Category: family

I Have Always Practiced Social Isolation—Pt. 1

IMG_9662A friend of mine, Eric Kirsammer, suggested I regularly post something during this period of social isolation. Some kind of online diary, “in your style” as he put it. Presumably he meant with an ironic, sarcastic, and semi-bitter tone, owing to the complete absence of that sort of writing from the Interweb.

Ohhhh, that’s what he meant. As the philosopher Britannia Jean Spears expounded, “Oops. I did it again.”

Very well then. I’ll try to share what my family and I have been up to during the days of social-distancing. One hopes all this social isolation and people avoidance will keep the body count way down, and my blog will remain a silly whimsical thing.

Starting March 16, my employer sent us to work at home, originally for two weeks. Supposedly, we’d be back in the office by the following Friday. Within a few days Illinois Governor Pritzker issued the first order to shelter in place, self-isolate, social distance, and all the other fun new terms and verbs, and it was decided we wouldn’t go back until the near-end of April, at least. It probably didn’t help that a few people in our building were diagnosed with COVID-19. I hesitate to use the phrase, “it’s all for the best”, but I suppose it is. My wife Michael, a teacher, and two kids, Nate (12) and Flynn (8), being Illinoisans, had their schools closed the Thursday before. Mike and I both hoped that I’d get to work at home, because the idea of her doing her job and minding and homeschooling the kids alone didn’t sit well with either of us. Working for a healthcare association, however, I knew they’d do the right thing, and lo and behold they did.

I work at home twice a month. That’s one of the cushy benefits of my job, something for which I am deeply grateful. I choose two Fridays to stay home so I can walk my daughter Flannery to school and be there to meet them both afterward. It’s a pleasant perk. Wish I could do it more often. As it turns out, the past few days showed that I could. As a copywriter and copy editor my job is all about creating and reviewing documents. With a laptop I can carry my office in my backpack. For the past year I’ve also produced podcasts for my association. Again, luckily, my recording studio is portable. Just saying, in case anyone is listening, working at home has been easy. I’ve participated in several meetings, and frankly they’ve been shorter and more to the point than all the in-person ones. Does a lack of an audience—beyond a grid of taking heads—encourage people to not perform or pad out a meeting? Maybe so.

I started this blog a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve really been too busy to maintain it.* And I mean busy-busy. My workload, praise Cthulhu, has been consistent enough to justify my paycheck. I know how damned lucky I am (so far) to have a job I can rely on. Again, it’s a healthcare gig, and I suppose today we’re enjoying(?) a bull market. I’ve also been taking every advantage of being home, with no need to commute and no social or child obligations (no soccer, basketball, Boy Scouts, swimming, etc. to take the kids to and from). I can read without interruption. I’ve had greater motivation to work up stuff for Third Coast Review and interact with a group of fine, generous writers. I’ve even been able to give that whole writing thing I basically abandoned over the years another look. In a plague year, knowing it can all blow to hell and having extra time is a powerful motivator to attack projects. Also, I seriously, desperately, frightfully need the distraction. Yet, as wonderful as it is to feel productive, I hope it doesn’t last long.

More later.

 

Grin Weeper

6c66f271684850c778cac27fda532a9cI spent several days writing about a distressing event that recently happened to me. Happened to someone else, actually, with me in close proximity. I use the word “traumatic” sparingly. I’m not going to argue semantics, but it’s one of those words bandied about too freely these days. There are truly traumatic events—things involving death, abuse, severe injuries, and the like. But while what happened was scary and psychologically stabbing, everyone involved came out all right. I suppose it was partially traumatic, but nothing requiring psychological liniment and band-aids.

For the past week I kept returning to the piece, crafting it to recall every breath, sensation, and emotion. And it was pretty good. After several years of feeling barely able to word-craft worth a damn, it flowed. Flowing is a healthy activity for blood, water, and words.

But it occurred to me that this wasn’t entirely my story, and I wasn’t certain sharing it online was a good choice. I asked my wife what she thought, and after a moment she said, “No, don’t.” Occasionally, she’s overly cautious, but not this time.

Still, I had to finish it, I knew this, even though it’s destined for a file in the closet cabinet, along with my notebooks, journals, and never-sent letters. That stings a bit, because it’s one more bit of work that’ll do me no good now (soul-balming notwithstanding), and won’t last after I die. My kids might retain some of my work out of nostalgia for the old bastard, but otherwise one day my children’s children’s children will say, “What is this crap?” and heave it into the trash.

But jot it down I must.

What happened? I’ll tell you this much.

Someone dying and someone mimicking dying sent me into a double funk for the past week. Huzzah. Mr. Dan Kelly meet Mr. Death Mortis.

I think about dying a lot—not in a scared way. It just reoccurs to me that I’m mortal and will end. I don’t want to die. Confidentially, and this may surprise you, I hate the thought of it. Standard reactions, yes, but I’ve long developed a bland acceptance of what I can’t control. I’d like to fly unaided, but there’s all this damn gravity to contend with. I’d like to travel everywhere—literally EVERYWHERE—but money, time, space, and previous obligations won’t accommodate me. I’d prefer not to die, but…well, we’ve all been there. We all ARE there. You accept the limits and try to find a way to ameliorate the disappointments. Very well, airplanes and a few trips over the course of a lifetime it is.

But Death has no workaround. And when you’re face to face with it or it gives you a preview of the real thing, you discover the bastard is too stupid to make deals with you, or to give you a pleasant if temporary alternative. Death is neither fair nor unfair. It’s an unavoidable, dull-witted, bureaucratic lug doing its job that doesn’t even wonder why people are annoyed. Imagine a janitor wearing ear buds, listening to its music as it pushes past you to clean off your desk, even though you’re obviously still working or eating or otherwise occupied. Then it leaves without a word—but you know it’ll be back to swipe and discard whatever else you’d prefer it leave alone. Worse yet, it occurs to you that maybe you’re going in the wastebasket next time.

But you’ll get over it, because there’s no alternative. Which can be looked at as a comfort if only for its consistency and inevitability, I guess.

Still sucks.

Begorrah!

leprechaun1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Talking to my Wife (Not verbatim, but close.)

Me: Nate told me all about the leprechaun traps they set at school.

Wife: Yes, I heard about those. They come in and mess up the classroom.

Me: Uh, you know he made a trap for home too, right?

Wife: Yep.

Me: (Pause) The boy really believes in leprechauns, doesn’t he?

Wife: (Laughs) Yes, I think he does.

Me: (Sighs) So, do we need to fill the trap with something?

Wife: I guess so.

Me: I’ll pick up some chocolate gold coins at Fannie Mae. You hide the trap somewhere and I’ll load it up when he’s not looking.

Wife: Sounds good!

Me: (Mentally counting) So, that’s Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, leprechauns… How many goddamned mythological creatures are allowed to just walk around our house whenever they feel like it?

Wife: Ha ha ha!

SEX TORTOISE

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Me: So, I have an idea for a present for you, but I want to bounce it off you first.

My Wife: I don’t want a turtle.

Me: (Blank sarcastic expression)

My Wife: Ha ha ha!

Me: Actually, it’s a TORTOISE, smart-ass.

My Wife: Oh, well, that’s okay then.

Me: Actually, it’s a device called THE SEX TORTOISE.

My Wife: Oh really?

Me: It’s round and has five probes for maximum pleasure.

My Wife: Ha ha ha!

Me: We might have to have some friends over.

My Wife: Ha ha ha ha ha! Well, that’s just great.

Me: We must all assume “scissor” position perpendicular to the SEX TORTOISE.

My Wife: Har har har!

Me: It operates like this. (I assume a SEX TORTOISE position and begin vibrating while emitting a mechanical NRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHH! sound.)

My Wife: Ha ho hoo hoo!

Me: Sometimes I wonder if you’re really laughing at the shit I say or if you just feel sorry for me.

My Wife: It’s a little of both, actually.

Cryyyyyyyyying, OOoooooverrrrrr Yooouuuuuuuuu!

The surprise that Obama would choke up (“show emotion,” as ABC’s site refers to it) while thanking his staffers reminds me of the older relatives who think of me as one of those “new fathers”—that is, a guy who’s deeply involved in raising his kids. They mean it admiringly, but it’s funny that in 2012 some folks still react as if it’s a rare and unusual thing. Crying tears of joy and pride? Staying home to change your kids’ diapers, play with them, and teach them? INCROYABLE!

Of course, most people in my circle think, “Wow, that Obama. What a mensch!” I find it nice to know that society’s opinions about “proper” male behavior are changing for the better. I’m not saying we should be bawling all the time, guys, and fretting about our lack of life-giving milk production ability (from what my wife and lady friends tell me, breasts are a pain in the ass—so, we dodged that boobular bullet). I just think a real man (and hell, a real woman) should be able to survive in wild with nothing more than a pen knife and a single match, AND willing to get a little weepy while delivering a wedding toast.

We require a new definition for “man up.”

The Creative Process

Mike, Nate, Flynn, and I are on our way to the beach house we rented in Michigan. It’s located some ways off the main road, requiring a series of twisty turns through the greenery. Mike asks me to review the directions on the Post It notes she scribbled out the other night while speaking to the lady who owns the beach house.

Mike: What’s the next turn?

Me: Port Sheldon Road to… Who the hell is Ron Butternut?

Mike: What?

Me: It says right here: “Ron Butternut.” Who is this Ron Butternut? ARE YOU SLEEPING WITH HIM!?!

(I point at the directions, knowing full well it says “R on Butternut” [Right on Butternut Road] Mike laughs.)

Mike: That’s an awesome name. You should make him a character in a story.

Me: Except it would be funnier if it were “Ron Butternuts.” I’d have him address a audience like this: “Hello, everyone, I’m Ron Butternuts. SHUT THE HELL UP.”

(Mike and I laugh.)

Throughout the week we kept speculating on who Ron Butternuts was, and so forth. Finally, one night, on our way to get ice cream in Holland, MI, we bring up Ron one too many times for Nate’s taste.

Nate: (Shouting) No! No! It’s NOT Ron Butternuts!

Mike: Oh really, bud? What should his name be?

Nate: It should be RON SUGARNUTS!!!

Hilarity ensued. Also, he’s absolutely right.

That Reminds Me…

My wife and I have yet to mind-fuck our four-year-old son and arrange to have a bizarre and embarrassing photo chase him down for the rest of his life.

What I want to know is NOT why people do things like this (simple answer, with 6 billion of us on the planet, a large percentage are bound to be goofballs), but who sat down, puffed on their pipe or nursed their tea, and thought, “You know what’s good for a kid’s development? Keeping him or her locked into an infant’s mindset.”

Actually, I take all that back and apologize, because breast-feeding is MAGIC!

Waitasecond! I fell into TIME magazine’s trap! CONTROVERSY!

Lately

* The challenge of writing my novel’s first draft (which comes between the rough draft and the final draft) is that while it needn’t be perfect, I’d like it to make sense. Surely, there are continuity errors. I think I’ve jumbled a few characters here and there (one guy has had three different names). And I must admit, my sentences sometimes stretch out across time and space. But still, were someone to read my book before the final draft, they could say, “You know, this needs work, but I get it. I know what’s going on.” Even if I shove this thing into a box and store it somewhere in the basement, not to be seen again until after my death, at least it’ll make sense.

* Life has been difficult. Not hard, but difficult. A spate of viruses hit everyone in my family, so everyone’s been sick at some point since February (my wife got strep TWICE). Also, my father’s 80th birthday is in a week, and while my family was working to make it a memorable day he started experiencing a health issue that required an MRI. We won’t know what’s up with that until tomorrow evening though. Let’s hope it’s good news.

And so on.

Anyway, God, fates, etc. Thanks for not hitting us TOO hard, but let up, will ya?

* So, how’s by you? I have to admit that while I’m no longer in Facebook withdrawal, it’s been weird to experience a pre-social networking life. I can’t share photos of my kids as easily. If I find an interesting article, I can’t immediately post it. What’s more, I miss my online friends. So, back to work, Dan. Kathy’s not giving up those passwords unless you have a novel in hand. To the work, to the work.

Young Weegee

I bought a tripod, and while explaining to Nate what it was for and how it worked, he asked, “Can I take your picture?” Sure thing, buddy. Nate kept taking pictures, but from my perspective he wasn’t holding the button down long enough. Turns out he was doing just fine. He even adjusted the tripod correctly. I only wish he’d had a better, less sweaty and weird-haired model.