driven to Alabama that weekend as my sister had bought him football tickets for his alma matter. My sister lives in NYC and hadn’t been to Chicago or Peoria lately.
Today, my sister flew in to do some work with a Chicago company. My mom happened to be in Chicago too for work. Since my father had yet to meet Beth he drove up from Peoria. The family made dinner plans for the five of us. We settled on a popular seafood and steakhouse in the suburbs.
We arrived and everyone hugged and the remaining introduction were made.
Beth was the first one to get up from the table halfway through an appetizer. As she was making her way to the restroom the family immediately went into judgement mode and collectively decided that they loved her. I knew they would. She’s the best woman I’ve ever dated, and everybody that meets her falls to pieces about her.
I’m fortunate to have a father and mother that are willing to drive three hours out of their way to hang out with my girlfriend. Many families aren’t like that and it’s easy to forget how special and rare that sort of behavior is.
I’ve also met Beth’s family and they’re very fun. She’s one of five (Catholic, naturally) and they all live in the western suburbs of Chicago. Though we’ve been together only five months, I’ve met all eighteen of her immediate family members and she’s met all three of mine. None of it feels forced or rushed.
This post doesn’t have much to say. I’m clogged up with strip steak and king crab leg meat. There’s a sleeping cat on my left arm as a type, and a dog between my legs. I will pass out shortly and wake up tired. But as I start to drift as I write this sentence, I’m content.
I guess I just feel normal. The middle.
A nice dinner with the family. No emotional highs or lows. Just a great time. As it should be, and how it can be.
It’s special to me to have occasional “normal” experiences that flow effortlessly. They’re not as common as I’d like them to be, and it’s important that I acknowledge when they’re happening.
Instead of reaching for a clever resolution or a fart joke, I’m just going to say goodnight.
God, now I really want to tell a fart joke. No, I promised myself!
photo credit: Dawn Ashley via photopin cc
Do you pick up spare change lying on the ground?
I don’t.
I realized this fact on Christmas Eve during our family’s annual holiday party. Carolyn and Laura are two sisters who grew up in our neighborhood. They’re both very successful. One’s a realtor and the other an attorney. The attorney (Carolyn) stated she always picks up change she stumbles across in the real world. Laura does not.
That led to a quick poll of the room.
About half of those in attendance said they picked up coins. When asked why they together barked, “Why not?” The picker-uppers didn’t have more explanation than that. Laura said, “Carolyn, you’re an attorney for God’s sake! You don’t need to pick up a penny.” Carolyn replied, “Yes, but now I’m one penny richer!”
What was interesting is that both camps did not understand the behavior of the others. We both thought each other was nuts.
To me, the idea of grabbing a penny off the ground doesn’t even register as something to do. I don’t use pennies in my life. I don’t use any change. The only time I used a coin in the past year was for a parking meter in a Chicago suburb. Oh, and also when my cat peed on my comforter and I had to go to the laundromat.
I pay for things in cash less than one percent of the time. Here in Vegas at a conference I do carry cash – for tipping. But other than that, it’s all credit cards. I want the airline miles!
I, with pride in my heart, whipped out my Mastercard two days ago at Walgreens for a $.37 purchase.
Now, I find coins on the ground three times a week minimum. Living in a big city, they’re everywhere. And I never bend down and grab them. Even if it’s a quarter, the holy grail of free change, I pass on by.
I started asking myself the tougher question. Like Descartes pondering existence, I wondered at what amount I would reach down and grab free cash. What is my threshold?
Pretty sure that Descartes joke is going to fall flat. I’m leaving it in.
The minimum amount is one dollar. If I ever come across a paper note, it’s going in my pocket. This has never happened.
So, now the question is begged – do I think I’m too good to pick up ground-change?
I’d like to say no, that it’s the dirtiness of the coins or that I’d hope someone else less fortunate finds it and puts it to use. But that shit ain’t true. I have no problem with dirt and grime, and I could always donate my change at the end of the year if I felt guilty about grabbing it.
No, the truth is this – I’m too good to pick up change.
I wish I weren’t typing that but it’s a sad reality. I feel powerful when I walk by a penny and refuse to stop. Like I’m a big shot who doesn’t have the time. And doesn’t need it.
Now, there’s no reality here – I’m not so wealthy that I don’t have the time. True, finding change isn’t going to speed up my retirement, but I’m not above visiting the CoinStar once a year to receive a small sum.
So, here’s my new proclamation – from now on I will now pick up EVERY coin I see lying in the street. I will donate all cash at the end of the year to something so I’ll feel like an ever bigger shot.
See what I did there? Clever, no?
I actually have a cat vomit story from when I was wee. Goddamn do I love alliteration! Anyway, I was forced to take piano lessons from an old bat named Mrs. Mayhew. My sister and I alternated which meant that for her 30 minutes I would keep myself busy by looking around Mrs. Mayhew’s home. She had, like all old people, a shitload of National Geographic magazines. I found one of the floor which had what appeared to be a 3D volcano on the cover. It was a huge mound of brown hardened glop. Impressed I thought, “Man, this magazine really does some cool stuff!” I reached over the top of the volcano and touched the inside. Smushy. When it was my turn for the lesson I told Mrs. Mayhew how I found the issue with the model volcano on the cover. She looked puzzled, went over to where I was playing and gasped. Yep, the cat had barfed on the magazine cover. Right next to the cover story – on volcanos.
Recently my girlfriend mentioned that I was a picky eater. This was an unacceptable observation to me. I pride myself on being willing to consume anything. I’ve even made proclamations that I’d probably try both dog and cat, and I have both a dog and a cat. See? I’m a fun, free-wheeling kind of guy!
Except I don’t eat mayonnaise, horseradish, cream cheese, sour cream or tuna fish that comes in a can. All that stuff skeeves me out. I guess I’m mostly condiment picky. ‘Tis okay. I can live with myself. I’ve had lengua. That takes courage.
I’m, however, the least picky sleeper you will ever meet. I’d be a fantastic bum because park benches look like a California Kings to my eyes. I could easily pass out within forty-five seconds and without the help of fortified wine.
This is what a great sleeper I am. When I first moved to Chicago I went and rented a studio apartment. I had just signed the lease and the landlord told me I could move in the next day. I go so tired walking around the 450 square feet that I looked for a place to crash. Since the place was empty the only option was the hardwood floor. I then eyed the countertop in the kitchen. Could I?
I did.
I jumped up on the counter and laid on my back, my nose mere inches from the bottom of the cupboard. I found a yellow pages to put under my head as makeshift pillow. Never even occurred to me that I could have rolled off the counter and broke a rib. Also didn’t occur to me to lock the door.
I can’t imagine what the property manager would have thought if she came back and saw her new tenant passed out on the kitchen linoleum countertop.
Oh, I have a great sleep inducer for you if you’re having trouble taking a two-hour power nap in the middle of the day. Since I’m on vacation right now I’m not doing a whole lot this week. Every day so far I’ve managed to sneak in a few hours of dream-time in the early p.m. But, today I just couldn’t find the energy to sleep. I was too awake, sadly. This would not do!
My parents have one of those big jacuzzi tubs in their bedroom. I starting filling it up with hot water (by the way, during this time I actually did fall asleep – my mother had to come wake me up to tell me the bath was ready). I went to the tub with my snacks and NA beer and soaked for a good twenty minutes. I barely made it out of the tub without fainting. Three hours later I woke up refreshed and ready for dinner.
I just got back from dinner and I’m writing this before going to bed. I could pass out any second, and I suspect my editing skill will not be in top notch shape. Forgive me if I neglect to resolve a participle.
So, at dinner tonight I started listing out all the funny ways I sleep. Creativity is a interesting phenomenon. I have to carry around a note-taking device so that when it strikes I record it. If I don’t, two minutes later the idea is gone. During dinner I grabbed my phone suddenly and started scribbling onto it with the stylus. Yes, it was rude to do in the middle of oysters Rockefeller, but this was important!
Funny Ways I Sleep – this is the header in the note, written on my phone in cursive.
I’m thirty-seven and a half years old. I shouldn’t get this fired up about this degree of “creative brilliance.” It ain’t exactly going to turn into Finnegan’s Wake.
Tomorrow I will write a new post on all the ways that I sleep weird that I will encourage you to try. If you read it you’ll get a mild chuckle – there’s definitely a few good ones in there. Me? I’ll be dreaming the whole time. Have a great night.
Mothers are supposed to have at least one expression designed to send you into a frenzy of anger and frustration. It’s their job.
Mine is the moment my mom walks through the door of my condo. Without exception, she mentions that she can smell cat pee all throughout the house.
To be fair to her there was a time where my place smelled like urine. First of all I’m a guy. I’m not cleaning the litter box twice a day like some of your fanatics. Second, I’ve well-documented here my struggles with my cat peeing outside her designated area. I probably wrote twenty pieces on it last year alone. The bottom line is that she’s on Prozac and doesn’t do it anymore, thank God. Not my mom. The cat.
The place used to smell pretty bad because the cat would spray all over this enclosure I had for my cat box and I had no idea she was doing it. Once I removed that piece of furniture, the odor disappeared.
Well, the cat still does go outside the box once in awhile. She pees on the rubber mat in front of the box. But I clean that up as soon as I find it.
My mom is on the “your place always smells” trip. She hasn’t changed that tune in two years. And it drives me nuts.
I guess the biggest problem is on my end. I expect her not to do this each time she comes over. I’m violating that Buddhist principle of “What is, is.” What is, is that my mom is going to say the place smells bad. And my insanity is that I keep wanting her to change.
She made this comment when she came in last night (I had two air fresheners going), and again once this morning, blaming the smell on her inability to sleep last night. I became offended and the reason is that I thought she was lying. Not out and out lying, but exaggerating.
Growing up I was blamed for a lot of the family’s problems. That was my role – the scapegoat. And whenever anything touches around that “it’s your fault” thing, I go nuts.
So, I asked my father who was also here if he noticed any smell. He said he didn’t.
I asked my mom to pinpoint the location of the smell so I could find and eliminate it. She just said the whole place smelled. I brought my dad into the bedroom where they slept and we both couldn’t smell anything.
It’s hard to correct something you can’t locate, of course.
My mother accused my father of lying to protect my feelings. Now I was really confused. Did it smell in there or not? Was someone exaggerating or lying? It was a mess.
I’m not so sensitive I can’t handle the truth. If it smells like cat pee, tell me where and I’ll fix it.
So, we’re all basically yelling at each other at 7:30am. It was brutal.
Here’s what I know. I can’t control my mother’s nose. If she’s exaggerating about the smell (and I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose), that’s her deal. Only she knows. If she’s being honest then I have a horrible sense of smell.
Either way she’s going to say it smells like cat pee, as she does every time. And that’s going to trigger the “It’s all my fault” pattern in me. And I’m going to go nuts and explode.
So, how do I avoid this?
Well, first is to make sure the place actually doesn’t smell like cat pee. After this ordeal I ordered a three pack of professional cleaners to come over. After three cleaning sessions it should be roses in here. As a dude this is a solid investment.
Second is to learn to release control of someone else’s hangups. I’m a big control freak and need things to happen exactly the way I want them too. Not a good strategy in life. I’m working on it.
Also, I need to remember that aside from their best intentions moms are just built to annoy their kids. It’s the way of the bushido.
I am picking on my mom a bit. My oSex co-host, Karen sent me a message today saying I have the greatest parents in the world. We all went to a Cubs game last night. She’s right. I’m very lucky. 99.9% of the time we get along perfectly and they’re generous, supportive, and loving.
She’s coming back this Thursday to spend the night again. I will hear more about the smell. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts.
But, since I’ll definitely go nuts, I’ll try to record the audio so you can see just how batty I get. Will make for a great post.
On yesterday’s podcast I dove deep into self-indulgence.
Normally my intros go a few minutes tops. Just for the shit of it I decided to try some longform improv to see if anything interesting came out. The result was thirteen minutes of nested stories that layered on top of each other. By the end I had closed all the loops, but it didn’t really work. I was trying to be like Marc Maron, but, hey, I’m not.
One thing that came out that I would like to explore further is this idea of knowing where you’re a little crazy. I was in a boutique where there was a chocolate tasting yesterday, and the people who ran the joint sort of pissed me off. Here’s why…
They offered me some of their chocolate toppings sauce. I ate the mofo. It was good. Whatever. It’s chocolate. You can’t really screw it up unless you go too bitter or too milky. I asked if they had some caramel and they squirted some on a tasting spoon. It tasted very strong and had a butterscotch vibe. I bet most people would have thought it was butterscotch in a blind taste test.
Because I’m not a dick I didn’t just yell out, “Hey your caramel tastes like butterscotch!” even though every fiber of my being knew this to be true. Why didn’t I? Because I reflected a moment and thought, “The owner might get offended because his intention was probably not to make the caramel taste like butterscotch.
I said instead:
This is delicious caramel! It feels like it has a tinge of butterscotch, am I right?
No – we have butterscotch.
Oh.
–fin–
And I walked away feeling like I just insulted the chocolatier. Here’s why I was a little annoyed. First, he knows it tastes like butterscotch. But instead of acknowledging what is true he decided to negate said truth. In essence he felt a little insecure and his ego was threatened. He threw it back on me.
This is the part of human nature I don’t understand. Recognize where you’re all screwed up, people, and own it! If you’re like my ex-wife and over-season chicken, don’t get all pissed off when I mention that it’s over-seasoned. It’s not a personal attack. It’s an objective fact.
We love to protect subjectivity like it’s a valuable resource. But many things that we claim our “our opinions” are really just distorted views of truth. If you like salty chicken that 99% of the population would spit out, your subjectivity is null and void. Plus, your taste sucks.
My friend Karen turns all her dollar bills the same way. She also has forty cans of cat food neatly stacked with all the labels facing out. This is the behavior of a borderline obsessive. Yes, she already knows this. You can goof on her and she doesn’t take it personally. It’s her crazy.
If you like the temperature a little warmer in the house then the rest of the family don’t shame them when they complain it’s too hot. Say this instead. “I know it’s hot and I’m a total weirdo but I need it hot so go screw off.” Acknowledge your nuttiness. Don’t pretend 79 ° is normal. It ain’t. You have horrible circulation and probably need progesterone.
I have no idea if progesterone is even a thing, but I feel like it is.
Okay, I just demonstrated my crazy. In order to make a joke about progesterone I decided not to Google it to verify if it’s a real drug. I also have clipped my toenails directly onto the floor not to pick them up until weeks later when I accidentally step on them. I know this is untoward behavior. If you call me a disgusting blob, you are not incorrect.
See? Own your shit!
photo credit: Lee Gonzalez Photography via photopin cc
I'll never give this child another cigarette, pinky swears!
