In Which I've Done Some Thinking

Dear Son or Daughter,

I apologize for not knowing how to introduce this letter. I'm writing this to you long before your mother and I will try to conceive you. You don't exist in this world just yet, but that doesn't mean I haven't spent a fair amount of time thinking about you. I haven't shared these thoughts with anyone yet, and I wanted to tell you first. Not even your mother knows that I'm writing this, so lets keep this between you and me for now, okay?

Your mother has been asking me to have a child (that would be you) for a while now. The part of her that people call the Biological Clock has been ticking very loudly for her, and for the past year I've told her that I am not ready. This saddens her, as she wants to meet you pretty badly. She and I have talked about you (or at least the idea of you) in length, and she understands now when I say I am not ready to be a father.

I'm sure you are curious as to my reasons why, and to be honest, it took a while for me to figure it out for myself. You won't fully understand this until you are in this position yourself someday, but the main thing is that bringing a child into this world is a huge responsibility. Your mother and I are still pretty young, and there are times right now where we have trouble taking care of just ourselves. Life has given us a few lemons, as the saying goes, and I want to make sure that we can at least provide you with some half-decent lemonade before you come along. 

The other big reason, I'll admit, is a purely selfish one. I like the relationship I have with your mother right now, and I want a little more time with it being just her and I. I want to be able to enjoy some of our younger years together, to build our life to a point where the only thing that we both feel is missing from it is you. 

I want to make sure you know that my saying "I'm not ready to be a father" doesn't mean that I don't want you, my child. The thing is, I do want you. Contrary to what your mother thinks, I want you pretty badly, too. Sure, my heart strings might not get as strong a pull as your mother's do when we see a cute baby at the mall, but it still happens. 

You see, I want to feel you kick and hiccup while you grow inside your mother's womb. I want to hold you just after you are born and feel my life change. I want to look at you and see that you have my eyes and her nose. I want to help you learn to crawl, to walk, to ride a bike, to drive a car. I want to sit through tea parties and make blanket forts and scrub the crayon off the walls. I want to ground you when you do something wrong and reward you when you do something right. I want to watch you grow up faster than I thought to be possible. And yes, I want to worry constantly about your safety, and I want to be the one to provide that for you as long as you'll let me. I want everything that comes with the privilege of being your father, whatever that might be.

So, with all of that out of my mind and down on paper before you, I hope its not confusing to you why I still want to wait a little while to meet you. It all boils down to the fact that I may be an adult in the eyes of the world, but I feel that I've still got some growing up to do. I want to be as good a father as I can be to you, and its going to take me some time to get there. If you don't understand that now, I know you will understand it someday.

Be it with sugar and spice, or with snaps and snails, I love you wholeheartedly, my child.

Your (at-some-point-to-be) Dad

In Which I Gain Perspective

We all experience moments that bring our lives to a screeching halt, those moments that force us to accept the fact that we are not in control. It is a frightening and humbling feeling, one that we have to acknowledge in order to continue with our lives. For me, sometimes I feel like I'm a junkyard dog reaching the end of his chain, running forward and suddenly being jerked backwards into the dust. Other times it feels like I'm hydroplaning and I've overcompensated, my car spinning 'round until the brakes finally catch, slamming me to a stop. The adrenaline eventually stops pumping and I'll catch my breath, dust myself off, and come to know that something has changed. 

I had one of those moments last week, and I am still struggling to rid myself of the fear that it placed inside of me. 

My father spent a night in the hospital last week for speculation that he had an infection that settled in his heart. This came after weeks of not feeling well and having difficulty breathing, and his doctor was running out of ideas. My mother called me up and told me about all that was happening, and as she spoke I felt that old familiar chain yank backwards on my neck. I listened carefully as she explained the situation, and breathed a little easier when she told me that it was just speculation based upon incomplete test results. More would be known when all of the results came back, but they would have to keep him overnight just to be safe.

I got off the phone and stood in silence in the kitchen, my mind racing. I thought about his history of high blood pressure, of tachycardia, of high cholesterol. I thought of hundreds of horrible things, each burst of imagination like its own nightmare, unable to stop my mind from its progression despite all of the assurances from my mother that he would be fine. 

In the end, he was fine. He was discharged the following afternoon after his doctors dismissed any thought of an infection in his heart. It was a bit of a scare for all of us, and it served as a reminder, to me especially, that life isn't as stable as it seems. It hasn't exactly been a long time since I've felt as helpless as I did last week, but being on the other side of the situation helped me gain some perspective. 

Everything about life is fragile. We shouldn't take any moment with our loved ones for granted, or just assume that they will always be there. The winds that control our lives could change at any moment. 

P.S. I don't know if this makes any sense to anyone but me, but I hope you know what I'm trying to say. Sometimes there are thoughts in my mind that make perfect sense until I try to put them on paper. 

In Which I Clear The Room

When I was growing up, I thought the worst and most embarrassing thing that could ever happen to me was throwing up in class. Having got that one out of the way in the sixth grade, I thought I was in the clear. I mean, I had already called my teacher Mommy (first grade), peed my pants (second grade), had my chair pulled out from underneath me just as I was about to sit (fourth grade), and learned the importance of remembering to put on deodorant (fifth grade). In my pubescent logic, short of getting an erection while giving a presentation or talking with Miss Grenier (the hot Language Arts teacher), what else could happen?

As it turns out, there was something else.

On the day in question, I woke up to some intestinal grumbling. I was late getting up, so I had no choice but to ignore it. I showered and dressed, wolfed down some Cheerio's, and was out the door. I contained a few more peals of gut-thunder before my father dropped me off at school, and all in all, it was much like any other day in seventh grade.

Halfway through first period geography, I excused myself to the bathroom. I was hoping that whatever conflict was going on with my stomach would resolve itself quickly. I waited quietly in the stall in the empty boy's room, sitting on the cold plastic toilet seat. After a few minutes of silence, it seemed like nothing was going to happen. I buttoned up and washed my hands, and hoped it was all over. I had gym next period, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was laps on the track with a stomach on a hair trigger.

By the start of gym, though, the rumbling had returned. I stalled in the locker room for as long as I could, hoping it would go away as it had before. The pressure did subside, but it felt like something dangerous had lingered behind. I joined the rest of my class, holding my stomach gingerly as the Coach talked about the day's activity. He gruffly told us to separate into groups and do some general fitness exercises... sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups, vertical jumps, sit-and-reach... pretty much everything that an overweight kid would fail miserably at.  

I painfully went through all of the required exercises, and the Coach kept track of everyone's progress on his clipboard. I always hated the way he looked at me when he would jot down my less-than-average score. My stomach gurgled and groaned the entire time, and I was thankful that the gym was loud enough to cover up the sound. I saved the sit-ups for last, and paired off with my best friend to complete them.

We small-talked our way through his mandatory 30 sit-ups, and by the time it was my turn the period was almost over. The Coach, ever mindful to make sure no one escaped his rule without breaking a sweat, yelled at me to make sure that I "hustled" and did my thirty sit-ups. I groaned inwardly as my stomach groaned outwardly, and laid down on the mat.

Just as I had for him, my friend held down my feet while I grunted through the first ten or so. I could feel my face getting red and the sweat beading down my forehead, but I pushed on with determination. My friend was prattling on about something, and soon I was a mere five sit-ups away from being done when my stomach tensed up. 

I had no time to react, no time to warn my friend, no time to even think about stopping what was going to happen next. The event that I had waited impatiently for in the bathroom twice so far that day was coming to pass, and there was nothing I could do about it.

As I leaned forward to complete the sit-up, I farted. 

It was the fart of my life, a champion fart, a gold-medal winner. It was a five-second foghorn, propelled from inside with the force of a category five hurricane. My cheeks slapped together violently and painfully, the expulsion of air bursting through the cloth of my pants with such ferocity that at first I thought I they had ripped. It echoed in the hard-walled gym, loud enough to make everyone stop what they were doing. Even the unshakable Coach turned his head. My friend, caught off guard by the assault, let go of my feet and fell backwards.

At that moment, with complete and utter silence reigning in the room and all the eyes of my peers focused heavily on me, I noticed the smell. 

Simply put, it was horrible. It made my eyes water and my mouth seethe. It was so bad I could taste it. My stomach lurched and somersaulted, and I feared the stench was bad enough that it could be seen, clinging to the air in a noxious, green cloud. 

With my friend no longer holding my feet down, I tumbled over onto my side. At that, the silence in the room broke with laughter, and I got to my feet. Their laughter covered the sound of the aftershock farts that came out then, but they were so minute in comparison to what had just transpired. I looked over to my friend to see him kneeling on the floor, coughing and waving his hand in front of his face. I felt so bad for him, having received that cannonball of methane gas right in the face. My face was hot and red, and just when I thought was going to burst into tears from sheer embarrassment, the bell signaling the end of the period rang. 

I expected the rest of the day to be full of ridicule and pointed fingers, but my gym-class mat-slapping flatulence was back page news compared to the kid who had crapped himself in the gym class just before mine. I felt bad for the other kid, but fortunate that the spotlight had shifted away from me. Junior high is rough enough without something like that on your record.

As one could guess, that monster fart was the source of my ailment earlier in the day. Letting loose the demon made me feel so much better, and I was glad for it.

Even if it cost me any chance I had of a girlfriend until high school. 

In Which I Hurt Myself Sitting Down

As with most people, I am not fond of public bathrooms. I try to use them as infrequently as possible, but sometimes you just can't avoid it. Whether it was the 87 oz. Big Gulp from the gas station or 14 cups of coffee, you never know when the limits of your bladder will be reached. 

In a stroke of genetic luck, men were given the advantage over women when it comes to urinating in public bathrooms. We were given genital features that can be aimed with semi-accurate precision, instead of having to crouch over the toilet and hover. When it comes to the Other Matter, though, the playing field is equal. I try to limit my public bathroom usage to Urine Only, but when you let Nature's Call go to voicemail enough times, you won't know that there truly is an emergency until right before it happens. 

Which is what happened to me a couple of weeks ago.

While out to dinner, I felt a roll of thunder pass through my intestines. I had been ignoring the protests from my gut all day, but this colon complaint finally was angry enough to be heard. The message was clear: I needed to get my ass to the bathroom, or I'd risk ruining my favorite pair of jeans, the chair I was sitting on, and the dining experience for everyone in my corner of the restaurant. 

I excused myself and walked tight-cheeked to the bathroom as fast as I could.

Now, by nature, men are disgusting creatures. The horror stories you hear about men's public bathrooms are generally true, but we were at a decently upscale restaurant, and the bathroom wasn't the fecal-fest it would have been elsewhere. The bathroom was empty, so I scanned and selected a stall by making sure it met the all of the important public bathroom criteria:

1. No unidentifiable (or identifiable) substances on the floor or on any part of the toilet/toilet seat, or in the toilet bowl,
2. Adequate stock of toilet paper,
3. Test flush of the toilet verifies there is no clog,
4. Functioning door lock mechanism.

I entered the stall and locked it behind me. Since I had Business To Do that required a sitting position and the bathroom lacked seat covers, I layered the seat with toilet paper before sitting down. I won't go into any details as to what happened immediately next, but suffice it to say that the Bowel Storm passed through quickly and without any incident. I reached to my left for the toilet paper dispenser, and pulled off about 370 feet of tissue. I leaned to my right, and as I shifted my center of gravity, I slipped. 

I slipped off the toilet seat on the protective layer of toilet paper, and slammed my shoulder into the wall. With my left hand bent behind me and my right hand pinned to my side by the wall, I was stuck. I remained still for a moment, obviously uncomfortable and with the toilet seat giving me a wedgie. I freed my left hand, and tried pulling myself back up. When that didn't work, I tried bouncing myself off the wall. I got a good momentum going, and finally managed to get myself semi-upright... until the toilet seat snapped. 

When the toilet seat gave way, I came crashing down to the floor on my right side. I lay there for a minute, stunned, before getting up from the floor. Keep in mind that this all happened while my ass was hanging out, pants piled around my ankles. I did my best cleaning myself up before flushing and leaving the stall. I took a look back before closing the door, and it was a mess. Not with anything that would require gloves and a strong gag reflex to clean up, but still.

As I was washing my hands, an employee of the restaurant came in. He looked at me, and then peeked into the other stalls. Finding them all empty, he appeared puzzled.

"Was that you making all that noise?" he asked.

"No, some guy was in that second stall there when I came in. I don't know what he was doing, but he left in an awful hurry," I said, now drying my hands and keeping my head down. 

"Huh," he remarked, and scratched his head. "He must have been having a hard time in there. He broke the toilet seat."

"No shit," I said, turning to leave. "Well, I guess that might have been his problem."

The employee chuckled, and closed the stall door. "Maybe so."

In Which I Try Something New

Way back when I first started writing here, I mentioned a recurring dream that I had been having. I was having the same dream at least once a week for a couple of months, where I started smoking cigars. Since last May when I wrote about it, the frequency of the dream has dropped down to at least once a month. The fact that I have a recurring dream doesn't bother me, but something about it just sticks with me.

I have never smoked anything in my life. The closest I ever came to smoking was the time I got a cigarette from a kid at school in the seventh grade. I swiped a pack of matches from the cupboard where my parents hid them in the kitchen, and hid out in the woods behind my house. I put the cigarette in my mouth and I had a match in my hand, ready to strike it against the side of the matchbox. I could already smell the sulfur, already see the flare of fire and smoke as it caught. With the cigarette hanging from my mouth and the match just in front of it, I paused. I paused just long enough to realize how much trouble I would be in if I got caught. I dropped the unlit match and the matchbox on the hard packed dirt where I stood, and broke the cigarette in half. And with that, the moment where I had been the closest I have ever been to smoking ended.

Looking back on that moment now, I was smart to not follow through with it. Besides the obvious health risks, my mother had a keen sense of smell and would certainly have picked up on the distinct odor of cigarette smoke on my clothes. I can only imagine the hell that would have brought me had I not chickened out. Right around the same time as that, I snuck into my parents liquor cabinet with intent to try some of their booze. Same as with the cigarette, I stopped just short of actually doing anything for fear of getting caught. Back then, there was nothing scarier than getting in trouble by my parents. All of my nightmares paled in comparison, even the one I had after I saw E.T. for the first time. 

In my mind, sneaking cigarettes and booze is one of things that most kids do in their teen years to rebel from their parents. My parents had their hand on everything I did, especially when they started homeschooling me and my sisters, so I never got a chance to try anything like that again until I was out from under my parents roof and their sometimes smothering grasp, in college. I've had my share of alcohol since then, but I have yet to try smoking. I've had the chance to many times, but every time I would come close, I'd remember that moment in the woods behind my house, with that unfiltered cigarette dangling from my lips like I had seen people do on TV, and stop. I've never had one cigarette or cigar, nor any other smokable substance, in all of my teen or adult years. I feel as if I've missed out on one of those rites of passage of growing up, but it is of my own doing. 

Every time I have that dream where I start smoking cigars, I promise myself that one day soon I will buy a cigar and give it a go. A couple of times I've actually come close to asking the clerk behind the counter at the convenience store for one. As you can probably guess, I've yet to actually follow through. 

I won't follow through because I'll think of my grandfather and how his habit of smoking cigarettes led to his death more than ten years ago. I'll think of all those posters and commercials I've seen of how many people die from smoking each year. And even as an adult who is responsible for his life decisions, I'll think about how my parents would react. I know that one cigar doesn't mean I'll be addicted for life, but with all those thoughts reeling through my mind like a video cassette on fast forward, I'll change my mind before it's finally my turn to check out at the convenience store counter.

I have missed a lot of opportunities to experience things in my life because I have been too scared to step up and just do them. In high school, I could have gone to France. After high school, I could have gone to an out-of-state college. I could have done countless things that I now regret not doing because I have been too afraid to try something new.

Not any more, though.

I had the dream again last night, the one where I smoke a cigar. When I woke up this morning, I could almost smell the smoke from it in the air. I sat up and swung my feet out of bed, and even in my groggy state of consciousness, before my feet even hit the floor, it was settled in my mind. 

It is one thing that I have always wondered about, always wanted to try, and always been too scared to do. Even though that dream was the same as it ever was, something about it finally struck a chord within me. If I want to smoke a cigar, I'm going to smoke a damn cigar. Simple as that.

To some people, the act of picking up a cigar and smoking it wouldn't be a big deal at all. To me, though, it is. I'm taking charge of my life, even if in this one small way, and doing something I've wanted to do for many years. It is strangely liberating.

Maybe I'll enjoy the cigar, but maybe I won't. Maybe I'll try a different type to see if I like that one better, but maybe I won't. Maybe doing this will open the door to other things I've wanted to do, but maybe it won't. 

We'll see what happens.

In Which I Need Thicker Walls

The apartment that I live in shares common walls with our landlords. Our portion of the house is technically the in-law apartment of the house, divided by a wall of less-than-standard thickness. It took us less than one week to learn that even a normal-volume conversation could be overheard, be it our conversation or theirs. 

Having only a few inches between our sides of the house has made for interesting moments in the past couple months. Like the time where they had sex (yes, that one time). Or when they fought while having dinner:

Him: I'M YELLING AT YOU ABOUT SOMETHING INCONSEQUENTIAL.

Her: I'M YELLING EVEN LOUDER THAN YOU TO PROVE MY POINT.

Him: Can you pass the salt?

Her: Sure, darling.

Him: I STILL THINK YOU ARE WRONG, THUS MY CONTINUED RAISED VOICE.

Her: WHATEVER YOU SAY, DEAR. YOU'RE STILL SLEEPING ON THE COUCH.

Or my personal favorite, when they run their diesel-engine powered dishwasher at 10pm at night. Nothing like the roar of high-pressure water and a 16-horsepower drain pump that needs new bearings to lull you to a peaceful night's sleep. 

There have been a variety of things I have overheard, but lately something new has come up that just takes the cake.

A couple of times a week, one of my landlords (I can never tell if it is the He or the She) will draw up a bath. Their upstairs bathroom is partly above our living room, and with the thin walls and flooring we can clearly hear the tub filling up. Once the water shuts off, you can hear them testing the temperature of the water and then setting into the tub. There is a period of loud, watery sloshing sounds, but then all is still. 

And then, whoever is in the tub will fart.

It is unlike anything I have ever heard. These particular farts aren't the petite little one-cheek-sneak farts. These are marathon farts, the I-just-ate-chili farts, the I-didn't-know-I-had-a-tuba-up-my-butt kind of farts. It's a bare-ass, cheek-slapping fart against a hard surface. There is a squeak or a squeal almost, and of course, the bubbles. And oh, the bubbles! The escaping ass-air has to go somewhere, right? The sound of the bubbles is like someone switched on a Jacuzzi for about 3.7 seconds. 

This always happens in the evening, most often when both The Boss and I are sitting in the living room. After the butt-trumpet goes off over our heads, we have to stifle our rapturous laughter to keep from being overheard next door. I know that if we can hear them, they can hear us when we burp and fart, but I don't want to make it any more embarrassing than it needs to be. 

I think I'm going to leave a bottle of Bean-O with our rent check next month. 

In Which I Drink Too Much

Emergency Protocol Review Board, Session 137

System Record Date: 02/17/2009

Cognition begins at 04:33:17.

04:33:17 

All systems activated. ALERT. Traction system employed, equilibrium sensors report Transport Vehicle is off balance. Navigation is unsteady. Control Room reports visual impairment, employs corrective lenses. Transport Vehicle stabilized. All systems normal.

04:47:41

Waste management systems void refuse compactors from previous date, and commences cleaning cycle. All systems normal.

05:01:37

WARNING. WARNING. Fluid Retention reports fluid levels are dangerously low. System administrators advise of immediate fluid replenishment. Clear fluids required to avoid system malfunction or equipment damage. 

05:04:11

System fluid levels now adequate. Threat of damage to the Contaminant Filtration System by calcification neutralized. All systems normal.

05:18:56

ALERT. Communication problems between Fluid Retention and Control Room result in excess fluid. Fluid Retention container now full. System administrators route all excess fluids to Emergency Fluid Reserve storage. Reserve storage full to capacity. All systems normal.

05:33:09

System administrators note for system record of the expulsion of excess methane gas via exhaust at the rear of facility. Due to previous incidents (marked in Sessions 97 and 103), supervisors on site verified that all proper emission standards were met. Air Quality sensors now reporting poor oxygen levels, but is stabilizing. All systems normal.

05:34:01

Transport Vehicle leaves headquarters. Ambient temperature sensors report current temperature of 19F degrees, activates Heat Conservation Vibration system. All systems normal.

05:39:18

Control Room reports uneven terrain ahead. Transport Vehicle motion becomes unsteady. Emergency Fluid Reserve room reports concern over possible fluid leak from Vehicle's erratic motion. All systems normal.

05:40:15

Waste Management routes waste water from Contaminant Filtration Services to Fluid Retention. ALERT. Fluid Retention container full to capacity. Emergency Fluid Reserve storage full to capacity. System administrators place all systems on a Level 1 Alert. 

05:43:17 

ALERT. Due to continued uneven terrain, Level 1 Alert upgraded to Level 3 Alert. System administrators report to Control Room the need for a suitable place to dispense all waste fluids and empty the Emergency Fluid Reserve to avoid a massive fluid leak. Plumbing facility reports concern over the durability of the pipeline for such large amounts of liquid waste. Control Room responds, increases speed of Transport Vehicle towards destination.

05:47:53

WARNING. WARNING. Level 3 Alert upgraded to Level 5 Alert. All system facilities are in CODE RED lock down. All available personnel routed to Fluid Retention to help retain fluids until a proper waste site can be located. System administrators receive reports of minor leaking from the liquid waste pipeline. ALERT. ALERT. Air Quality reports build-up of methane gas; expulsion prohibited until liquid waste can be dispensed.

05:49:30

Transport Vehicle arrives at destination. Ambient temperature sensors report a sudden drop in temperature. WARNING. WARNING. Level 6 Alert enacted.CODE YELLOW. System administrators route all cognitive services to Fluid Retention and Emergency Fluid Reserve facilities. Control Room reports a waste disposal site in close proximity. Plumbing personnel alerted.

05:50:03

WARNING. WARNING. Plumbing personnel report the pressure lock on liquid waste pipeline is failing. Control Room increases speed of Transport Vehicle, alerts of arrival at waste disposal site. System administrators approve External Services to lower protective covering. Liquid waste pipeline extended.

05:50:05

Plumbing personnel release pressure lock. System administrators open Fluid Retention and Emergency Fluid Reserve tanks, and commences liquid waste disposal. Air Quality given the approval to release methane gas via exhaust at the rear of facility. 

05:56:11

Level 6 Alert dissolved; All liquid waste dispensed without incident. Fluid Retention reporting safe levels of fluid in both regular and Emergency Reserve holding tanks. Liquid waste pipeline is retrieved, and External Services raises protective covering. System administrators receives reports from Plumbing that pressure lock is sealing properly. Control Room performs diagnostic scan of all system facilities. All systems normal.

END OF RECORD

(Review Board Note: Proper emergency protocol utilized. No need for further internal review.)

In Which I Live In A Small Town

When you live in a small town, as I do in Western Maine, there are certain things that you get to experience that you wouldn't have the opportunity to see otherwise. For example:

• Where else can you see an entire family of four with the same hair style? In addition, where else can The Mullet still be considered an acceptable choice of style?
• Where else can you see women with better, fuller mustaches than men?
• Where else can you buy a quart of motor oil, a gallon of milk, rifle ammunition, and an Italian sandwich all in the same space?
• Where else would only have one gas station with two pumps, one of which is always out of order?
• Where else is new adhesive vinyl flooring and spray paint considered remodeling?
• Where else can you find a store that stocks 37 varieties of beer, but only one cooler for water and soda combined?
• Where else is camouflage clothing considered formal wear?
• Where else can you see more spelling and grammatical errors on storefront signs than on a child's first-grade writing assignment?

It is definitely an experience, and despite the small town atmosphere with not even one traffic light, I love it here. It is quiet and life just seems to run slower out here.

Anyone want to come visit?