Ch... Ch... Ch... Ch... Changes

It has been a while.

There is a lot of dirty laundry on my floor, but I don’t feel like airing it out just yet. Truth be told, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

So, I guess the best thing to do is to explain exactly where I am right now, at this very moment.

I am in a small room that is part home office, part playroom for my boys, and was, for the better part of a month, my bedroom. I have a bedroom now... I always have, but it was missing the most important element – the bed.

I finally got one yesterday and that makes me very happy.

There’s a guy that lives here with me. He has two rooms as well. He is in a similar situation and I’ve known him pretty much my entire life. We get along. That makes me very happy as well, though I never thought I would refer to anyone as my "roommate" ever again.

Life’s changes open the door to the unexpected, I have learned. Some are good and some are bad. I’ve learned that too.

Truth be told, my house makes me happy. It is beautiful and big and my children seem to be acclimating to it quite well. That makes me happiest.

I don’t see my boys as often as I used too, but I have learned to appreciate them more. My heart breaks when Lu-dog “loses it” for no reason and I know it’s because of what has happened between me and his mother. My heart breaks when I see D-man in passing and he begs me, using his limited vocabulary, to stick around.

Yet, I get pretty excited when he runs to me, holds me tight, and repeats the refrain, “daddy’s house... daddy's house.” I get just as excited when Lu-dog tells me that he loves me (he says it more now than ever before) and says that he really likes spending time with me, while showering me with kisses all over my face.

There is good.

There is bad.

I guess that’s why they say it is an adjustment for everyone involved.

Thankfully, I’ve found so many ways to negate the bad with the good and I expect that this Christmas may actually be the merriest that any of us has had in a long time.

It will be.

I’m sure of it.

The Pretty Hate Machine

In real life (I’m not really a writer, I only play one on television) I have one of the most incredible jobs on Earth. It’s not exciting or glamorous or anything, but I say it is incredible because it gives me the chance to study human behavior, which is fascinating.

Every day, I come across a whole bunch of angry and bitter people and I often try and figure out what it is that makes them tick. It has stripped me of my inherent belief that everyone, for the most part, is a good person. I still believe that to a degree but, more often than not, some deep emotion (whether it be anger, jealousy, loneliness, or, in some cases, hate, ignorance, or intolerance) can grow so large that it chokes the goodness to death as people become obsessed with petty things.

I am basically a hall monitor for the masses and a mediator of sorts. Depending on the outcome of a certain situation, one side usually thinks me the jerk (regardless of how understanding and compassionate I try to be) and the other thinks me a savior (even though I am only doing my job).

Usually I just chug along and try to keep everything status quo. That is my job. Things usually become just blips on my radar and I guide them through until they are gone. Some come back and I remind them of their required altitude and direction as they pass me by.

Yet, being the type of person who wants to make everyone happy, I find myself getting caught up in re-occurring situations for which the root is out of my purview. There is nothing I can do, though I’d like to, and those are the ones that eat me up inside.

Take the “lonely,” for example. They are typically elderly widows and widowers with no one else to talk to. They spend their days watching the every move of those around them and reporting back to me in what feels like a daily Presidential briefing. I suspect that they don’t really care what is going on around them, but they just want someone to talk to.

There is another lonely group on the other side. They fit the same mold, but instead of watching those around them they become the watched as they hide behind drawn shades, never emerging from their home as it crumbles around them. The roof caves in, the grass grows tall, the car tires go flat and everything begins to fall apart, until I am called in to gently help them clean up the mess.

There are the jealous ones. They too “watch” those around them, but not because of boredom or loneliness. Instead, they see fancy cars, large second homes, and beautiful swimming pools crop up around them and decide that those folks have stripped them of their peace and quiet, so they inject them with a little bit of their own misery via yours truly.

There are the angry ones, who feel slighted because they weren’t invited to a party or because someone didn’t say hello to them while they passed on the street and, for whatever reason, they decide that they will pay them back, by paying me a visit.

There are various shades of all three, of course, and sometimes the emotions intermingle. I am almost always called in based on a valid complaint (or I would not entertain it) but it becomes so obvious that the “issue” that is being reported is really not the issue at all.

I guess that’s human nature.

The one thing that stresses me the most, however, and gets my blood boiling is the ugliness of man, in the form of “issues” that are not even there. The unfounded complaints, the exaggerations, and the outright lies meant to cover up an awful hatred that people hope that I will share with them.

The victims are single moms that move into neighborhoods of plush green lawns and SUVs, and then have the nerve to park their rusted compact cars in the driveway. The victims are the extended families from other countries (mother, father, son, daughter-in-law, and two or three children) who scrimped to buy and cram themselves into their own tiny home only to find themselves ostracized by those who are concerned that their “kind” is gonna take over the neighborhood. The victims are the ones who are trying to go about their business, keep to themselves and obey the rules, but there is someone out there who doesn’t want to let them live in peace just because of the color of their skin.

Ever see Lakeview Terrace? That shit really does happen.

Look, I’m not saying that there aren’t people out there who are in the wrong. I’ve chased squatters, shut down illegal businesses, given tickets to people for failing to mow their lawns, not fencing their swimming pools, storing their boats and cars improperly, and illegal dumping. That’s not what I am referring to. I’m talking about people who have done nothing wrong, but they are continually harassed by their fellow man because… well, because they just don’t like them. Whether it is because of race, gender, lifestyle, or socio-economic status, there is always someone out there whose hate, ignorance, or intolerance is so deep-rooted, that they will stoop low enough to craft lies in hopes of getting “those people” out of the way.

I have started calling it the “pretty hate machine” and it is the one thing that will always keep me employed, though I wish it weren’t so.

The silver lining is that I have become a student of sorts and as I push my personal beliefs aside to try and mediate things that cannot historically be mediated; I begin to see the truth in people, even in my personal life. As a result, I have recognized that there are those around me for whom I will not and cannot associate myself with. It is that breakdown of my own naivety that is a direct result of this new career path and I am actually thankful for that.

As someone who enjoys being surrounded by others, it has been easy for me to overlook negative qualities in an effort to amass friends. I now recognize that it is not only selfish to do so, but likely detrimental to me and my quality of life. So, I now find myself watching the behavior of those around me more than ever before and, at the first sign behavior that makes me uncomfortable, I cut them loose for good.

This year, I have found myself severing professional ties with people whose business practices are shady or immoral, avoiding engagement with individuals whose belief systems I just cannot share, and totally letting go of people who would intentionally hurt me for their own personal gain.

It sucks, in a way, to no longer be blind to that which goes on around me but, in other ways, it is likely the best thing that ever happened to me.

I tell people that one day I will write a book about all this, and I likely will. But, for now, I am just slowly getting my head around all of it… and it hurts.

The Typewriter

Being a thrift store junkie, a yard sale connoisseur, and an all around dump duck (though, I'm really just a lover of old things), I have the pleasure of engaging with Lu Dog on a level that is unique compared to most father/son relationships. Perhaps it would not be so unique, were it not for the fact that my son isn't even five years old.

You see, I'm not the kind of dad that you'll find digging in the mud with kids, playing with Matchbox cars, or even engaging in any serious physical activity - I suck at sports. Some may say I'm boring and, to some kids, I guess I am. Who knows? Maybe Lu-dog secretly wishes that I would just submit and play "fart monster fort" with him... but that's so... childish.

We like to play with Legos together and we play a lot of board games, including Risk (yeah, no... he's still four years old ^^), and we have the most fun when we learn together...

I'm a sucker for questions and theoriess. Lu-dog is the "thinking dad's kid" for sure. When he offered up his theory on the strange red "lava bugs," as he called them, that he saw on the playground, "I think Orient was once covered in valcanos daddy and even though the volcanos are gone, the bugs are still hanging around," I hugged him like he just hit the game winning home run in the bottom of the ninth.

Welcome to the nerd family.

It is nice that he enjoys treasure hunting with me, though I sometimes wonder if he is just placating his dad. I don't think so though, because there are a lot of differences.

For example, I have no interest in collecting tourist themed spoons, but he does and I respect that. I think his spoon collection is super cool and so does the costume jewelry lady who makes the rounds at the antique show circuit we follow. I am not funding Lu's new found costume jewelry fetish though. Too pricey.... damn her.

Anyway, we happened to be at our favorite thrift store the other day when I spied a little box. I knew what was inside, but I asked my cohort what he thought it contained.

"Hm... I think its just a suitcase daddy."

"Maybe. Let's open it up and take a look." I flipped back the latches and lifted the top which revealed... "A typewriter," I exclaimed.

I wasn't ready for Lu-dog's response.

"What's a typewriter?"

Holy shit. That's right. How would he know what a typewriter is?

"What's a typewriter? My God, I haven't touched one of these in years," I said as I ran my fingers along the shiny blue exterior. She wasn't that old. She was a Royal, maybe from the early to late 50s... Quite petite and pretty. I started typing, though there was no paper inside...

"DADDY! What is a typewriter?"

M... y... N... a... m... e... i... s... D...

I paused.

"You see, you load the paper up top here," I explained as I turned the platen knobs... "and it would come out here. As you hit each key, it transposes the letters onto the paper. The type bars, which coincide with the letters... see?"

a... m... o...

"Those hit the ribbon, which is basically the ink, and the letters come out on the paper."

n... !

"Follow me?"

"What's that one you keep hitting?"

"The space bar."

"So its like a computer."

"No, not exactly. It's like a keyboard. Sort of like Word."

"Oh... and its like a printer."

"Yeah it is. But, technically, it prints as you type. Know what I mean?"

"Does it have a delete button?"

"No. I think some of the more modern typewriters had a button that allowed you to go back and erase the last character you typed. If you made a major mistake you could always use some white out, but typewriters didn't leave a lot of room for error. I'd say that a typewriter is about as close to purity as actually hand writing something."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, no one really uses a typewriter anymore and I would suspect that fewer letters are hand written these days. Computers and cell phones have become our preferred method of written communication."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Well, it depends on how you look at it. You, for example, don't know any other way. I remember what it was like to write without the comfort of a spell check or the ability to change your mind at the last minute and rethink your words. You could always start over... but that was hard. It's so much easier today."

But it is so much harder, isn't it?

Last night I was trying to send an email to someone and the words just weren't coming out right. They were MY words. My THOUGHTS. But as they came out, I found myself questioning them. I was questioning whether or not they were right. They were my thoughts for god's sake... There should be no right or wrong. They just are.

After the seventh draft, I sent it off and I am sure it made less sense to the recipient than the first one would have. For someone who looks for perfection in his own words and is really so insecure about his own thoughts, the simplicity of it all can be torture.

Sadly, much of my communication is not face to face. I live via social networks, emails and text messages. There are people who I spend entirely too much time emailing and texting, when we should be communicating face to face... yet, logistically, it is usually the only form of communication we have. That saddens me because email and text messages are so impersonal by nature and can be so easily misunderstood or even misconstrued. On the other hand, I have people in my life that refuse to communicate with me via text or email and that sucks because I'd rather not hear their voice.

Lately, I have been stressed out more than I have wanted to admit. I have been wrapped up in all kinds of things that I either have no control over or have no business taking so personally. As a result, I've let go of things I find comfort in... not the least of which is my own head and my own heart.

I haven't even written anything until today. My one outlet, the one thing that helps me to rationalize, to breathe, and to think clearly (or at least attempt to) has not been there.

I have blamed it on time, but the truth is that I have had nothing but time. The problem is how I have used it... Worrying, stressing, becoming anxious over right and wrong, and trying to get the job done in a timely, professional manner, so that everyone walks away happy and unscathed.

I'm not superman. I need to keep reminding myself that. If I want to be superman for the people to whom I matter most, I need to take better care of myself.

I say that I have not written anything until today, but this blog post is not the first. Earlier, I took a sheet of paper off of my legal pad and a wrote a letter to myself. There was no spell check, no delete button, just my pen and a big piece of yellow paper.

I wrote about what makes me happy. I wrote about what makes me sad. I wrote down what I want and what I don't want. I wrote what I was afraid of and where my comfort lies. I wrote about my hopes, my dreams, and my desires... and I gave away all of my secrets. It was all mine. It didn't have to make sense. It was not intended for anyone.

I folded the piece of paper as tight as I could and stuffed it into a clear glass bottle and sealed it up tight. Tomorrow, I will make my way to the beach and through it far into the water.

If someone finds it, so be it, but I hope that it gets carried on a wave and is ultimately smashed against the rocks. The glass will sit at the bottom of the salty water and one day become little pieces of beach glass that will carry with them, forever, all of this stuff that I needed to get off my chest.

Short of shouting all of it from the rooftops, I reckon that is as pure as it gets these days.

My only regret is not buying that typewriter as Lu-dog suggested.

"I think you really like that daddy. I can tell by the way you look at it."

If it is still there tomorrow, perhaps I will.