Actually

I recently came across a video of my daughter at age two. She was playing with a children’s laptop, working on her alphabet. Whenever she got the letters correct, she clapped and shouted with joy, following it with laughs and cackles. That video happens to be one of my favorites of her. As I’m unlikely to have another child, I will probably never again get to experience first-hand those beautiful moments marking the unabashed joy of early childhood. Between pictures and videos, I’ve spent a lot of time over the years looking back to remember the past. There’s a comfort in it.

However, now that my daughter is almost twelve years old, there has been an incredible shift in the timeline. I’ve begun to see the future. Hints of the woman she will become. Looking into the future does not offer comfort. As a father, it’s a little scary. Whereas reliving the past fosters no surprises, the future is nothing but. Still, there is something wholly more potent and satisfying in witnessing the whispers of this unknown woman I had a hand in raising. I don’t know her yet, but those times she has peeked into reality have caused me to feel pride, humor, and just a bit of wonder.

Certainly, milestones occur when our children are very young—holding their own bottles, rolling over, crawling, teething, walking, etc. But these milestones are all physical in nature. They represent the growth of all animals. What separates humans from the others is the blossoming of the soul, articulated by the forming of personality. Like sunlight through clouds on overcast days, I saw brief hints even at age three, when my daughter began using the word “actually” in abundance. As in, “Chicken nuggets are my favorite. Actually, pizza is too.” At the time, I thought it was simply an adorable quirk that made me giggle whenever I heard it. A tiny girl playing dress-up in adult attire and accessories.

Because she was still a baby in my eyes, I failed to recognize that her regular use of “actually” was one of my first glimpses into the crystal ball. My child was not playing dress-up. This wasn’t makeup covering her true self. It was her brushing her own hair—guiding something seemingly unkempt and wild into something beautiful and refined. It wasn’t new. It was always there. My daughter today is incredibly calculating and reflective. Like one of Tolkein’s Ents, she rarely decides or acts quickly (abundantly clear when trying to get her ready for school). She looks at the big picture. She weighs her options. She sees both sides. There is this. Wait…There is also that. Actually.

Small intimations are coming more frequently and discernably now.

Months back, when picking Madison up from school, she hustled out to the car far behind the other children. Granted, she’s rarely at the front of the group when school dismisses (if she ever joins track as a sprinter, my head will explode in surprise). However, that day she was further behind than usual. After tossing her bag into the back seat and plopping down winded into the passenger seat, she sighed as though utterly exhausted while putting on her seat belt. I asked if she was okay. The tone of her voice when she responded that she was “fine” set off alarm bells in my mind. I am a grown man and have been in plenty of relationships in my life. That “fine” is never a good sign. Unlike with women in past relationships, I can play the dad card and call her on it. She explained that she had gone to her locker to gather her things, had made it most of the way out before realizing she’d forgotten something, had to run back to get it, and then dropped papers on the way back out. A junior high student’s equivalent of a shitty end to the work day, just when it should have all been looking up. The exasperation in her voice and body language wasn’t that of a pre-teen girl. Sitting next to me was the specter of a woman telling her friends or loved ones why she needed a glass of wine this evening. And just like that, she evaporated while the girl talked about the comic she was working on with her friends. I heard little of the comic discussion. I was still in awe of the strong woman with whom I had just had a conversation.

Shortly after the beginning of the year, my baby girl asked me one of those questions that breaks the hearts of most parents. Is Santa real? Out of the blue. No warning. It wasn’t even much of a question. It was a challenge. A career in interrogation techniques seemed plausible for her at that moment. Naturally, I stalled. That’s a weird question. Why would you ask that? On the other side of the coin, if being interrogated for criminal activity, I would be doing hard time very shortly. The answer to my question came matter-of-factly in the form of evidence. Presents from Holly the Elf on the Shelf had accidentally been purchased in her presence. A big present from Santa had been placed unwrapped in a closet where parents had the strange intuition to check Christmas morning during everyone opening. Santa’s presents at Mom’s house and Dad’s house had different handwriting. It wasn’t feasible for a fat man to fly everywhere in the world on a sleigh pulled by magical reindeer in such a short period of time. Likewise, how could one person (even a fat one) eat snacks at every single house without getting sick? And, clearly, all the Santas at all the different places were different guys.

These observations were offered not with pride or malice, but with a quiet reservation. They stated, “I believe I have discovered the truth and I would appreciate you being honest.” Thus, I explained that Santa was real, but not in the way that had been portrayed for her and every other young child. There was no fat man producing toys via indentured labor. No reindeers galloping through the air, spitting in the face of physics. No one creepily breaking and entering to devour pastries. Rather, Santa is a spirit carried on through tradition. I am Santa. Her mother is Santa. Her step-father is Santa. And our parents were Santa, much as theirs before them and so on. Santa is about the spirit of Christmas—giving and sharing joy. When children come of age, they too graduate and are welcomed into the secret society. Now that she knew the truth, she was also Santa, just as her older brother had become Santa when he found out. Her job now was to help her mother keep the secret and to share in the magic with her younger siblings. And that one day she will have children of her own and fully appreciate the wonder of what being Santa really means. Throughout my abstract and probably awkward explanation, she never broke eye contact. She nodded in solemn understanding of her new duties. Whereas I had dreaded taking away the magic of belief from my only child, she instead took a little of that magic into herself with a quiet grace. There again was the woman. A woman who wasn’t hurt by the truth, but rather required it. A level of childhood wasn’t lost. Instead, a miniscule part of adulthood was embraced by this exquisite lady.

These incidents stand out as only a few among many. Her mannerisms while holding casual conversations with her friends as they walk through the doors of the school. Judging and unamused looks when I blame rogue farts on the cats. Tranquil chuckles while watching something amusing on YouTube. Determined focus while writing the next chapter in her story about the cat clans. Pleasant absorption in the pages of a book.

The world hasn’t met this woman yet. But in select moments, she briefly introduces herself to me. I don’t know her well. But I think the world is in for something special.

I Do

Many of my close friends, much like your own, could tell you about me, as your close friends could speak about you. Not those things random people see on the surface, or the seeming reputations we hold. But rather about our real selves.

I’m aware I have a reputation—as a never-married 38-year-old man—of a guy who fears commitment and avoids the thought of getting married at all costs. Granted, I spent more than a few years of my life enjoying non-committed “relationships,” some longer than others. Some much shorter than what would be considered relationships at all. I might have even broken a couple hearts, although it was never intentional or without remorse. In short, I am partly responsible for the reputation.

The point of all that is to explain one of those less-known aspects of my personality, known only to my close friends. I. Love. Weddings. I am a romantic.

Despite being a realist and understanding that unwavering happily ever after doesn’t exist, I do believe in mostly happily ever after. I hold contradictory ideals on love. I believe in love at first sight. I also believe that you can’t truly love someone until you really know them. I believe another person can complete you. I also believe that no other human being can fill a void within you until you have learned to first love and accept yourself. Love, as an ideal, is utterly imperfect. And that is why I love weddings. They are the result of that ideal tying everything together.

I had the pleasure this last weekend of being part of a wedding. Beyond merely witnessing it from the pews as a friend, I had the honor of being asked by the groom and the bride to stand up with them as a groomsman. Although I have missed many weddings due to work obligations in the past, I refused to let this one be another added to the list. This wedding was special for me.

Cory—the groom—and I met roughly thirteen years ago. I couldn’t tell you the exact memory of our first meeting. There was no grand event that brought us together. We had mutual friends and found ourselves spending time in the same circles. I liked him. I thought he was funny and seemingly intelligent. He was a nice guy. I enjoyed his company. He appeared to enjoy mine as well. I assumed that was how it would remain and nothing more. Two acquaintances who would chat casually when with our mutual friends.

At some point, Cory began working in the same bar as myself. I bartended while he ran the karaoke. The sad part of working in the bar industry is that after everyone else has had the chance to imbibe and go home, the employees find themselves wide awake, often desperately needing cocktails themselves, and with no place to buy booze or find company after hours. Thus, Cory and I began our many nights of sitting in the bar after hours, having beers we’d purchased and put in the well earlier, and talking as only two grown men alone in a dark bar can do. No girls to impress. No group of guys insisting on “man talk.” Simply two men who could discuss life, love, failures, and aspirations over beer and cigarettes without worry of judgment or ridicule. It was in the dusty, smoky haze of a bar with a horrendous green carpet that reeked of stale booze and shame that I found one of my dearest friends to date.

Tara (pronounced TAW-RUH…you’re welcome, Tara)—the bride—only came into my life about two years ago. She decided to compete in a karaoke competition in which Cory and I were rivalling team captains. Cory chose her for his team. Upon first meeting her, my initial summation was that she was pretty, quiet, and polite. Two out of three ain’t bad. Tara is polite. Tara is pretty. I’ll leave it at that. What I quickly discovered about her by seeing her through Cory’s eyes was that she was young, intelligent, and vibrant. Tara has a zeal for life and an infectious smile. She’s caring, religious, and old-fashioned by many of today’s standards. She also had an uncanny ability to steal my friend’s heart. That all made her pretty amazing in my book.

As such, I wasn’t about to miss this wedding. And to be included as a member of the wedding party made me feel even more exalted. It isn’t often we are able to stand so close to something truly special.

I’m absolutely not saying it went perfectly. It was a wedding. Which means there are too many moving parts for it to go on without a hitch. A flu plague attacked civilization that weekend. About 30 guests called or texted to let them know that they regretfully couldn’t attend because they weren’t able to keep anything down or up. One of the groomsmen ended up in the ER the early morning hours of the wedding day with kidney stones. The temperature was in the single digits. I lost the top button to my tux just before we began pictures and had to race to the store to get it fixed. Two of the groomsmen were forgotten at the church when we left to have said pictures taken at another location. After the photos, the same groomsman with kidney stones (and one of the two left behind) went airborne on a patch of ice and landed without a parachute. Yeah, he was having a very rough day. The bride’s father, while delivering a speech during the ceremony, had a bit of trouble pronouncing his own daughter’s name. There was a moment when it looked as though the unity candle wasn’t going to light properly.

That all sounds like the workings of some cheesy rom-com film. I swear to you, it is all true.

But…

The turnout for the wedding was solid, the pews nearly filled with smiling friends and family. Luke—aka Kidney Stones, aka The Forgotten Man, aka Flying Groomsman—made it through the day with admirable smiles and Vicodin. The chill outside was lessened by the warmth felt when the bride and groom looked at one another. My tux was repaired just in time for pictures. The bride’s father not only managed to get out his daughter’s name, but delivered a loving and thoughtful speech. And all candles were lit beautifully.

And more…

Tara was utterly stunning in her tasteful and elegant dress, so unlike many of the gaudy monstrosities chosen by other brides. She and Cory spent the day laughing and speaking in intimate whispers that, while unheard, suggested bliss and comfort in one another’s company. Likewise, they both handled every “hitch” in the day with grace and level heads—most importantly, they did it together. Some friends who had not seen each other for great periods of time fell into old stories, new laughter, and created more memories. The bride’s father surprised her by playing a phenomenal recording of himself singing The Way You Look Tonight for the father/daughter dance, which brought tears of joy from more than just Tara herself. And Cory’s nephew, the ringbearer wearing a t-shirt reading “Ring Security,” celebrated Uncle Cory and Aunt Tara by dancing his ass off at the reception.

This is what a wedding is supposed to be. A slew of imperfections that result in a perfect day.

Am I incredibly grateful to have had a front-row seat to this?

I am.

Will I remember that day with a quiet sense of exuberance even years from now?

I will.

Do I have a little more faith that love has a way of finding us?

I do.

Oh, Christmas Tree

Zen. Part of the name of this ongoing blog. It’s a school of Mahayana Buddhism that encourages enlightenment through intuition received from meditation. Meditation is achieved by being present in the moment while letting the mind wander in a way. I am no stranger to this concept.

Someone asked me not long ago how I come up with my ideas for writing. Trying to explain it was difficult. I threw out words such as “reflection” and “slivers,” but I’m sure it sounded like a kindergartener attempting to explain the premise of a movie he had recently seen.

The fact is, most of my writing comes to me while in a bastardized version of meditation. Late after work on weekend nights, after I’ve had a couple cocktails and step outside for a cigarette (therein lies the Vice)—or while driving without my daughter in the car, I’ll turn off the radio and just be present. Random thoughts flicker and float like snowflakes from flurries or embers from a fire. Many of them are nonsense, but a few slivers wedge themselves into my consciousness. They’re often unformed thoughts that I jot down in my notebook and they may stay there indefinitely. Others plant themselves and almost immediately bloom into something that touches my heart or makes me say, “huh.”

As I sit here writing this, I’m looking at the Christmas tree Madison and I put up last night. I’m home alone. The cats don’t count, and they’re utterly disinterested in the tree in a strange un-cat-like manner. I blame video games and social media for their behavior. They think they know it all. Typical teenagers.

But, I digress. The Christmas tree always relaxes me, much as it does so many other people. It is a symbol of the holiday season. A miniature version of the old adage that hard work pays off. No, I didn’t go all Clark Griswold and cut down my own. I leave that to my sister and brother-in-law. However, if you think taking a fake tree out of the box in which it has been crammed for most of a year and bending it back into something resembling a tree is easy, you are sorely mistaken. And the 3000-foot string of lights I got for it because I apparently write better than I read is not the easiest to wrap around when two cats are attacking the bulbs as they trail across the floor. I would say that my daughter helped, but Madison mostly just laughed at the cats. Until the ornaments.

Our tradition with the ornaments is no joke. Every year, we go together to pick out a new one. The chosen ornament will be inscribed with our signatures and the year we got it. The decision for the ornament requires careful thought. This is not kid’s stuff.

When the time for the ornament-placing comes, all the ornaments are laid out on the floor, with our personalized ones set aside in their own group. These go on first, so they can hold the most prominent places on the tree. Then go the bulbs. Then the others. We don’t talk much while we put them up. Zen and all that. Over the years, my daughter has taken more of a role in where to put them. If you are obsessive-compulsive, I do not suggest examining our tree. There’s a solid chance you’ll suffer a panic attack. But, to me, it is perfect.

Last night, after Madison had been asleep for a while, I was winding down for bed myself. I was finishing my drink and had turned off the television. The only light in the living room was from the tree. I sat back in my recliner and enjoyed its company. I was present in that moment. If I didn’t have a hint of a smile on my face, it was certainly in my soul.

Looking over the tree is akin to observing a quilt that was created over generations. A tapestry of ornaments that tell stories.

There are those we chose together, each with varying degrees of penmanship as the years rolled on. A big bulb from ’09 that shows a snowman Madison insisted was Frosty. The signatures were both written by me, because she hadn’t quite mastered writing her name at the age of three. A bulb with the Grinch from ’11—her name scribbled in her own hand with a lot of jagged swirls brought on by her newer talent and her lack of sizeable hand to hold the ornament still. Pinkie Pie from ’15 with her signature prettier than mine. The latest ornament that she picked yesterday is more adult. Blue with a white glitter winter wonderland encompassing it. Together, they all tell the story of a young child who has grown into a young lady. It’s intriguing how your heart can break and swell at the same time.

There are the other ornaments, of course. A stork carrying a baby in a pink blanket. Madison was given that by my oldest sister for her first Christmas. A painted E.T. that was given to me by my own aunt when I was four. A collection of beautifully-crafted ornaments from India given to us by my cousin when she lived there. A random piece of paper containing small shapes and designs drawn by the budding artist who shares my home, secured to a branch by a paperclip punched through it. And my favorite: A pink bulb with a tiny white handprint stuck to it, the fingers drawn on to look like snowmen—a present from when my daughter was in Kindergarten. The attached note says, “These aren’t just five snowmen, as anyone can see. I made them with my hand, which is part of me. Now each year when you trim the tree, you’ll look back and recall, Christmas of 2011, when my hand was just this small.”

And more. Quite a few more. We’ll need a bigger tree soon. But, for now, one side of my living room is lit up with light and magic and memories. This tree is my Christmas.

The holidays can be stressful. They are full of running around and expenses. Coming up with new places to hide that damn elf (and remembering to move him every night so your cover isn’t blown). Family we haven’t seen in nearly a year. Some we like. Some we may not. Extra cooking and colder nights.

But, if you haven’t put up your tree yet, I suggest you do it. Take your time. If you have children, have them help. The gift comes later when you’re alone. If you’re feeling overwhelmed, plug in your tree. Put down your phone. Turn of the TV. Turn off the lights. Ease into that Christmas quilt and wrap yourself in the tapestry of memories. You’ll be happy you did.

Speak To Me

Beautiful. Hurtful. Hopeful.

Each of these words evokes a set of emotions or thoughts within an individual. “Beautiful” can refer to the physical beauty of a face or a sunset, or it can refer to abstract beauty such as a piece of music.

All of them contain the suffix “-ful,” meaning “full of.” In each example, the base words have different origins. “Beautiful” means “full of beauty.” The word “beauty” goes back to its Latin origin of “bellus.” “Hurt” possibly goes back to an Old Norse word “hrutr” meaning “ram.” Meanwhile, “hope” doesn’t have an exact origin, but it is believed to be Germanic. “Hopa” in Old English, “hoop” in Dutch, or “hoffen” in Old German.

I appreciate etymology. Etymology is the study of the origin of words and, also, how their meanings have changed throughout history. As a writer, I have a vested interest in words.

The choice of words, whether in spoken or written language, dictate the mood and interpretation of an exchange. I like to think that every interaction through language is a blank canvas. The basis for the interaction is unimportant. It can be an academic or philosophical discussion, a light-hearted conversation between friends, or quiet pillow talk with a lover. But every one of these begins as a blank canvas. Before words are spoken or written, there is nothing. The words chosen are paint with which we color and create. The result might be a dull, unimaginative still life. Or it could be a vibrant, abstract piece that thrills us and allows us to see something differently.

There is a reason poetry is considered the “language of love.” It revolves around the use of language intended to evoke strong emotion. To this point, a scene from Dead Poet’s Society comes to mind. “A man is not ‘very tired.’ He is ‘exhausted.’ And don’t use ‘very sad.’ Use…exactly, ‘morose.’”

Being born in the U.S., and not being an early-generation immigrant, I was taught English and spent a few years of high school and college learning a foreign language. Like a lot of American adults, I’ve done a less-than-stellar job of retaining that foreign language. Although, those “dirty” words that were never taught in class never escaped me. Female genitalia and curse-word knowledge galore up in this hat rack.

I learned Spanish, which seems to be the most useful foreign language in the U.S. I found it to be a fairly simple one to understand and interpret. Between written and spoken languages, there are several cognates. For example, the English “beauty,” as I said before, originates from the Latin word “bellus.” In Spanish, it is “belleza.” In Italian, it is “bellezza.” In French, it is “beaute.” Even in different languages, the words are represented similarly. They began in old written form and have evolved over time into different languages with like properties. Language is enchanting in that way.

For my book, however, I have begun researching a very different language. ASL, or American Sign Language, is something altogether unique. And it is elegant.

It’s a language not based on letters pieced together (the alphabet as an exception), but one that communicates through the imagery from what is seen or felt. It is the purest language I’ve ever run across. ASL encapsulates the wonder of language for me. Conversations are had by hand gestures and facial expressions that emote experiences. That’s a conversation.

An added bonus to researching ASL is that my daughter seems interested and it’s fun to teach her random signs. The other day, as we were on the way home from her school, we were working on a few. After being caught up in it for a bit, she started laughing and said she hoped no one was watching us because we would look like insane people. Probably. Or Italian women. I’m okay with either.

The English word “dance” is thought to come from Old French “dancier,” which possibly comes from Low Frankish “dintjan” and related to Old Frisian “dintje,” meaning to “tremble or quiver.” If you’ve ever been to a rave or a club playing hip-hop, that sounds about right. If you’ve ever seen me dance, “horrific” should also have been included in the origin of the word. In ASL, one simply holds his or her non-dominant hand in front, palm up, and points the first and middle fingers of the dominant hand down at the palm, like legs. Then he or she sways them back and forth like a pendulum. The image is like a person swaying on air. I dig that. Simple. Graceful.

This is how language should be.

And to keep with the dirty words, thanks to a recent conversation with a friend, I learned that the words for “fellatio” are just what you’d think they would be.

And So It Begins

Advice is a funny thing. Many of us, myself included, can dole it out in abundance.

I have given advice to friends about relationships and life choices. Obviously, being 38 years of age, single, and living in an apartment qualify my advice. Over my years bartending, I have given it to complete strangers who have bellied up to my bar to “drink away” their worries, only to spend the next couple hours talking about those worries with the guy supplying said drinks that were designed to create temporary amnesia. I have even given myself a lot of it internally, looking into my own eyes while shaving or brushing my teeth. I have decided that I am not a great listener. Most importantly, I have given a lot of advice over the last few years to my daughter.

“Follow your dreams.”

That’s the big one. That has been a recurring theme in my parental advice. Certainly, I’ve given out the basics: If you clean your room regularly, you won’t have to spend so much time on it all at once. If you don’t toss your clothes randomly into your closet, you’ll be able to find your favorite set of pajamas. Brushing your hair well after your shower will prevent this rat’s nest on top of your head in the morning. Doing your homework as soon as we get home frees you up for the rest of the evening. Ranch dressing doesn’t necessarily have to accompany every meal. To be fair, the last example might be incorrect. Everything is better with ranch dressing. Yes, I am from the Midwest.

Follow your dreams. Do what you love. In a small way, I no longer feel like a hypocrite in this respect. In just a couple months, I will be celebrating one year of publishing a new piece every week. Every Monday, I sit down and finalize a new work of writing and feel a wave of satisfaction when I click “publish.” I feel good about myself. I feel accomplished. That is, apart from last week. Last week’s piece was never written. It wasn’t written because something else has been circling my mind. I thoroughly enjoy my weekly pieces. However, a weekly blog is not my dream, as much as I love it. Doing what you love shouldn’t come in tiny pieces on a weekly schedule. I want to write. So, I have begun working on a book. The ideas for that book consumed me and made it difficult to focus on anything else.

I briefly considered putting the blog on hold altogether. Luckily, a very good friend of mine gave me some solid advice when I asked for her input. Following that advice, I’m going to publish here bi-weekly. This will free up my time a bit to work in a world of fiction, but still allow me to keep up with my readers and give me an outlet for my daily reflections. I get the best of both worlds.

If you follow me regularly, I appreciate it more than you can know. If you have randomly stumbled across this and do not follow me, I am giving you the advice to make better life choices.

So, why the decision to write fiction? As with most choices I make, it came from reflection. And at the heart of it is my daughter, Madison.

A new teacher started at her school this year. In the world of private Catholic school, he is something of an anomaly. Although her school is incredible and provides her a top-notch education, the encouragement of free-thought and imagination isn’t the highest priority. But this teacher fosters creativity. He holds early morning sessions to teach students to draw. He asks them to bring in writing they’ve done in their free time to share with the class. He even supported a rap battle between two students.

After learning about this during a school open house, I asked Madison if she had taken in any of her writing. Her response: “No. It isn’t done yet. It’s not ready.”

I know that feeling. When I decided to announce to my friends and family that I was starting a blog at the first of the year, it was a little terrifying. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have any pieces even completed yet, other than a few that I’d written a couple years before. But I did it. I leapt. And it felt right.

In thinking about my daughter’s blossoming interest in reading, writing, and drawing, I started to think about how it had all begun for me. Fiction. Stephen King. J.R.R. Tolkien. Dean Koontz. Kurt Vonnegut. Reading these and so many other works of fiction inspired me. I wanted to write. I wanted to create worlds in my mind. I wanted others to be immersed in the worlds I had imagined into being.

My daughter is my life barometer. As such, giving her advice begins the pressure of living that advice.

Follow your dreams. Do what you love.

Okay.

Fortune Teller

I love a good Chinese buffet.

I hadn’t tried Chinese food until I was in my early 20s. After a particularly vivacious night of imbibing alcohol with friends, including a woman with whom I was secretly in love, the next day’s suggestion was to hit a Chinese buffet and eat away our hangovers. Now, I’d heard the horror stories. Some guy knew a guy who knew a guy who knew for a fact that a certain Chinese restaurant was shut down for violating every health code and two hundred kittens were removed from the premises. However, the request for Americanized Chinese food kept in steam tables and behind sneeze glass was proposed by the enamored. I figured if I was going to die from food poisoning brought on by a delicacy of cat, there would be no one better with whom to spend my last day on Earth.

Maybe it was the hunger brought on by the hangover. Maybe it was the company. But that meal was freaking delicious. Sweet and sour chicken, Lo Mein, Crab Rangoon. I was hooked.

I go to the buffet closest to me at least once a month. The employees are friendly. The atmosphere is welcoming. The buffet area is clean. The prices are very reasonable. And if the tragic rumors from naysayers are true and I’m eating cat, I at least have a backup cuisine idea when the zombie apocalypse occurs. Both of my cats are plump and well-fed. General Tso’s, get in my belly.

Me, I love the food. My daughter, she loves the fortune cookies a little more. She insists on cracking each of ours open to read our fortunes aloud. She gets a little sparkle in her eye every time. A peek into the cosmos. A tiny letter from the all-knowing universe. The last time we went together, her fortune told her she would come into money. She lost a tooth less than a week later. Boom! Nailed it.

While there is some debate on the origins of fortune cookies, they are an American creation. Most evidence points to fortune cookies being created by a Japanese company in San Francisco in 1906. Then why do we associate fortune cookies with Chinese food? Because during WWII, when internment camps were created for Japanese Americans, a Chinese entrepreneur jumped in and took the idea of fortunes on Japanese treats that were browner and larger, and decided to place them inside the smaller Chinese versions we know today. Thus, Chinese fortune cookies are a staple of those meals. Now they are created in mass quantity in factories with terribly generic “fortunes,” complete with lucky numbers. Plural. Five or six different numbers that are “lucky” and for which we should look in our daily lives. And sometimes those numbers work because we maneuver them to work.

Have you seen the film Number 23? In short, it is about a man’s obsession with the number 23. Go figure. He claims that the number is cursed and connects everything. I was born on September 14, 1979. September 14^th. 9/14. 9 + 14 = 23. Yeah. I might be a demon. Ignore the fact that I disregarded the year I was born. It doesn’t fit with the theory.

And that is how fortunes and horoscopes work. We take from them what we will and discard the rest that doesn’t apply.

Horoscopes at least have a deeper history. Astronomers began looking to the stars and constellations as far back as Babylon. Babylonian astronomy bled over to Egypt, where it was modified slightly. That bled over to Greece, where it was again modified slightly. The Greeks created the basic version of what we now recognize as astronomy and horoscopes. That the alignment of the stars and moons and planets on the day we came into this world dictate what type of person we will become. Of course, being born and being a part of the creation of life are very different time frames, but it’s difficult to determine at exactly which point we became life, so we go with the day of our births. Never mind the 9- to 10-month discrepancy.

Today, there are entire collections of books on signs of the zodiac. Daily newspapers print vague and open-ended predictions for everyday people. Nearly a quarter of Americans check their horoscopes regularly. Some insist on reading them before making any decisions on dating, employment, or finances. I remember my oldest sister had a book back when I was in high school that broke down the personality of every sign in detail. So much so that each sign had three different categories, depending on where they fell within a sign’s time frame. I happen to be a Virgo III, in case you’re wondering. Was the corresponding “personality description” accurate? Sure. That’s the wonder of speaking in obtuse terms.

In 1948, psychologist Bertram Forer conducted a study. Forer had his students all take a “personality” test. After taking the test, each student was given the “results” from their answers. However, unknown to the students, the result was the exact same for each, pieced together from varied newspaper horoscopes explaining personality traits. The students were then asked to rate the accuracy of the personality findings on a scale of 0-5, with 0 being very poor and 5 being excellent. The average score rating was 4.26. Regardless of their birth dates, zodiac signs, genders, upbringings, or personal beliefs, the newspaper horoscope mash-up represented every student greatly in their own eyes.

I know all this. Yet, I still glance at my horoscope whenever I find a newspaper lying around. I still throw salt over my shoulder if I spill some. I refuse to open an umbrella indoors. And my heart sinks just a little if I break a mirror.

Why? Because I also know that this universe is so much bigger than me. There are so many mysteries that I do not or cannot understand. I, like so many other human beings, live my life on a just-in-case basis. But that same concept got me writing again. It is what allows me to see fascinating connections in most things. And it is what will push me across a room to approach a stunning woman entirely out of my league.

“So, what’s your sign?”

Hidden Treasures

We all have them. Those nameless, random mementos of past relationships. It might be an old sweatshirt, ticket stubs from a movie, a love letter, or even just a picture. Some of us have entire collections. Why do we hold onto them, years and sometimes relationships later? It’s because they remind us of times where, maybe for only a brief period, we were truly happy. That sweatshirt that smelled like the other person, sending us to sleep with a gentle smile on our faces. That movie where you first touched each other’s hands in the dark, feeling terrified and exhilarated at the same time, realizing that one simple gesture could say everything. That love letter that makes you shake your head in embarrassment from its contents, but reminds you of what it feels like to have another pour his or her soul onto paper just for you. That picture of the vacation you took that first made you feel like a co-adventurer in the world with another. What is yours? Or, maybe you’re like me and had a whole box. My treasure box. It held grandly written letters, photographs, dried flowers, and so much more. Mine no longer exists. It was the casualty of an old girlfriend who found it and didn’t understand that the box was not about those women of the past. It was about reminding me what young, stupid love could feel like. It was a staple to remind me to never stop loving with my heart, or to foolishly relegate the responsibility to my head.

Why am I writing this? Because that box has been on my mind a lot lately. I’ve found myself weighing my heart against my head too often over the last few years. Too many of us do. We suffer heartbreak and put up walls. We become jaded and cynical. We run from feelings as if they’re the new plague. And why shouldn’t we? We’ve all experienced that sickness that comes with a broken heart or unrequited love. Wouldn’t it make sense to be calculated and rational, especially concerning that organ that is responsible for pumping the very lifeblood through us? In short, no.

A beautiful friend of mine met the man who would become her husband. He proposed three weeks in. Obviously, she turned him down. Still, like a madman, he continued to pursue her. Was he insane? Desperate? Foolish? No. He was a man who knew this was the woman with whom he could spend the rest of his life. The beauty of this story is multi-faceted. Not only did he not give up. She didn’t either. She stayed. And theirs was a marriage that inspires me still. She never walked across a parking lot…he always dropped her off at the door to walk through the rain himself. They danced. They laughed. They loved one another in a way that doesn’t allow room for the mind to ruin it. And he did, in fact, love her for the rest of his life.

I mention this because love like that does exist, even after years of marriage. The saying claims that love is blind. I disagree. Blindness is a handicap. Love is awake and dreaming. It should be approached that way. Certainly, dreams end. But, every so often, we can close our eyes and find that dream again. Think about your treasure box. Remember that, although life doesn’t always go how we hoped, we collect incredible memories not from what we were afraid to do or say, but from all those moments we were both stupid and intelligent enough to set aside the real world in pursuit of something bigger than we felt we deserved.

 

I wrote that last piece a few years ago. I decided to include it in this blog because I have started a new treasure box. I was looking through it just last night.

My daughter, in addition to being a budding writer, has taken a shine to drawing lately. I couldn’t be prouder. As Einstein once said: “The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge, but imagination.”

Madison gave me one of her drawings a few days ago. As is her fashion, she snuck it into my bedroom and set it on a table. I hadn’t noticed it until last night. It came from her imagination and found its way onto paper. That paper found its way into my bedroom as a surprise gift. Certainly, it is worthy of finding its way to the Treasure Box.

The best part about that box is that I can never open it without looking through it. It is filled with talismans of incredible power. Art work from kindergarten and ticket stubs from zoos. A piece of hair from her first haircut and teeth that fell out long ago. A corsage from a father/daughter dance and homemade Father’s Day cards written in jagged script with misspelled words. On and on.

To open that box is to be transported back through time in my mind and in my heart. But, just as surely, it sends me forward in time too. To sift through those items is to observe the evolution of a life well-lived. Who she was to who she is. And it leaves me wondering who she will be.

An artist, discovering the use of color and shading in college? A writer, penning children’s books as an adult? A veterinarian, smiling calmingly into the eyes of creatures she loves unconditionally? What atrocious hair styles will she come home with in the name of fashion? How often will her remaining teeth flash in smiles? Who will put a corsage on her for her first school dance? How will her handwriting differ when she signs her driver’s license?

Someday, many years from now, I’d like to go through that box with her. I will pull out those items one by one and explain their places. Each item a chapter in her story. I have a feeling the completed work is going to be a page-turner.

Your Turn

We’ve all done it. We sit around with friends or family. Maybe it’s around a dinner table. Maybe it’s around a fire with a few cocktails in hand. Maybe it’s in a bar with more than a few cocktails in hand. Yes, my friends and I really enjoy cocktails. But we sit with others and share stories. One story leads to another. That one leads to another.

If your friends or family are like my own, these stories often provoke laughter or thoughtfulness.

I’m a writer. I’m a story teller. My friends are very aware of this. Most of my stories and anecdotes have never and will never make it to this blog. Most of my friends have heard those stories and anecdotes a hundred times. I know this because I have heard even more times, “Oh, I know this one. You’re ridiculous.” And yet those friends stay for it because I’m telling it to someone new. The friends who have heard it sometimes even chime in. They have become part of the narrative.

That’s the elegant thing about telling stories. We can share them with the world and so the world then shares them with us.

The act of humanity’s story-telling has existed as far back as we have. Long before the written word, stories were passed down from generation to generation, whether it be through spoken word, song, or hieroglyphics.

The goal with my writing has always been to share a part of myself with the world. And the aim in that is to make others laugh or think deeply, if even for just a moment.

I think that is imperative for humanity to thrive.

The last few months have been a barrage of stories told through news outlets and social media. These stories include natural disasters, celebrity deaths, mass shootings, racial tension, and angry talk of posture during sporting events. Bitter words have been thrown around. Friendships have been ended. Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness have abounded. So, this week’s piece is going to be a little different.

I want you to tell me a story. Whether you follow me on WordPress or Facebook, I want you to tell me a story. Comment with that story. I only ask that it be positive. Make me laugh. Make me think. Make me smile. Tell me about the funniest thing that ever happened to you. Tell me about the first time you fell in love. Tell me about the happiest you’ve ever been. Tell me about your family. Tell me about your friends.

I’ll read your story. Perhaps you’ll inspire me to tell another of my own. Maybe other readers will be reminded of theirs. Feel free to share this piece. That’s what story-telling is all about.

Pull up a chair. Grab a drink. It’s story time.

As is tradition, someone needs to start:

When I was 19, I moved into the first apartment I felt was really mine. I’d lived on my own in dorm rooms and other apartments, but I had never even bothered to decorate them to any extent. Sure, this apartment was in the “hood” and it was merely an efficiency, but it was mine. It was the first place I regularly shared my bed with a woman. Anna had a couple hours in the morning between classes at her community college. On those mornings, she would come into my apartment while I slept and slide under the covers next to me in just her underwear. Although there was sexual tension, we didn’t make love. Her body pulled back against mine, the feel of her skin against my chest, and the smell of her hair in my face felt more than comfortable. It felt right. In those hours those mornings, I became an adult. While she would breathe lazily against me before she dozed off, I began to understand marriage and love and companionship in a way I had never previously done. Existential realizations don’t always strike us like lightning. Often, they ease into us like oxygen.

Much later, in that same apartment, I was sharing my bed with a different woman. The goings-on were much more adult-oriented. There was no underwear. The apartment building belonged to my father. Thus, it was a lot like living at home, except Dad had a little further to go. He had a key and would often use it after a quick double-rap on the door with his knuckles. Immediately following my adult-oriented activities with Jill, as we lied in all our glory in the afterglow, my father keyed his way in after his quick knock. Jill, not a shy girl, merely looked at him and said “hello” while I lunged for the blankets to cover her. I never reached them before my father had mumbled a squeaky apology, exited the apartment, dove down a flight of stairs, and driven a block away. He and I have never since spoken of that day. I still have no idea why he came in the first place. However, he never did key his way in without a lot of knocks and an abnormally long pause. And I now know what my father’s face looks like when he dies a little inside from embarrassment.

Your turn…

Who Are You?

It’s that time of year. Pumpkin spice has come back full force. Like the unknown member of a 90s girl-group who was cut from the ensemble for being too annoying. She’s here. She has her own reality show. And every White woman in the United States is bingeing.

I’m not a huge fan of Fall. I love Summer. Sure, the changing colors of the leaves is beautiful. And I’ll admit that it’s nice not to step outside after a shower and immediately wonder if I forgot to dry myself completely because my clothing is suddenly sticking to me. However, in Central Illinois, Fall signals the end of sunny days and driving with the windows down. Soon, the only person being serenaded by my renditions of the Meghan Trainor songs playing on my daughter’s favorite radio station will be myself and my daughter, if she’s lucky. Sorry, random drivers stuck next to me at traffic lights, you will be missing out on something extraordinary.

The only saving graces from Fall are Thanksgiving (one of my favorite holidays) and Halloween (a holiday I have come to appreciate again in recent years).

I loved Halloween as a kid. The idea of dressing up as someone else held within it something magical. And let’s not forget about the deliciousness and danger of candy that, according to my mother, had an extremely high chance of containing razor blades and/or poison. I would either end up with a belly ache or spend my adult life like a villain in a Christopher Nolan film. “You wanna know how I got these scars?” So intense and exciting.

At some point, the idea of dressing up and asking for candy seemed childish. I stopped. Later, Halloween brought with it a disdain as I was bartending and hated having to ask patrons to remove their fake teeth so I could understand their drink orders. Or remove their masks so I could properly match them to their drivers’ licenses. Don’t get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the slutty versions of every character out there brought to me courtesy of Girls in Their Twenties. Nurses and police women and witches, oh my. But even that lost its appeal after a time.

Years back, I began to enjoy Halloween for a different reason. I had a daughter. And her choice in costumes has spoken volumes about who she is as a person. What I had not previously realized was that Halloween costumes represent who we are or who we would like to be. Sadly, this also means that some of my previous examples require nursing or criminal justice degrees and cosmetic surgery. Get to it, ladies.

My daughter, Madison, has always been a unique soul. It is hands-down my favorite quality about her. When she first started deciding as a young child what to be for Halloween, she stuck with what she knew. Cheer Bear cost me a small fortune online, but her ecstatic smile when she put it on made it well worth it. Next came the Disney princesses. Snow White and Belle hadn’t known beauty until they were represented by this little girl. She chose these because they were the characters in her books and movies. And then there was the shift. She moved away from cute and pretty to stronger female characters. Jessie from Toy Story, Batgirl, Supergirl, Princess Leia, and Rey from Star Wars: Episode 7.

This year, she wants to be a hot dog.

I love it. Weird, quirky, and hilarious in an off-beat way describe her personality to a tee. For me, this costume represents her as an even stronger woman. She isn’t looking for a prince. She can’t fly. She won’t save the universe from evil. She doesn’t need to. She has the power to make herself laugh, and uses this power without a care as to what is popular or “swag.”

I considered getting a costume for myself this year. But I don’t need one. While she’s in that costume, I get to be an unbelievably proud father. No accessories needed.

The September Of My Years

Do you remember your birthdays when you were younger? Those themed birthday parties that held you as the center of attention? Inevitably, an aunt, uncle, or grandparent would come up to you, possibly give you the dreaded cheek pinch, and ask, “Do you feel older?”

No one asks that anymore. Why? Because they don’t want the real answer.

Yes, Tammy, I do feel older. Thanks for bringing that up. If you’d like, you can kick one of my cats in front of me and hint that it looks as though I’ve put on a few pounds. Maybe tell me I’m not intelligent, or that you’ve heard rumors that everyone secretly hates me.

No one likes a Tammy.

The fact is, my recent birthday does have me feeling older.

The day before, I spent an hour and a half at the Department of Motor Vehicles so I could renew my license. I sat in the company of an older woman who, unlike any other person in the building, was having to wait for her number to be called. She did some pacing. She did a lot of cursing under her breath. In fact, the only time she smiled was when she was finally having her ID picture taken. It was a smile of victory. My own picture turned out very differently. The employee taking the picture told me to look at the big cut-out of SpongeBob SquarePants just below the lens. And then kept telling me to lower my chin while still looking at the image. The resulting photograph makes me look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, but with an odd double-chin of which I was unaware I had. No worries. I’ll only have to carry that around with me for a handful of years, terrifying any cashier who is unfortunate enough to card me for alcohol.

Today, just before sitting down to write this, I had to access my blog page and change the age in my description from 37 to 38.

Within the last month, I’ve noticed that I now have random pains that like to surprise me. Upper right thigh? Check. Left ankle? Check. These make for an interesting image when they decide to kick in at the same time. I end up moving like an extra on The Walking Dead who is about to have something sharp poked through his forehead. I just hope Maggie does it so I can look her in the eyes and have one beautiful, shared moment.

A few weeks ago, a random customer on whom I was waiting (let’s call her Tammy), interrupted me while I was listing our draft beers to tell me I should get Botox because I have a frown wrinkle between my eyebrows. In fairness, “Tammy” had no wrinkles at all (nor expressions), despite being in her late sixties. Botox is afloat because of “Tammy.” However, that made me look at the rest of my skin. I now have weird wrinkles at the back of my wrists. Although I’ve prided myself on never being the guy with a furry back, rogue hairs occasionally pop up on my shoulders. Revenge is exacted on the bastards by way of a pair of tweezers and me craning my neck at an impossible angle, making the side of my neck look reminiscent of smooshing a bulldog’s face.

Standing up from this writing to use the restroom and grab some Tums reminded me of the substantial arthritis in my lower back to match the acid reflux.

Speaking of the restroom, I’m proud to announce that I usually only have to get up once in the middle of the night to use it. That doesn’t account for the twenty minutes of weighing my options before doing so. Can I sleep for another couple hours before urinating all over myself, or would it be better to do the hobbled zombie-walk to the toilet before the sounding of my alarm?

Do you remember the word “metabolism” from health class in junior high? It seemed like just one more thing we were being forced to learn that would have no bearing on us in life. “Metabolism” was my body’s form of trigonometry. It sounded important, but I would never have to worry about it outside the classroom. Now, I’m thinking of putting together a scrapbook in honor of my lost friend Metabolism. She was amazing. She was always there for me, even when I didn’t realize it. 15,000 calories in day? No problem. She rolled up her sleeves and kicked some tail. In the wake of Metabolism’s passing, eating a piece of bread is the equivalent of attaching an air pump to my love handles.

In my twenties, I was complimented all the time on my butt in a pair of jeans. I would get at least a few compliments while bartending every month. I’m not a vain person, but I’ll admit it always felt good. Those days are past. Imagine a Stone pine tree morphing into a Weeping Willow. You just visualized what happened to the old caboose. From a smile to a frown.

This is what has become of me at 38.

I had to renew my license because I have been driving for over two decades. During that time, I have traveled to some incredible places. I have seen the country.

I had to change my age on my blog page because I have been doing what I love and writing with dedication for almost a year.

My ankles and hips sometimes ache because I have spent my entire adult life working on my feet. I have built decks and houses. Homes for families. I have transported patients around a hospital, having conversations with them about their lives and watching them go from their worst to their best. I have trained servers and bartenders for a prominent restaurant chain, being partly responsible for the success of that company. I have served adult beverages that conquered people’s nerves enough to introduce themselves in bars. Some of those couples went on to marry and have children.

My skin has wrinkled and become tougher because I have spent so many gorgeous days in the sun. Cookouts with family. Walking the zoo with my daughter. Having drinks on a boat with friends.

I have acid reflux because I have spent decades feasting on delicious meals.

My back aches because I spent years carrying around the most unique and beautiful human being I’ve ever met. She calls me Dad.

My bladder, as tired as it may be, is only exhausted from multiple years of imbibing cocktails and holding it so as not to miss one more laugh with company.

As for my metabolism and sad posterior, they’re simply reminding me that exercise is important and to never become complacent.

This is what has become of me at 38.

I’ll take it.