Muses Like Water ...

I think I am becoming a bit of an insomniac ... okay, but I know I am a hypochondriac and I tend to exaggerate any minor malady I experience. Having a hard time getting to sleep tonight and I did last night too ... but that doesn't make me an insomniac ... right?

Yesterday, in a fit of maniacal inspiration ... {jeez, look at my wording here -- four lines and I'm already a hypochodriacal insomniacal maniac ... perhaps my lack of sleep has shut off my verbosity filter. Ease-up there, big boy ... this ain't a college application essay} ... But, where was I? Oh yeah, so yesterday I felt inspired to sit down and write out a little summary of all the stories I've been trying to write for the last 15 years or so. I always get hung up on the actual telling of the stories ... the muses, when they visit seem always to act like either a drippy faucet or a fire hose ... neither of those being a very practical way of getting a drink of water. Well, yesterday the fire hose was in full effect ... but rather than let it flow until I ran out of time or emotional energy or both, I took my pen and just wrote down the gist of each story. Names of characters and a very brief two or three line description of the who-what-when-why-how of each scenario. The result was three pieces of yellow paper with some very specific ideas ... a sort of outline for what I hope will become a book of inter-related short stories if not a full-fledged novel.

"Dude, wishful thinking," says the rat under my bed to the little yellow man in my head. "You haven't written anything yet and you ain't gonna write anything now." Well, that's what he thinks ... we'll see if we can't prove him wrong.

And now I'm getting sleepy ... I knew if I did this the electric glare of the laptop would sear the old irises to the point of fatigue. Better spell-check this puppy {so if you think I'm crazy you won't also think me stupid} and call it a night. The fire hose is not a good thing to be foolin' with in the wee hours of the morning.

What's Up? ...

I think I must be something of a manic/depressive when it comes to blogging. Feast or famine with me ... guess that's part of the problem with my writing. But we ain't here to talk about that now!

The kids have been in Nashua, New Hampshire with their grandparents Nonny and Kahuna (those are the nicknames they chose) ... so Mammacita and I have been home alone for nearly an entire week. Now, you know I love my kids ... but it's a veritable wonder what a week without morning routine, bedtime routine, Dora, Blue and Spongebob can do for your sanity. 'Course, I can't blame all my seasonal insanity on the kids -- they are actually a very small part of it. Work was absolutely crazy during the month of January and for a good part of February too. I feel like I had no time to think ... which also means no time to dream or meditate or read or write or anything. I'm sayin', it sucked y'all. Wasn't much use to my poor wife and children during that time. Gotta plan better for the hellish first month next year ...

But this week has been quite blissful. Aside from going to a movie {Slumdog Millionaire -- which was fantastic} we haven't done much. We have enjoyed being with each other without Brother Man and Sister Baby there to distract. I feel like we have come back together ... and it's not (as I had assumed it was) all about sex either. It's more about togetherness. Gotta work on preserving and protecting that, even when the kids are here ... we need it. And, yeah, it is partially about sex ... Mammacita can still stop a clock and bring ol' DaddyO to his knees!!!

A couple of personal breakthroughs are quivering on the horizon for me, I think. The story I've been trying to write for fifteen years has come back to me on an errant breeze {Mammacita's analogy} and I am writing again ... if you're good I may post a little somethin' somethin' from the story here. Also been thinking a lot about religion and faith ... beginning to come to some conclusions about what I do and do not believe ... if I'm good I'll post a little somethin'-somethin'.

That's about it ... what's up with You?

Feelin' Like a Hoopty ...

From the urban dictionary:

1. hoopty -- Basically, a piece of crap car. Usually cheap and/or broken down. Can be any size, make or model, but must (or should) be embarrassing to drive

With the new year about to roll in I have been thinking about resolutions … well … no, actually that’s not quite true … “thinking” is too strong a word. I have been entertaining an occasional fleeting thought about resolutions … now, that’s more like it. Truth is I’m a little jaded about the whole process. “Why,” I say to myself. “What possible good can come from resolving to be a new and improved version of myself on January 1st only to roll out of bed on, say the 15th, look in the mirror and realize that all I did was spray a fresh coat of cheap paint over the same old high-mileage hoopty I was last year.” Yes, the check-engine light on the dashboard of my weary soul is flashing … and I’m afraid that the price of a tune-up might be higher than the blue-book value on this old clunker.
……….

Okay … so I wrote that on December 26th and I am marveling at how swiftly the post holiday blues sets in … “check engine light on the dash board of my weary soul”… Geez, sorry about that one. I leave it here only because it reminds me and gives you a glimpse into my melancholy, overly dramatic mind. Feeling better today … but still cognizant of the fact that most of my days are pretty mundane and that the same old same-old, though comforting in its predictability also threatens to undo whatever is left of hope and optimism in me. And aren't those the qualities that make you believe there is still good work to do in this life, positive change to initiate and effect? Iguess I just need to remember that everything in my life that I feel is “mundane” and “the same old same-old” was once wonderful and highly desirable to me. The problem is NOT that these things are any less wonderful or desirable, it is that I have gotten used to them and that I do not wonder at or desire them like I used to when they seemed to be just beyond my reach. My family, my friends, my job, my home, even the relative health of my aging mind and body … wonders of my world for which I am today (and ought to be every day) deeply grateful.

And so now, sufficiently tuned-up, I prepare for another year. It’s all a matter of perspective, isn't it? I’m still a ’64 … but rather than thinking of my life as a busted old hoopty I’ll think of it as a classic. Vintage … Yeah!

Think I’ll put the top down and take her out for a spin!

DUDE & FOOD ...

So …

The other night I got up in the middle to make one of my infrequent raids on the old fridge …okay, so their fairly frequent but I usually just window shop these days. HONESTLY ... I get up, open the door look around for goodies and then end up getting a glass of water and going back to bed. But on this particular night I had more sinister intentions – you see, Shemetra had brought home a nice 2 liter bottle of orange soda … it was for Jared (DaddyO gets diet Coke ONLY). It’s 2:30 in the morning – not a creature stirring. I make my move. My side of the bed is against the wall so getting out requires some agility (so as not to disturb Mrs. O) and some fortitude (just in case I do). Success … and from there it is a short tip-toe to the fridge and the frothy orange deliciousness. But, alas, I open the door and there … where it should be … is the two liter bottle. But it is nearly completely EMPTY … I’m sayin’ the thing has about half a thimbleful of orange soda in the very bottom of it. “Who the … what the … why would anybody …”

Rage, despair, bewilderment …

... and then a shudder of realization. My son is no longer my little boy, no longer the kid he used to be. He is now a DUDE … a fledging, a young-blood but a dude nonetheless. Only a DUDE would drink all except the last fifth of an ounce of soda so he wouldn’t have to dispose of the bottle.

Well, it’s been a long time since I co-habited with another DUDE so I thought it might be worth my while to remind myself what that was like so I can prepare myself for what’s in store. DUDE just turned fourteen so, the way I see it, I have four more years before I kick him out … I mean, send him out … into the world. Couple of DUDE stories for those of you who haven’t had the privilege of encountering one in its natural habitat.

When Shemetra and I were dating, she made me this gorgeous chocolate birthday cake. It was the most amazing cake I had ever seen … chocolate with shaved pieces of Hershey bar and little silver sugar candies on top. It was divine – when she gave it to me I just knew THAT girl loved her some ME. Next day, one of my roommates stayed home from work because he had a cold. Later that day, he called me at work, “Uh, VanO, I was wondering if I could have some of your cake.” I should have known better – I mean, this was a DUDE. I knew that the only consumables in the house were a half a box of four month old Grape Nuts, a can of tuna and my cake. But I gave in. “Sure, buddy. Have a piece.” Well, I got home that evening looking forward to my dinner of grape nut tuna casserole and chocolate cake for desert. When I lifted the bowl that had been covering my cake I witnessed a veritable miracle. Before that moment I would never have believed that a sliver of cake that thin could have remained upright. There it was, quivering on the plate, a piece of cake so thin you could see through it. I gasped, and the slight stir of air it caused knocked the piece of cake over and it disintegrated.

Rage, despair, bewilderment. “DUDE … seriously!?!”

Then there was the time (same apartment) when the other DUDES and I decided to have a bunch of fellas over to watch a football game. They all came in. At first I had them take of their shoes so as not to dirty the carpet, but when I realized that the room smelled of corn chips and there were no corn chips on the premises I had them all put their shoes back on. Someone had the grand idea of ordering pizza, which we would all throw in for. I ordered it … but as we were going around asking people to contribute, one DUDE had forty five cents; another had a bus token and a ticket stub, a third had an expired coupon for a different pizza shop … some had no money at all. Out of twenty DUDES I collected about six dollars … and the pizza was already ordered.

Rage, despair, bewilderment …

... but wait, that’s not the worst part. I coughed up the thirty five bucks needed to cover the balance of the meal and, just as the pizza was arriving, the phone rang. It was Shemetra … so I had to take that call, I mean the girl LOVED her some ME and I LOVED me some her. We talked for a few minutes. When I got off the phone – maybe twenty minutes later – every box of pizza, I mean EVERY SINGLE BOX was empty!!! All that was left were the grease spots on the bottom. “DUDES … seriously!!???!!!” I watched the football game while eating tuna and grape nuts.

There are many such stories, most of them ending with me hungry – ALL ending in rage, despair and bewilderment. And now that Jared is fourteen, I fear that the cycle may repeat itself. But, look on the bright side … I am older and wiser now. And yesterday I took three Devil-Dogs out of the box and hid them in strategic places throughout the house. So, if you will excuse me, I am going to have a snack. .........................

………………Well …no Devil Dogs!!! The DUDE strikes again …

.... rage … despair …bewilderment. “Jared … DUDE …seriously!!!???!

The Good (in more ways than one) Book ...

So ...

I haven't written anything in what seems like a very long time. It hasn't been for lack of trying. Wrote a couple of potential entries that I ended up scrapping because they came out all contrived ... like I was trying to hard to entertain my "fans" {all 2 of you!!!}.

The other day I was in a particularly dismal funk ... wanting to write and not being able to put more than three or four coherent words together. I felt sort of like the old adage about the tree falling in the forest ... if nobody hears it, does it really make a sound. "Well, VanO, what good is a blog if nobody reads it." I'm such a melancholy cat ... I'll get over it. As soon as Sister Baby interrupts my brooding with one of her jubilant pronouncements about something mundane to everybody else on the planet but her.

So, I was thinking about my books ... the ones that "perished in the flood." I had some good ones, y'all ... and I do miss them all, but one in particular. It was a King James Bible with a Masonic seal on the front. It looked like this one:


It was my fathers. Sometime shortly after he died in 1974, my mother had given the bible to my older cousin who was a member with my father of the same masonic lodge. Some years later, he happened to open the book and found this written in my father's hand on the inside cover:

"To my oldest son, Van

--Willie Joe Owens"

So he gave it back to me ... I guess I was like 12 or 13 when the book found its way back into my possession. From that time up until it got destroyed I would, from time to time, pick it up. Occasionally I would try to read the contents ... hard to do, couldn't ever get with all the "thee's" and "thou's" ... but mostly, I would just read that inscription on the inside cover. Read it and run my finger across it hoping that maybe by some kind of cosmic phenomenon I could come in contact with that man. Nothin' ever happened but I wasn't done trying. And now the old book is as gone as he is ... and that sucks. It sucks out loud.

But the thought re-energized me when it comes to writing in general and writing this here blog in particular. I'm going to keep it up ... whether I have something entertaining or funny or profound to say or not. It will be a good thing if, some disease or accident should suddenly shuffle me off this mortal coil, my kids have their own inscription ... to know a little about ol' Daddy-O

Was that depressing? Hope not ... Next time I'll say something funny ... I'll try to.

...apologies to Dan Fogelberg ...

So ...

When I was in high school -- junior year -- I sat next to this beautiful girl in two of my classes. She was smart and sweet and pretty ... and unlike every other girl I had known up to that point who matched that description, she noticed me. She would occasionally even speak to me. I thought, "one day I'll summon enough courage to 'throw some g' her way { that is hopelessly out-dated slang for 'ask her out on a date' ... I think}. Actually I should have said 'if' not 'when' because back in those days I was so shy that it was literally painful ... I'm sayin' -- it was pathological!

Well, junior prom time rolled around and I really wanted to ask her, even attempted to do it a couple of times {imagine an '80's inner-city version of George McFly ... "hey girl, with yo' fine self, you just might be my density -- uh -- I mean, destiny"}. I just couldn't keep my head out of my shell long enough to get the words out, so I never asked her.

Now, for some reason, the prom was held on a Thursday night and the people who attended had a blanket excuse from morning classes the next day. So that Friday it was just me and a few scattered members of the chess team and the physics club wandering the halls telling ourselves that the really cool kids were too cool to go to a prom. But when I walked into my second period computer class who was there but HER! "You didn't go to the prom either," she asked me. Don't think I managed to say anything in response ... but I must have managed to shake my head or something. "Well we should have gone together, then." So after I regained consciousness {kidding, I only almost passed out} something strange began to happen. We began to talk, or I should say she did. During the course of that 45 minutes I felt my shyness begin to release its grip on me. We had the wonderful conversation about I don't know what --apparently she really liked to talk and I sure liked listening to her. I left that class thinking that we might just become friends and if we became friends then we might become something more than that and then ... well you know the stops on that train of thought -- senior prom, marriage, house in the suburbs, etc. etc. But after lunch the prom goers arrived and I began to recede again. For the rest of that year and the next Sheila continued to be very nice to me but my overwhelming shyness and her immense popularity put an end to all my pipe dreams.

So, yesterday, I was in the second-hand store {to which I have become shamefully addicted} and who do I run into but Sheila! The makings of a tacky love song were all there -- to quote one, "just for a moment I was back at school and felt that old familiar pain," the pathological shyness I mean. For a few minutes I was that skinny, goggle-eyed 17 year-old McFly doppelganger. When I told Shemetra about it later that evening she said, "Please tell me you didn't punk out and walk away without saying anything" {not a shred of jealousy -- Mammacita is the COOLEST}. I was proud to say that I had NOT. "Excuse me," I had said, "are you Sheila?" Of course, I knew she was ... she hadn't changed a bit {and I'm not exaggerating ... sister still has it goin' on}. I don't think she really remembered me, but that's okay. We had a nice conversation about spouses and jobs and how we had both somehow managed to miss all the reunions { "just like we missed the prom" ... should have said it but I didn't. Snap!}.

Now, I'd be lying if I tried to say that the thought didn't cross my mind ... you know the thought ... "what would have happened back then if I had only ..." And, hard on the heels of that thought came the next one ... "what would happen now if I ..." But it was easy to dismiss the whole notion as ridiculous -- I love my wife {who's got it goin' on and on} and I respect my old friend Sheila {also happily married} so our nice conversation stayed nice and cordial and brief. No tacky love song theme music playing in the background -- just a "so nice to see you" and a "you too" and that was that.

Besides, what would a brother look like "throwin' G" in Morgie's with a wedding ring on his finger and an armful of second-hand sweaters and shirts?!

Daddy-OLD!

So ...

There's this commercial that comes on, usually during the evening news -- an advertisement for hair-restoral for balding men. Every time that commercial would come on Abby would look at the TV then look at me then look at the TV and then at me again and say, "Daddy you need that, huh?" Whereupon I would patiently explain the fact that Daddy is not bald, he just keeps his hair cut very close because that's the way that he likes it. It took weeks for her to get it -- every time we would see the commercial we would have the same conversation.

An then, a couple of nights ago, the commercial came on and Abby looked at the TV then looked at me and ... didn't say anything. Victory! But a few minutes later a commercial advertising hair dye for men came on. "Daddy, you would need that if you had some hair."

Yeah ... okay ... you got me, kid.

A Gender-Role Call ...

So ...

Mammacita and I have gotten into a Saturday morning groove. She and Sister-Baby get up and get out ... doing dance class, shopping etc. Brother-Man and I stay home and clean-up the house. And I am completely cool with it ... seriously. This is the 21st century and a dude is no less and dude if he does housework. Besides, it makes Mammacita happy and that's the number one rule of this house:

Happy Mammacita = Happy Hacienda!!

But today there was a disturbance to the normal copacetic flow of things, caused by a momentary surge of old-school chauvinism on my part. As Mammacita was leaving today, I said "Honey, are you going to Target today?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind picking me up a new pad for my dishwashing sponge -- I've worn the old one out."

I don't know how she replied because at that moment I thought to myself, "Dude ... what's going on here? You should be the one going out ... to the golf course or the bowling alley or the pool hall or something ... and she should be staying here cleaning the house! Oh, how the mighty have fallen!! What a world, what a world!!! DUDE ... Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot!!!"

For a few minutes I was reeling ... asking myself who wears the apron and who wears the pants in Daddy-O's household? Then my brother called me ... just to relay some necessary logistical information which is why one dude calls another. In the midst of the conversation I felt it necessary to fess up and admit to my shameful lapse in machismo. I told him the whole sad story. I was hoping for some word of wisdom to get me through my current crisis.

"Dude," said my brother (who is a black-belt martial arts instructing city COP), "I spent the morning reorganizing the kitchen cabinets and I'm on my way to the girls' ballet practice. Here's what you need to do: Take your shirt off and go stand in front of your house. Burp, spit, fart, scratch your crotch and get it all out of your system. Then go back in and finish folding the laundry."

Wise man, my brother ... I could go on and on about him but I gotta run now. The pot roast is almost ready!

the saddest minute ...

So ...

Last night something happened to me that happens about two or three times a year -- I dreamed about my late father.

In this dream he was at my Uncle Henry's house, playing pool. Uncle Henry has this grand old antique pool table ... mahogany with a gold felt surface ... makes you feel like you ought to be wearing tweed and smoking a Cuban cigar in it's presence. Anyway, Joe (my father) was there and he challenged me to a game of pool and we played. And while we played we talked about my work and who I should vote for in the coming election and how I was treating my wife and what were the prospects for the Red sox and Patriots this year and all kinds of other things ... things that I imagine grown men talk to their fathers about.

Well, I woke up ... and for that first minute of fuzzy consciousness I thought the dream was real. I could still feel the smooth wood of the cue in my hand and hear the sound of the balls clacking together after each shot. And I could also hear the comforting sound of my father's voice. In that minute, the great incongruity of my existence seems to have been rectified -- all is right with the world and with me. Then, in the next minute, I realize that it was all just a dream and that Joe is still as dead as he has been for 34 years ... in that instant I completely forget what his voice sounded like though I had heard it so clearly just a little while earlier. Then comes the third minute and I'm mourning all over again -- it is the saddest minute (seconded only by the five or six minutes it's taking me to write about it here).

After a while I'll be over it. sometimes it takes a whole day, but I'll get over it. Then I'll be grateful for this and the other sporadic dreams ... they maybe the closest Joe and I will ever get to a "great reunion on the other side."

In the meantime, do me a favor: If your Pops is still around, maybe give him a call or something. Better yet, if he's close by, go pick him up and take him to the pool hall and shoot a little stick. Listen to him. Let him win. Buy him a beer ... and when you clink your bottles together propose a silent toast to Joe and me. Now that would be very cool.

Too Much Nickelodeon!

So ...I had two dreams last night/this morning. In the first, I was in my high school caferteria waiting in line with my tray. It was fish sticks day ... I LOVE fishsticks. Only the line was extra long mainly because the caf was staffed by all the characters from my daughter's favorite tv shows -- Dora the Explorer, Blue, Spongebob etc. Just as I got to the front of the line, Dora came in and took the last 9 fishsticks. Now, girfriend probably deserved them ... it's difficult to bus tables in a crowded caferteria when you're two and a half feet tall and one-dimensional ... but I was LIVID. I took a cup of luke warm gravy which had suddenly appeared in my hand and threw it in her face.I woke up horrified at my behavior... but not too horrified to go back to sleep ...Whereupon I had another dream. This time, I was in a hotel, screaming at a housekeeper who was taking to long to make my bed and pick-up my used towels ... and did I mention that she didn't have any HANDS!!!
Now, I don't usually take dreams too seriously, but there seems to be a theme developing here. It might just have been the teaspoon a chocolate cake frosting I snuck out of the fridge at 3:00AM, but I must entertain the distinct possibility that someone we know needs to renew his Chill Pill perscription!