Time To Get Off This Spot

It’s been some time since I last updated on my current situation.

The summary…Big-eared, gap-toothed freak gets job in Chicago, lives in empty house on air mattress alone in Chicago while his family tries to sell their house in Virginia, four months later said family moves to Chicago, freak works at new job for exactly18 months before being given a choice to stay at half the salary or leave and get full salary for three full months…gap-toothed freak decides to leave after searching soul and talking with friends, colleagues and family.

December 1, 2009, was the first day of unemployment and the beginning of a pretty incredible internal journey. I woke up and had nowhere to go. The kids went to school, the wifey headed off to her job, and there I was…disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “OK…now what?”

I had a brief explosion of support from my kick-ass Twitter peeps. I pimped my resume far and wide, and met and talked to some really great, helpful people.

This is a really bad comparison, but I imagine this is kind of what it’s like when you lose someone close to you. You find out who your true friends are and they rally around you. And, for a short time you feel like you can conquer the world. But then they leave because they have their lives to live. They have their families to take care of…

Then I found myself one early morning seven weeks later standing there, disheveled, hung-over from feeling sorry for myself the night before, scratching myself, and looking around the house thinking, “I have absolutely no place in this life.”

What used to be 5 a.m. daily runs have turned into 6:45 a.m. snooze-bar workouts.

I drink more than I should at night because…well because fuck it, I don’t have to work tomorrow.

I didn’t shave or cut my hair for weeks and was introduced by the wifey to the term “beard funk.”

My son was sitting on my lap the other day and reached out and poked my stomach.

I find myself regularly and randomly telling the cat secrets and make him “pinky-swear not to tell!!”

After interviewing for what would be my dream job, I got an email letting me know they’re “pursuing another candidate.”

Last week I spent the day with the executive director of a great organization here in the Chicago suburbs. I’ve worked with her since I’ve been in Chicago and she wanted to discuss a new position being created that she wants me to take. She has to go through the motions associated with advertising it, but when all is said-and-done, she says the job is mine. Of course I won’t consider it mine till the paperwork is signed and I’m on board, but still it’s a huge relief.

And as phenomenal and fortunate as that is, I’m still here in this spot. The spot where I’ve stood since the day I was let go. Watching life pass by each day. A ghost of me interacting with my family and friends. Self pity lurking in every corner ready to be grasped as an excuse when needed.

So why am I not happy with this very fortunate news? And I realized, I’m ecstatic with the news, I’m just not happy with myself and how I’ve handled this situation. And even more so—I think I’ve been waiting for someone to come by and pick me up, fix things, show me the new course to follow, then pat me on my ass and say, “now go get em tiger!”

But life doesn’t happen like that. Life’s going to continue with or without me—that much I have learned. And I’ve got such a great group of family and friends—but they all have their lives to lead too.

All you parents out there who’ve seen Nemo 4,398,219 times remember the scene when Marlin and Dory are with the turtles riding the East Australian Current and little Squirt gets tossed out into the still water. Crush, the father, says, “let us see what little Squirt does flying solo.”

It’s time for me to move off this spot. It’s time for me to cut the hair, trim the beard, get back in my regular routine, and leap back into the wild ride of the current of life I’ve ignored for too damn long. No one’s going to come out there and grab me and pull be back in. I’ve gotta do it on my own.

Wifey & I Discuss Our Daughter's Future Sex Life

The wifey and I have been watching the Showtime series Weeds like it’s crack. And during that time I’m watching teenage girls hooking up and can’t help but shudder at the thought of my precious little angel ever…OK, I just threw up in my mouth.

Anyway, during one such episode, I hit the pause button and said to the wifey:

Me: “Seriously…Macy can’t ever have sex.”

Wifey: “Here we go…”

Me: “No seriously…guys are assholes. She’s gonna get some douche that’s gonna totally hit on her and view her as a conquest and then bolt leaving her and us with a damn baby.”

Wifey: “Our daughter is not a mountain you idiot. She’s not something you ‘conquest’.”

Me: “You know what I mean. Like, take you for an instance. You were all new to the school…with your sexy tight white jeans… You came walking into class that first day and immediately I’m throwing on my hiking gear, phoning home to let mom know I’m headed out for a multi-month expedition and lining up my Sherpa’s.

Wifey: “You seriously liked those white jeans?”

Me: “Boy Scout’s Honor – I still have those jeans in a super secret hidden spot and touch them often.

Wifey: “Number one, you were never a Boy Scout and number two, you’re a sick bastard.”

Me: “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

Wifey: “Really? You’re gonna be THAT dad and deprive our daughter of a great teenage childhood all cause you think the entire male population thinks like you?”

Me: “Sweety…the entire male population thinks with their dicks!”

Wifey: “At what point does that change cause you’re 34 and I see no shore-line off in the distance!”

Me: “You’re feeling awfully frisky tonight…you wanna ‘go’ woman? You seriously want me to take off my shirt right now don’t you?”

Wifey: “Just don’t hold our daughter back from living her life and learning life experiences. We need to just make sure we remain involved, communicate, and teach her life lessons.”

Me: “Are you reciting an After School Special to me right now?”

Wifey: “Seriously…let her learn, experience and become a woman.”

Me: “Baby jesus I love when you talk like that. How can you be all calm and just sit there when I’ve just taken my shirt off for you?”

Wifey: “Oh baby, you look hot. Oh baby, I must have you now. Oh baby, oh baby.”

Me: “One day you’re gonna wish you were much nicer to me.”

Wifey: “So sum it up …what exactly do you want for Macy?”

Me: “I want every one of her dates to walk in the door and see me cleaning my gun. I want them to shake my hand, sit for at least 5 minutes with me, and give me the respect due to appreciate the fact you’re taking out an amazing piece of my soul and heart.”

Wifey: “That’s sweet honey, but pretty far-fetched. But you know what? I’m with you…cause she deserves the respect.”

Me: “Yeah she does. Let’s chest bump to that shit!”

Wifey: “Ummm…I gotta pee and will be right back for that chest bump…I promise!”

Me: “So awesome…I’ll be right here waiting baby! Miss you already!!!”

Baseball in Chi-Town Scares Me

So we took the boy to sign up for baseball last weekend.

There’s something people should know about Midwesterners. These snowbound freak shows LOVE baseball almost as much as they love a four-wheel jacked-up snow blower that can run 0 to 60 in three seconds while microwaving a bratwurst and holding their Old Style.

I’ll never forget the first run I took while in the Chicago burbs of Oak Park. It was May, the sun was out, it was about 50 degrees, and I was enjoying my first look at the neighborhood I was temporarily living in. I noticed historic houses, cars, good looking moms walking with baby strollers, and then it hit me. In front of every-other house was a father and son, or daughter, throwing a baseball. Cubs and White Sox flags hanging everywhere.

It seemed like even women gathering along the sidewalk were all “Ya…we’re gonna split season tickets at Wrigley this year with Bob and Marge…” (please re-read with a Fargo midwest accent attached)

When I got home I immediately turned the TV on to try and find a baseball game. The laptop flew up and while dripping sweat all over the keyboard I frantically pulled up the Cubs website to learn everything I possibly could about this cursed team. I was scared shitless!!!

I had that same feeling this past weekend when we walked into the local high school to sign the boy up for baseball. They had “farm” league and “prep” league. I was a deer in headlights watching kids warm up with their fathers as the sign-in lady was sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher as she tried to explain the difference between “farm” and “prep.”

Despite the fact it was 10 degrees outside, sweat was trickling down my back as I watched a six-year-old hum a baseball over a 30 foot space back and forth with his dad. Seven year olds wearing numbers on their back were taking turns running down the first base line while a lady (well, I think she was a lady...come to think of it she may have had a beard) with a stop watch timed them. A line of fathers leaned against the gym wall were intensely watching every move their kids made while fighting back the overwhelming urge to rip their clothes off down to their loin cloth thong and beat their chests.

I was fucking scared out of my mind!

“Ummm…my seven-year-old’s never played organized baseball. Which league should we sign-up for that will keep him away from those kids?” I asked the lady, pointing at the six-year-old pitching a 40-mph strike.

With a half smirk and slight chuckle, she blew the dust off a form and handed it to me to fill out, “Prep. Your boy should DEFINITELY be in prep league. NEXT!,” she yelled as my sweaty shaking hand pulled the form from her hand and I looked around to see if my face was being televised on a jumbo-screen with the words “Deadbeat ‘Prep League’ Dad” written below it.

With that out of the way, and a few sessions with my therapist, I’m actually looking forward to the baseball season.

I look forward to seeing the boy learn basic skills, maybe hit a few good balls here and there, and getting a feel as to whether he’s really into the game or not. But most importantly—I’m fascinated to see how the parents will be. Oh sure, I’ll bring a gun with me to the games just to make sure no one gives my boy shit for striking out or running straight to third base after a good hit.

But I’ll also bring with me my pad and pen…cause you guys are definitely going to be the first to hear the rantings that are sure to come spewing from these rabid baseball fan’s mouths.



My Guest Blog on "Waiting for the Click"

A while ago, my friend Leslee Horner, who I was very lucky to meet through Twitter (@lesleehorner), asked if I’d write a guest blog post for her site Waiting for the Click.

Leslee Horner

Her blog is a spyglass on her path to self-discovery. She’s one of the brave few who’ve asked themselves “Who am I?” and “What am I here for?” and then integrated the effort to answer those questions into her everyday life. We’re fortunate she’s taken it a step further and taken time out of her days as a mother, wife, and friend, to write about her journey for us to read, learn from, and contemplate.

I immediately responded to Leslee with a resounding “hell yeah I’ll write a guest post for you!” Then knocked out my “click” moment when my good friend @momomatic gave me the nudge I needed to start writing again. Her nudge is what gave birth to this blog, lifting the longtime wall that’s kept me from writing for years.

Here’s my guest post. I hope you take time to plow through some of Leslee’s great writings while you’re there.

Thanks again Leslee!!

Maybe They've Had Enough

“Honey! Have you seen my keys?”

I loathe those words when they fly from the wifey’s mouth. I hear them all too often. And the word “keys” is an interchangeable word sometimes replaced with “phone,” “mind,” “other shoe,” and “purse.”

More times than I care to count, I’ve come home only to be greeted at the door by my wife’s keys hanging from the lock on the outside of the door. Yeah…the side of the door the entire world has access to. I’ve even found them early in the morning like that, which means they were dangling there all night giving anyone and everyone free access to our house, cars, and lives.

But then I think, what if my infamous words “oh, they just grew legs and walked off all by themselves huh?” where actually true? What if those keys just had “enough?”

I mean, in all reality, they share the same experiences as us, day-in and day-out. They’re snatched from their resting spot early in the morning, make the commute, sit at the work desk all day, drive home, make a quick stop at the store, experience the challenges of family life, and finally, when it’s the end of the day, settle in to relax before it all starts over again. And again.

Maybe they’ve had enough.

When all the lights are turned down for the final moment before slumber takes over, they poke their heads up for one last safety look. The beauty of being the keys is they have an all access pass.

Maybe they go for a drive and end up on some random bar, soaking in the alcohol from the air and listening to stories spewing from barstools filled souls.

Maybe they find their way to the top of the water tower—a place of solitude, where as their eyes survey all that lies before them, their minds wander, remembering, considering, projecting, and sometimes causing a smile. It’s a place where they’re comfortably aware that the slightest misstep could mean their life.

Maybe they slowly talk themselves into creeping into Home Depot, wandering the isles while deep down knowing the entire reason they’re there is to find the key cutting isle. The Mecca of un-carved flat metal pieces dangling hopelessly, unscathed of repeatedly being shoved into locks and pockets, thrown on desks and floors…living a life.

Maybe that’s always the last place they go. Maybe because the thought of erasing it all, starting over, being carved again from scratch is that sexy dream floating in their head—something fun to occasionally poke a stick at. But in reality, the scars, the repetition, the memories, each delicately carved notch is what makes them who they are.

And they crawl back home. Slide back into that familiar front door lock—their home. They take the risk of staying their all night, just so they can feel the warmth, security, and knowledge this IS where they belong. And, that they were one day carved, specifically to experience this. This time. This place. This family. This…

This life.