AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGG!!!!

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The following is a true story.

Thursday September 6, 2007. The time is 7:02 PM. I’m inspecting every room in our house for leaks. I’m trying to make sure that I’m not about to relive what I just went through during the last two hours of my life. The plumbers will hopefully be gone soon. The kitchen floor is drying and warping. Water is still squirting out around my sliding glass door in the kitchen. My daughter has finally stopped crying as a result of witnessing me lose my mind for a full 20 minutes. We just had over 600 square feet of plumbing torn out and replaced because we were unfortunate enough to buy a house with polybutylene plumbing. On Sunday we had a very bad leak. On Monday I got one of those huge-phone-book add plumbers to come out and “take a look”. The rest is history.

Thursday September 6, 2007. The time is 7:04 PM. My chest hurts enough that I probably should consider a visit to the emergency room, just to be sure. I don’t think I’m quite dying yet, but I’m not ruling it out yet either. You need to know that over the last two hours, I’ve cried three times, lost my temper worse than I ever have in my entire life and said some of the most horrible things I’ve ever said to another human being (living or dead). The phone rings. I storm over and pick it up ready to take on whomever it might be:

DENNIS: HELLO!!!

VOICE: Yes. Is this Mr. Tkon to whom I’m speaking?

DENNIS: YES! YES IT IS!

VOICE: Mr. Tkon, I’m calling on behalf of the American Federation of Homeless and Disenfranchised Persons and . . .

DENNIS: Well guess what pal? My house looks like a fucking water park amusement ride right now with water shooting everywhere, and the god-damn plumber fell through my attic ceiling all the way to my second floor landing. You should see the size of the god-damn hole in my ceiling!!! And you know what else . . .

VOICE: Oh! I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Perhaps now might not be such a . . .

DENNIS: You’re god-damn fucking right now is not such a good time. Unless you’re looking for a good right-hook to the nose. I’m feeling pretty generous with those at the moment. How’d ya like one of those? Huh?

VOICE: Dial tone . . . . . .

DENNIS: YEAH? FUCK YOU MR. CHARITY! (grumbling – when did the homeless get a union anyway?).

I pick up my note pad and storm off into the girls’ bathroom. I turn on the faucet to the tub. It seems to work. I pull the little thingy to make the shower run and the shower head falls off and water starts shooting everywhere like in a three-stooges movie.

DENNIS: (at 120 decibels) FUUUUUUUUUK!!!!!!!!

Thursday September 6, 2007. The time is 7:07 PM.

PHONE: RING RING RING RING

DENNIS: (dripping wet) WHAT!

VOICE: Hello? I’m sorry, but is this Mrs. Tkon? I was looking for . . .

DENNIS: NO! Who’s this!!!

VOICE: Mr. Tkon? Hello and how ARE you this evening? My name is Beverly and I’m calling from the cancer federation. I just wanted to let you know that our truck is going to be in your neighborhood this weekend and . . .

DENNIS: Beverly? Can I ask you a personal question?

BEVERLY: Um . . . Well sure, I guess. What is it?

DENNIS: Have you ever had a fucking plumber fall through your god-damn ceiling and turn your fucking kitchen into a water-park all in the same day?

BEVERLY: Um . . . (silence).

DENNIS: See Bev, because if you haven’t, then you have abso-fucking-lutely no clue what-so-ever as to just how fucking mad I am at the moment. And if by chance you did, you’d completely understand that I could give a rat’s ass that your fucking-cancer-mobile is making the rounds, in my neighborhood, this weekend, because I JUST DON’T GIVE A GOOD-GOD-DAMN!!!!! (pause) Beverly? Hello?

DENNIS: (Slams phone down, pulls it out of the wall, and throws it across the room and smashes it against the wall that needed repainting anyway.)

At this point, I’m feeling completely out of control. It’s not a question of am I going to drink, it’s a question of am I ever going to stop (or at least so it seems at the moment).

I pick up my pad of paper and continue making notes about the plumbing deficiencies that remain to be fixed. And yes. The phone rings again for the 3rd time in less than 10 minutes.

PHONE: RING RING RING

DENNIS: (Screaming) HELLO!!!!

VOICE: I’m sorry, is this . . . I was trying to reach a Mr. Dennis Tkon.

DENNIS: WELL YOU GOT HIM!!! HAPPY?!

VOICE: Um . . . Sir. If this isn’t a good time, I could call back perhaps.

DENNIS: No. I’d rather you annoy the shit out of me right now while my mood absolutely blows. I think that would be much better than you running the risk of fucking up one of my good moods. So tell, just what can I do for you?

VOICE: Well, if now’s a good time sir.

DENNIS: I’m listening.

VOICE: Well, you may not be aware, but if you’re showering in or drinking plain tap water, you’re exposing yourself to millions of unwanted microbes and foreign particles which are unhealthful and suspended in the very water you drink.

DENNIS: Can I ask you your name please?

VOICE: Um, yes. My name is Sandjeep.

DENNIS: Listen Sandjeep. Right now I’m exposed to a whole fucking house full of unwanted microbes and foreign particles because they’re pouring through my light fixtures in my kitchen, computer room and bathroom. Microbes in my water is least of my god-damn troubles at the moment. I’ve got more water than I know what to do with. Plus, I’ve got a wounded plumber lying on my second floor landing waiting for medical assistance. You got any fucking products that can get rid of klutzy plumbers with shitty balance? Does your fucking product stop microbe-laden water from streaming through every orifice in my god-damn house? Because if it doesn’t Sandjeep, then I’m not interested!

SANDJEEP: Yes, Yes. Well, I’m very sorry to hear that of course Mr. Tkon. However, our product will definitely reduce your microbe problem most definitely. Now if you can just give me a date sometime next week when I can have a representative . . .

DENNIS: >CLICK< (Hangs up) Stay tuned. Somewhere there’s a bottle with my name on it and it’s calling me. . .

Working Working Working . . .

I love how peaceful it is here in my office.

On a Sunday.

Like every Sunday.

Except this one is part of a holiday weekend.

Labor Day.

Or so I’m told.

How can one tell?

Oh yeah!

I got up at 6:15 AM this morning.

Instead of 6:00 AM.

December Heart

Two months have passed in utter darkness. The unlit sky begs reprieve from the total eclipse of my December heart – slow with cold and unaware that it still beats in August – Unaware it still beats at all. What good is my apology now? On whose ears would it fall? Surely not upon the woman who loved me once, whose promises of love were so deeply branded into my heart - the scar of unrequited love.

Apologies trip and stumble through my mind, unacknowledged, unspoken, and hopelessly undelivered. Their door to you frozen with the cold of endless night. Stars once brilliant and dazzling mock me in a constellation of pain.

In my dreams you touch me there – your unmistakable touch! Your doe eyed passionate gaze still, with no hint of hatred. Your lips deliver convincingly your message of love – an unspoiled kiss with the taste of forever on your breath. Your curves resume their familiar place against me – two puzzle pieces into one. And in my ear you whisper “Why?”

“I have no answer for you.” I say, and wait for your reaction. But you say nothing – nothing at all, and simply fade into the endless night and into the shadow of my December heart.





by dennis tkon - copyright 2007

A Question of Birds

The temple walls they crumble bricks
Surround me like prayers gone awry
And rice once scattered strewn on steps
Cannot attract the birds who fly

And blade their wings against the air
Their song through motion silently
In search of sweeter bread and sky
With no regard for gravity

But tied to Earth I am with questions
Born of need to know you so
My hands reach skyward for the birds
And helplessly I watch them go

And then in time a child to
A man I’ve turned and hope to find
A truth beneath it all which flows
Like love to which I have been blind

Enough years are assembled now
And sweeter things I’ve come to know
The light it falls upon the bricks
And through the cracks I start to grow

Forgiveness love and gratitude
I’ve gathered up each grain of rice
Consumed them hungrily like food
Now beats a heart once made of ice

And through my veins sweet water flows
Like love and all these things I’ve found
I’m ever closer to the birds
My feet no longer touch the ground

My heart sings pure a song heard only
By the birds who blade the air
In search of sweeter bread and sky
With questions few and love to share

by dennis tkon - copyright 2007

The Space Between

When it comes upon me when
The skies are open like balloons
And songs spill from the ends of birds
And carry soft and then and soon

I try and hard as it might be
To embrace this philosophy
And failing fast though I may try
There’s always time enough to cry

So sing the song of broken hearts
A desperate beating in my chest
And cast off hurtful memories and when
I’m done forget the rest

And build a column to the sky
Till time folds in upon itself
Then rest my head upon the earth
Till blue commands and nothing else

If eyes could see the shadow world
A topsy arch all golden love
And blessings spilled like seeds unsown
Into an earth I’ve never known

Then wishes fall into my cup
A toast to you my thankfulness
And joy unbridled drink it up
Consumed but there is never less

Upon me now it has arrived
The sky and earth they touch just so
And in the space between I’m loved
Much more than I will ever know

By Dennis Tkon - Copyright 2007

Dieting?

Day 2 and counting . . .

Coffee? No Thanks! I'm Crazy! (Part II)

This is the continuation of yesterday's post about my therapy session on Tuesday. Read the prior post first or this won't make sense to you.

To be continued . . .

CARL: Tell me what you remembered.

DENNIS: (Complies – verbatim. I tell him everything as I remembered it.)

CARL: Can you talk from the anger?

DENNIS: (Sounding puzzled.) Anger?

CARL: Yes. You must have been very angry – being treated that way by your mother when you were so sick and needed her love and comfort.

DENNIS: It wasn’t just when I was sick that I needed her. When I needed her most, she was physically and emotionally unavailable. She was as insubstantial as air – like a ghost.

CARL: When was that? When was it that you needed her most – that she was like a ghost?

DENNIS: (Struggling to hold back the tears – tearing and twisting a tissue. Long pause.) The beatings. (Pause.) When he’d beat me and scream at me. She did nothing to stop him. She made excuses for him. She justified his insanity.

CARL: (Stares at me.)

DENNIS: She turned her back on me.

CARL: So tell me how this relates to being sick and the way your mother cared for you? How do these feel connected or related?

DENNIS: Well . . . I can’t help thinking about how when I was sick, one minute my mom would be crazed with anger over having to take care of me, and the next minute she’d be saying all of the “right” words – comforting words, and would seem like she cared or at lest would be doing things suggesting she cared. I don’t know. I could never tell with her.

CARL: I see.

DENNIS: And that’s sort of the problem I guess . . . that I was getting a very mixed message. One second she’s being a bitch and the next minute she’s being “mom-like.” It was impossible to know which of those two women was really my mom. Letting her love me and take care of me felt so so risky and so unsafe – like I couldn’t trust her.

CARL: You couldn’t.

DENNIS: I know!

CARL: And then when you’d find yourself in a “truly” life threatening situation, her true colors would always be shown.

DENNIS: Yeah!

CARL: She never failed to disappoint you. She consistently never came to your side.

DENNIS: (Says nothing.)

CARL: And then when you were sick and suddenly she seemed to care, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was genuine, because after all, if she really loved you and really cared for your well being, then she should have thrown her body between you and your father and “saved” you from his wrath each time, right?

DENNIS: Absolutely!!!

CARL: So, in all likelihood, your anger response to “caretaking” gestures, like being offered a cup of coffee, is all about feeling unsafe, because you’re used to being confused about the intent of the so-called caretaker, right?

DENNIS: Yeah. Like when Beth offered me the coffee, I felt angry and confused, because I didn’t know what she meant by that gesture.

CARL: That’s exactly my point. In your mind, it couldn’t just be that she was offering you a cup of coffee. The gesture had to mean something more than that, and it couldn’t possibly mean, in your mind, that you just looked like you needed a cup and she felt like doing something nice for you.

DENNIS: Right.

CARL: Because who would want to do something nice for you – someone whose own mother couldn’t even love him or protect him from a spiritual death.

DENNIS: (Quietly.) Yeah.

CARL: But what do we really know about your mother’s situation? Truthfully.

DENNIS: That she was really just as much a victim of my father’s rage as I was and just as powerless to do anything about it because of her own issues and complexes that would be activated by his rage.

CARL: Exactly. And what about her anger towards you when you were sick?

DENNIS: That was just her acting out how her own mother treated her when she was sick as a kid, and really had nothing to do with, because, um . . . my being sick was just a trigger for her that would activate her response to her own complex?

CARL: You’ve been paying attention all these weeks! You’re a wonderful student.

DENNIS: Thanks. But that doesn’t change how I feel. I still react badly when someone tries to take care of me.

CARL: And you probably will for some time. But remember. And I’ve told you this many times. Awareness of a complex is the first step towards healing that complex. You have to learn to recognize it; what triggers it; what the reactions look and feel like; how long it lasts; and a dozen other things, before you can begin to be the master of your mind when you’re activated. Most people have difficulty just acknowledging and accepting that they even have a complex.

DENNIS: GOD! This work is so difficult and demanding sometimes.

CARL: But it’s worth it. You know how much of a difference it’s made in your life already.

DENNIS: Don’t worry. I won’t stop. I’ll keep working on me.

CARL: Well, for today we’re going to have to. We’re out of time.

I get up and walk over to Carl’s desk and lay my check on top of his day-timer. We exchange further pleasantries and then end our session as we always do – with a big hug.
It looks like we’ll be working on the mother complex issue for a while. So stay tuned.

Coffee? No thanks, I'm crazy! (PART I)

This is Part I of Tuesday’s therapy session. I hoped to get the whole thing out in one sitting, but it’s getting long so I decided to cut it into two. I’ll be back to finish this later (hopefully).

I’m sitting in my psychologist’s waiting room reading People Magazine before being called into the safety of Carl’s office, with its heavy paneling and darkly stained wood. The space is completely stuffed full of leather furniture. Books, ceiling to floor. Carl doesn’t smoke a pipe, but it smells like someone did a long time ago. With me in the waiting room are two large coffees from Dunkin Donuts – one for me and one for Carl. Mine has cream and sugar. Carl likes his black, which my mind translates into “I don’t need any help and can do this alone.” Silently, I curse my coffee for being needy. Bringing him coffee is new and this is only the second time I’ve attempted this. I’m anxious. I haven’t been here in two weeks and I worry that bringing Carl coffee is somehow a breach of the imaginary boundaries which shape the doctor-patient relationship.

Carl appears suddenly, as if conjured, and bids me a hearty “Helllll-OOOOWWW”, which always triggers a sudden release of adrenalin, mildly throwing me into the fight-or-flight response.

DENNIS: (Thinking to myself) I pay him for this?

CARL: Come - on - back! (He says, in brisk staccato as if each word were a complete cheer in the game of my well-being).

I pick up both cups of coffee and comply. Walking back, I hear the electric whirring of the sound machine, parked on the floor by Carl’s doorway blurring the sound of conversation which might leak out of a session. I look at it and feel sad – sad that there are so many secrets in need of blurring. And in that moment, I feel the weight of my own shame, worn like a backpack full of lies. I step into Carl’s office and look around. It’s my routine. What am I checking for? I don’t know. I guess I just need it to be the same. I look some more. Everything is where it belongs. I stop next to my favorite leather chair, the one that swivels and reclines and supports me when I fall apart. The one I’ve rebuilt myself in over and over again. The one that knows more about me than any other chair in the world. I study it too. For the briefest moment I imagine someone else sitting in my chair talking to Carl, using my tissues, from the box on my table next to my chair and I feel the sting of jealousy sizzle down my spine. Suddenly, I remember that I’m holding two coffees and hold one out toward Carl.

DENNIS: Oh! I almost forgot. I brought you a coffee. I figured you wouldn’t have had any yet since it’s so early, and I had to stop to get mine anyway . . . (my voice trails off, nervously watching for any sign of disapproval.)

CARL: Well! Thank you! How kind. I don’t mind if I do sir. (He says this in a sing-song sort of voice, as if he were telling a children’s story full of magic lands, giants, and enchanted gardens.) Can I pay you?

DENNIS: (Subconsciously I become aware of the word “patronizing”, but the thought fails to form fully in my mind.) Nah. It’s on me. My treat. It’s nothing.

This exchange is followed by a few more reassurances and I settle into my chair. Carl sits in an identical one across from me and we move into the next phase of my routine – the staring game. The silence makes my ears feel full and I wait for him to speak, like always. Eventually, he asks how I am and in no time, ten minutes of my fifty minute session have been wasted on small talk. And then we get to work.

DENNIS: . . . I know! It’s like that mother complex thing we were working on last time. I just have so much trouble asking for help – especially if it’s help for me personally.

CARL: What do you mean?

DENNIS: Well, in my world, there’s a huge difference between “Can I help you with that?” and “Can I help you?”

CARL: (Stares at me.)

DENNIS: I mean, I don’t have any trouble letting people help me with stuff – you know, work on my cases or do things that need to be done if it helps me out. Again, No problem with, “Let me help you with that.” I just go nuts though if someone tries to help ME!

CARL: Can you give me an example?

DENNIS: (Makes a loud puffing noise somewhere between exasperation and surprise.) PUHH! Yeah! Definitely. Last night. Perfect example. I’m sitting in my office preparing for a deposition when my paralegal, Beth, walks in at around quarter to five.

CARL: Is this the new paralegal?

DENNIS: Yeah. So Beth walks in and asks me if there is anything that I need for my deposition. Do I have my file, Do I need any last minute filing done, any copying? I tell her, “No.” Not because I don’t want her to do those things, it’s just that there really isn’t anything that needs to be done. She was just being helpful.

CARL: (Stares at me.)

DENNIS: So she mills about my office putting things away and tidying up and looking after me in a way that starts to feel a little mothering (cue the psycho violins). Then she turns towards me and just looks at me very compassionately. She’s observing how tired I look and is measuring my pile and doing the mental calculations which allow her to conclude that I have many long hours ahead of me. She cocks her head to one side slightly and in the sweetest most compassionate voice asks me if she can get me a cup of coffee.

CARL: (Stares at me.)

I pause here and feel myself burning with anger. I’m angry that Beth offered me coffee and I’m furious that Carl is just staring at me and saying nothing.

CARL: What did you do when she offered you the cup of coffee?

DENNIS: What did I do? (I ask, stunned that he’s asking.) I told her, “No!” But not just “No” like a regular “No.” It was a “No” like “Whoa! How could you ask me such a question?” I said it with a lot of force and in a way that hopefully told her that she shouldn’t ever offer me coffee again. She looked hurt and a little scared and I imagined that she was wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

CARL: (Carl looks back and forth several times at his cup of coffee and then at me – pausing for emphasis.) What did she do when you told her “No” like that?

DENNIS: She smiled a funny smile and said, “Ok.” And then she left.

Several minutes pass as we both ponder the exchange between me and Beth and my reaction to her gesture of kindness.

CARL: So? What do you think this is all about? What would have happened if you had accepted Beth’s offer? (Pause) Can you close your eyes and imagine Beth again offering you the coffee and you just feeling how good that feels to have someone look after you in that way? Can you imagine accepting the coffee from Beth?

As Carl says these words, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, my teeth gnash and my hands clench the armrests on my chair. I imagine Beth’s syrupy-sweet offer and experience her words flowing through me like a lethal injection. Every cell in my body arches and resists as if my life depended on it. Fury rises in me and suddenly, I see my left hand firmly around Beth’s throat and all I can think about is choking her. I close my eyes to the image and feel drops of sweat sliding from my underarms down my sides. I answer Carl in a small whisper – almost the voice of a child.

DENNIS: No. (Still whispering I continue.) I don’t want that. I don’t want any of it.

A tear rolls down my cheek but I hardly notice. I’m back in my bedroom and I’m five years old. I’m sick. I’m sure I have a fever of over one hundred degrees and I’ve just thrown up in the bathroom. Before waking up my mother to tell her, I’ve assembled everything she could possibly need to take care of me. I’ve gotten out the aspirin, thermometer, a cold rag, a glass of water, a trashcan with a bag in it to catch my vomit and tissues. God forbid my mother should have to get any of these things herself. I’d feel so much more like a burden – even more than I do now, just needing her to know that I’m sick and maybe take my temperature. After several minutes, my mother stomps into my bedroom carrying her bathrobe. She doesn’t slide her arms into each sleeve. She punches her fists into them in quick jerks, while muttering under her breath. She ties her robe violently with sharp dramatic movements, and I can actually hear the fabric protesting as it slides across itself. It makes an angry zzzzzziiip sound.

Still muttering, she comes over to my bedside and observes my “handiwork” – my collection of things one needs when one is sick. My mother looks at me with disgust and says, “You’re such a hypochondriac! You don’t even know if you’re sick yet! I’ll tell you if you’re sick!” She picks up the thermometer and removes it from the case. She starts shaking it down violently. I can hear her wrist snapping and cracking with each shake. It’s a horrible sound – a precursor of a certain kind of death. I watch in horror. I’ve seen this before and I know what’s coming but I dare say nothing. And then it happens – again. The thermometer flies out of my mother’s hand and shatters on my nightstand. Glass and mercury go everywhere.

MOM: SHIT! GOD DAMN IT! GOD DAMN YOU! UUUHHHH! You have to go and get sick, don’t you! I tell you not to touch filth – to wash your hands, but you don’t listen. I tell you to button up your neck! GOD DAMN IT!!! (She’s lost her mind).

I feel the need to throw up at this point but somehow my body knows better – knows my life depends on not getting sick. I offer to clean up the glass and mercury but my mother ignores me. Her silence says it all. Her silence is worse than words – because I supply the words for her in when she fails to rise to the occasion. In my head I hear clearly, “I hate you. You’re such a fucking burden. How did I ever get stuck with you? I hate you. You’re an un-loveable piece of shit!”

After a moment, I realize I’m looking down at two wet spots – one on the top of each of my thighs and I’m back in Carl’s office. I’m on fire with shame and feel the urge to leave. I need to get out of here. I can’t look up at him.

CARL: Where’d you go?

(Silence)

CARL: Dennis?

DENNIS: (I look up at him for a second)

CARL: Where’d you go?

DENNIS: Back.

CARL: (An understanding nod).




To be continued . . .

Ok. So Maybe I Didn’t Think This Through Entirely . . .

The title says it all. But I’ll elaborate anyway, since bitching is our national pastime and because my entire career is derived from the bitching and suffering of other people. The move from my old firm to the new one has not been smooth. More precisely, anything I delegated to myself for handling has gone like clockwork – impeccably – flawless. For instance, the recruiting of all of our employees and clandestinely moving them to the new space – without a hitch. The gathering of our clients and shepherding them to the new digs – perfect. Keeping everything a secret for months through the controlled dissemination of information – a home run.

Everything I delegated to others however, has been a disappointment. The phones don’t work right. Our clients can’t get through to us when they need to. The computers have been a major disappointment in many ways. I relied on other people to make sure these things worked. Little things like ordering file folders. The person who ordered the file cabinets was not the same person who ordered the files that go inside them. Needless to say, they don’t fit. Do you have any idea what 400 legal files look like when they’re on your floor? We were having so many problems that working on cases became impossible. It seemed that all I did was troubleshoot problems. It got to the point where I actually lost count of how many times I’d say “Houston, we have a problem” in a single day. We don’t have systems, procedures or routines for getting things done. I hear “DENNIS, HOW DO WE . . .?” in my sleep.

I’m doing more administrative/managerial type things in the course of day than anything else. And I’ve woken up to find myself in the middle of a nightmare. You see, I owned my own business once before – during the three years right before rehab. I watched everything go down the drain as I struggled to keep it together for three years. But the stress and fear was too much – so my drinking and drugging got way out of hand. Finally, everything came apart and I landed in an addiction center. I spent the next 8 years working for a firm I thankfully didn’t own. I was so happy not to be the man. I was thrilled not to have any of the risk and not to have to worry about the burdens of running a business. I was safe.

I don’t know what happened. But this feels frighteningly familiar. Suddenly, I’m the man again. But I don’t want to be the man. I have checkbooks in my drawer. I’m reconciling bank statements. I’m negotiating contracts with vendors. I’m making decisions about letting people work overtime. I’m interviewing and hiring people. I’m answering the landlord’s questions. I’m deciding whether we go with the 20 lb or 28 lb bond paper. What happened to my safe place? What happened to my world where all I had to worry about was whether or not I handled cases properly? Suddenly, I’m a businessman again. And I’m scared.

True, I don’t have the ultimate responsibility for making payroll and paying the rent – that headache belongs to the managing partners. But I am the managing partner for this office. And I’ve certainly taken on much more than I thought I’d have to. Other people were supposed to make all the stupid decisions about hiring and 28 pound bond paper and stuff like that. I barely have time to practice or handle my cases. I’m still working seven days a week. And every day I get more behind.

It’s not all bad though. I’m not at all sorry I made this move. I absolutely had to get out of the other place. The pay and benefits here are much better than what I had before and the people are fantastic. It’s just scary to be back in a place that was responsible for triggering the darkest period of my life. I feel like an alcoholic who just took a job as a bartender. I keep hearing these words in my head. “Its not ‘if’ its ‘when.’” And I know what that means.

I clearly remember thinking to myself, a few months back, the following thought: “You know that the stuff you’re handling will be fine. It’s the stuff you’ve left for others that will be the problem. I guess when we get over there, we’ll find out just how big of a problem it will be.” I knew I had no idea what to expect other than a big headache. Well, I got it and it’s a whopper.

My options? Simple – I have to ride this out just like everything else. It’s really just more of the same . . . dealing with life as it’s presented. Meeting life on life’s terms. None of us really have any control over our lives. Control is just an illusion. You can argue otherwise, if you like, but it’s just the ego in you refusing to acknowledge what’s true. And if you need more persuading, then answer me this question. If you are in control and able to influence the outcome of things in your life (or most things), then why are you not happier? Why isn’t your life better than it is? Why such problems? Think about it.

In the meantime, here’s a couple pictures of the view out of my new window. It’s not as nice as when I was overlooking the old cemetery, but it’s still nice. Notice the giant clock on the front of the big building to the right . . . I always know what time it is!

And here’s a picture of my desk. Didn’t take long to get all cluttered up, huh?

And now for some cake . . .

No. It doesn't say Happy Sphincter Day. It says Happy Splinter Day. What? You don't celebrate Splinter Day in your office? You don't know what you're missing . . .

Not Gay 2.0

My good pal Melissa left a comment on my last post "Reveal Eight Things About Yourself" that got me thinking. I had listed a same-sex tongue-touching incident (at age 5) along with my burning desire to own a pair of clogs as two of my secrets. Predictably, M laughed at me and jokingly questioned my sexuality with five conspicuously placed question marks. So I wrote this letter to her and found it appropriately revealing and deserving of its own post. So enjoy.

Dear M:

You really made me laugh when I read that. So is that it then? If you participate in some age-appropriate same-sex-play (like age 5) and then decide around age 40ish that you want a pair of clogs, that its time to get “honest” with yourself about your “true” sexuality?

You know what’s really funny? After I thought about your comment, I really had to stop and think about it. And then I found myself saying, hmmm, it’s nice that they have a way to test your blood type so they can know definitively whether you’re A+ or B+. But there’s no blood test for sexuality. OH! But if there was!!! How fun would that be? Especially if you could sneak up on people and take a sample? Anyway, I digress.

Ok. What’s impossible for you to know is that before starting this paragraph I stared at the page for 20 minutes thinking to myself, SHIT! How do you tell someone who is gay that you’re not gay without sounding like an ass and at the same time not sounding like you’re trying to deny (too strongly) that you are!

(Giving it a whirl) – I’m not gay. The thought of sex between men repulses me. The men don’t repulse me, but what they do does. However, I find the thought of two men loving and caring for each other beautiful. In fact any two people who love each other is a beautiful thing in my mind – how can it be anything but? I just try not to picture what men who are in love with each other do. BLEH! (My secret truth is that I don't know how ANY woman can like being with a man, which in some ways makes being a lesbian the only sane choice!!!! So help me god I believe that!!!)

I can’t help but be pro-gay. I’ve had (and lost) too many family members who were gay not to be of that mind. I think my problem is not that I’m gay, but that I’m a friggen momma’s boy. Growing up I did everything possible to avoid my dad. I refused to play sports that he liked (which was most of them) and took shelter under my mom’s wing. I think that I lost out on the effects of being around his “testosterone” during my formative years. Instead, I learned to cook and sew (yes I sew awesome!) and to love and to tell stories and be creative (all from my mom) all the while avoiding boy things. I didn’t like to get sweaty or risk skinning my knees and was afraid of heights. So basically, I was a big sissy growing up. I also wasn’t allowed to fight (dad’s rule) so that meant weekly beatings at school because I was the resident six-foot tall jewish punching bag that wouldn’t fight back. I think I spent more time lying on the playground than walking on it.

So all through school, I was this very tall jewish friendless guitar-playing computer-programming self-loathing dork. By the way, I’m none of those things anymore (except tall).

So, I’m sure I’m not gay, but I do favor the feminine side of things. I love to shop and love watching cooking shows. Anything creative or artistic inspires me. I love classical music and animals and a hike in the woods brings me so close.

Now if I can just get my hands on a friggen pair of clogs I’ll be all set!!! Every time I try on a pair in the shoe store, my wife wrinkles up her nose and says, “The bag AND the clogs? I don’t think so.” My two daughters just scream, “NO DAD! Not again!!!” The other problem is, I’ve reached a height of six-foot-two-and-a-half. Do you have any idea how large a pair of clogs are for a guy that size? Any shoe over a size 10 ½ looks like a boat to me. I wear size 12s. I put on a pair of clogs, look down and think “ridiculous”.

But I want them still! And Augustan Burroughs would be proud of me! (I wrote him a letter after I read his books and he wrote me back! No. I don’t keep his letter under my pillow. That would be gay!)

D