This late edition of Mental Storage is dedicated to a young woman who shamelessly requested that I write a post about her. I normally don't take requests (for free), but I'll make an exception because it's her birthday. Plus, I owe her.
The year was 1999 when we first met. I was Obama before Barack was Obama: Class president two years in a row and doing double duty that second year with SGA President added to my title. It was like being President of the United States AND Canada. Take that Obama! Slacker!
So anyway I was out walking the halls being...presidential (I guess) and this girl stopped me and asked me to sign her jacket. I didn't know who the hell she was or why she was walking around asking upperclassmen to sign her jacket, but nothing feeds my ever-hungry ego like a request for an autograph. I signed it with the moniker that I like to pretend I came up with and no one else in the history of time has ever thought to use:
'The One and Only'
Ordale J. Allen
She was so captivated by my Sanskrit-like handwriting that we became friends immediately. One night, she called me severely sad and depressed. Perhaps she just wanted someone to lean on, or maybe she was just venting. Little did she know, I was a budding motivational speaker.
She told me that she thought about killing herself and I knew right away that whatever I said next had to consider the delicacy of the situation. When people are suicidal the slightest thing can inadvertently push them over the edge.
"I think you should kill yourself."
"Huh?"
"I support you. You're smart. If you've decided that death is for you, then go right away. Do not go gently into that goodnight. Run into that shit full speed!"
"What?"
"But if you're gonna do it, might I suggest going through the window? I say open your window, sit on the ledge facing the inside of your room and just fall backwards. That way you can think about all the shit that gets on your nerves on the way down without being distracted by the sight of the ground rushing toward you. But the fear of not knowing when you're gonna hit it might make you see your problems a bit differently. It's entirely possible that the minute that you realize that life wasn't so bad you'll probably slam into the ground. Either way, good luck."
It's really a tragedy that I let that talent go to waste. Anyway, a few months later it was her turn to help me out. The demands of the presidency (and a crappy home life) got the best of me and it started to show in my schoolwork. Actually, that's not true. You have to go to school in order for stress to show up in your schoolwork.
According to one administrator, I had 13 absences and 24 tardies by the middle of the third quarter. Oh, and that was JUST for that quarter, not for the year. "If you're late or absent one more time we're gonna...blah blah blah." They just don't train school administrators like they used to. When someone is depressed it's ill-advised to threaten them with expulsion from the very place they consider to be the source of their stress and depression. "One more shanking and we're kicking you out of this prison."
The next morning my alarm clock went off as usual. I didn't hear it. My backup alarm clock went off. I didn't hear that either. But I did hear my loud phone ringing.
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"This is your wake up call. Wake up. You have to go to school or you'll get put out."
"Goodbye."
"No, for real. Wake up."
"I'm up. Seriously. I'm up."
5 Minutes Later
[Grumpily] "Who the hell is this?"
"Okay seriously. Wake up. I'm gonna keep calling."
"I hate you."
"You could jump out the window."
"The house isn't tall enough. I'd just shatter something and then they'd roll me to school. I'm up."
This went on for the remainder of the school year, I believe. I didn't get expelled. I graduated. And for that...I thank the anonymous person who doesn't want me to use her name because she believes that somehow the government will track her if she puts her name on a blog or Google+ or Facebook. Little does she know, people like her are probably the ones that the government is looking at right now from a tree outside her apartment.
There's only one way to be safe...go out the window.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
The 300
So yesterday was...educational.
For the past two weeks I've been trying to convince myself that I don't have cancer. Part of my self-reassurance was the fact that no one actually told me that I had it. I was simply referred to see someone whose receptionist answers the phone with, "Oncology Department." Hematology and Oncology are linked practices, so it was very well possible that I was just going to see a hematologist.
So I get there and all the while I'm telling myself that her office just happens to be on the same floor and they're gonna point me down the hall to a little room with a lowly hematologist WAY on the other side of the floor from the oncology department. This did not happen.
"Oh no, you're in the right place. Have a seat."
I was the youngest person there and got the same pitying stares that I got when I was the youngest person in pre-op for my heart surgery. Only this time I was there by myself and for the first time in my life, I didn't want to be alone. Perhaps it was the combined weight of all the other things that have happened this year--the biggest of which caused me to join the free agency rather than willingly losing my starting spot--but I finally felt the hull crack. I was starting to lose it.
One of the people behind the desk asked me to check in, which means giving them my insurance card and them putting a wristband on me with all of my vital information. Then she handed me a packet that outlined "living with cancer" and told me the duties of my social worker. I broke down. I didn't cry, not that I'd be ashamed if I did. I just sat there and everything became background noise.
I could hear my heartbeat rising. I don't know how, but I could. I felt like throwing up. More than anything, I was insulted by the routine of it all. A packet. A wristband. A woman telling me things as if reading off a script. Your job is to tell people that they're gonna die. Pretend it's your first time. I went back to the waiting room chair and just felt overwhelmed by it all.
At my best, I could handle cancer. I could kick its ass up and down this hospital. In the end, it may win, but it'd be so battered and bruised that it'd think twice before going on to the next person. But I wasn't at my best. If you haven't figured out by now from the thinly veiled analogies, my wife and I separated earlier this year. I defined myself by two things: Fatherhood and Marriage. Losing one was like being physically cut in half and no one survives that.
I can't describe how heartache feels, and believe me, I've tried. All I can tell you is that I never felt this much pain because I never loved anyone or anything this much. I could tell you about how I cried almost everyday for hours on end, and I wouldn't give half a damn that it makes me look soft. Heartache can reduce a mountain of a man into rubble, so what chance did I have? At its worst, you feel like dying, which brings my story full circle.
In the midst of my misery, I get hit with this. But before I can find a way to shift my focus to this, I get hit with some concerns about my daughter's health. I absolutely positively won't go into detail about that, but you can understand how the stress could be overwhelming.
So there I was sitting in the waiting room of the cancer research center with a packet that might as well have said, "You're gonna die." And I realized that I just don't have time for it. I gotta take care of my baby, although I would willingly give my life and my health if it'll make her okay. So a part of me is thinking, "I can't be sick, because she needs me." The other part is thinking, "Kill me right now if you need anything to help her." It's conflicting. And then there's this side thought of, "Remember when you were crying on the floor a few weeks ago and thinking that you wanted to die? Wish granted."
By the time I got to the back and saw a nurse, my blood pressure had spiked. My pulse was 46, which to her was extremely low, but for my particular heart condition, that was a racing pulse. I waited another 15 minutes for the doctor and spent all of that time thinking about what I could accomplish if they gave me a year, six months or three. I thought about what I needed to do for my daughter and how, even though it didn't seem like it two weeks ago, there are bigger things in the world than heartbreak.
The doctor ran some more tests and concluded that I don't have cancer. I don't have many white blood cells which is strange and, in her own words, "I've never seen someone with so few." She said that the number keeps going down, and, based on last year's results, if I were gonna die, it would've been back then. No clue really how I can fight off even a common cold, but the fact that I'm alive right now...my immune system is functioning fine with what it has.
So if I could bring any humor to this long sad story, it would be this. My white blood cells are The 300. They're few in number, but they're Spartans. They do the job 10,000 couldn't do. And if 300 cells in my body are that strong by themselves, then what does that say about the collective power of every cell in my body? She told me, "You're fine. Go live a long happy life." I intend to do just that. Perhaps this was a wakeup call.
I got the message.
Now let's take care of this baby and move on.
For the past two weeks I've been trying to convince myself that I don't have cancer. Part of my self-reassurance was the fact that no one actually told me that I had it. I was simply referred to see someone whose receptionist answers the phone with, "Oncology Department." Hematology and Oncology are linked practices, so it was very well possible that I was just going to see a hematologist.
So I get there and all the while I'm telling myself that her office just happens to be on the same floor and they're gonna point me down the hall to a little room with a lowly hematologist WAY on the other side of the floor from the oncology department. This did not happen.
"Oh no, you're in the right place. Have a seat."
I was the youngest person there and got the same pitying stares that I got when I was the youngest person in pre-op for my heart surgery. Only this time I was there by myself and for the first time in my life, I didn't want to be alone. Perhaps it was the combined weight of all the other things that have happened this year--the biggest of which caused me to join the free agency rather than willingly losing my starting spot--but I finally felt the hull crack. I was starting to lose it.
One of the people behind the desk asked me to check in, which means giving them my insurance card and them putting a wristband on me with all of my vital information. Then she handed me a packet that outlined "living with cancer" and told me the duties of my social worker. I broke down. I didn't cry, not that I'd be ashamed if I did. I just sat there and everything became background noise.
I could hear my heartbeat rising. I don't know how, but I could. I felt like throwing up. More than anything, I was insulted by the routine of it all. A packet. A wristband. A woman telling me things as if reading off a script. Your job is to tell people that they're gonna die. Pretend it's your first time. I went back to the waiting room chair and just felt overwhelmed by it all.
At my best, I could handle cancer. I could kick its ass up and down this hospital. In the end, it may win, but it'd be so battered and bruised that it'd think twice before going on to the next person. But I wasn't at my best. If you haven't figured out by now from the thinly veiled analogies, my wife and I separated earlier this year. I defined myself by two things: Fatherhood and Marriage. Losing one was like being physically cut in half and no one survives that.
I can't describe how heartache feels, and believe me, I've tried. All I can tell you is that I never felt this much pain because I never loved anyone or anything this much. I could tell you about how I cried almost everyday for hours on end, and I wouldn't give half a damn that it makes me look soft. Heartache can reduce a mountain of a man into rubble, so what chance did I have? At its worst, you feel like dying, which brings my story full circle.
In the midst of my misery, I get hit with this. But before I can find a way to shift my focus to this, I get hit with some concerns about my daughter's health. I absolutely positively won't go into detail about that, but you can understand how the stress could be overwhelming.
So there I was sitting in the waiting room of the cancer research center with a packet that might as well have said, "You're gonna die." And I realized that I just don't have time for it. I gotta take care of my baby, although I would willingly give my life and my health if it'll make her okay. So a part of me is thinking, "I can't be sick, because she needs me." The other part is thinking, "Kill me right now if you need anything to help her." It's conflicting. And then there's this side thought of, "Remember when you were crying on the floor a few weeks ago and thinking that you wanted to die? Wish granted."
By the time I got to the back and saw a nurse, my blood pressure had spiked. My pulse was 46, which to her was extremely low, but for my particular heart condition, that was a racing pulse. I waited another 15 minutes for the doctor and spent all of that time thinking about what I could accomplish if they gave me a year, six months or three. I thought about what I needed to do for my daughter and how, even though it didn't seem like it two weeks ago, there are bigger things in the world than heartbreak.
The doctor ran some more tests and concluded that I don't have cancer. I don't have many white blood cells which is strange and, in her own words, "I've never seen someone with so few." She said that the number keeps going down, and, based on last year's results, if I were gonna die, it would've been back then. No clue really how I can fight off even a common cold, but the fact that I'm alive right now...my immune system is functioning fine with what it has.
So if I could bring any humor to this long sad story, it would be this. My white blood cells are The 300. They're few in number, but they're Spartans. They do the job 10,000 couldn't do. And if 300 cells in my body are that strong by themselves, then what does that say about the collective power of every cell in my body? She told me, "You're fine. Go live a long happy life." I intend to do just that. Perhaps this was a wakeup call.
I got the message.
Now let's take care of this baby and move on.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Off to See The Wizard
Today I go to The Wizard (or The Wiz if you're feeling ethnocentric) to see if he can give me some new blood. I'd ask for a new heart, but I've already had "minor" heart surgery once already. Not a fan. Sure, it's all fun and games until the painkillers wear off. One minute you're high out of your mind telling the nurse that some day (and that day may never come) you'll call upon her to do a service for you. The next thing you know, you're curled in the fetal position at 2 in the morning trying to summon the overnight nurse with your mind because your chest hurts too bad to yell and breathing hurts even more. Still, nothing hurts as bad as that $200k medical bill, although I have to agree that I'm worth every penny.
No, I think I'll skip asking for a heart. What I really want is a return on my investment with all of this healthy eating. Now don't call me ungrateful, because it could very well be possible that the only reason I'm still alive is because I changed up my diet years ago after watching Super Size Me. Still, I can't help but wonder why I seemed to be in perfect health when my diet consisted primarily of mumbo sauce and fatback. Could it be possible that I'm some rare breed of Southeast-ian who needs unhealthy food to survive?
When I was little I remember feeling down and lethargic many a day, but a quick trip to the ice cream truck and (a pack of Cheetos Paws, a pack of Now-and-Laters, one Chick-o-stick, one Trix Pop and a Little Hug aka Gummy Beary Juice later) I had unlimited energy. Going to play freeze tag after that was like watching the Crackhead Olympics...nobody lost/got frozen because nobody got caught.
Then again, that era was fraught with unexplained headaches, depression, blurred vision, heart palpitations and constipation. It could all just be a random coincidence. We'll never know because I had a shitty insurance plan called Group Health which was the precursor to Kaiser. Their solution to everything was to keep a log.
"So the other day I was coughing up blood and my mommy said I should come in."
"Hmm. That's unusual. The next time it happens write it down."
"I can't see out of one of my eyes."
"If your vision comes back, write down what you were doing at that moment and I'll look at it."
Ah, good times. Anyway, fast forward to today and I'm anxiously awaiting this appointment. I just feel blessed that I have money for a copay. I remember blacking out one day in high school just as I was running up the stairs in the hallway. It only lasted a second, but long enough for me to go tumbling down the stairs. I considered that a "log-worthy" moment.
This was back in the day when DCPS decided to save money by not having the school nurses come everyday. I didn't plan my random blackout accordingly, so she wasn't there. I told the Dean of Students who said I just wanted to get out of class (her educator heart was two sizes too small), so then I told the Gym Teacher and she said that I should talk to the sports trainer (who DCPS could afford everyday but not a nurse). He said he had no idea and told me I should go to the doctor.
I went to the payphone and scheduled my own appointment at Kaiser. I wrote up a note to leave school and signed my mother's name on it and then caught the bus to the doctor. It was there that I was told that I couldn't be seen because I didn't have my $10 copay. I told the woman that I was a minor and thought it was an emergency and asked to be billed later. She told me to go to an emergency room if it was a real emergency. I told her I had eight dollars and asked if she could spot me two. She said she wasn't allowed to do that. So I left and went back to school.
Years later, when the heart surgery thing came up, I was asked by a cardiologist, "Did you ever have heart palpitations or black out growing up?"
"Yep."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I kept a log."
No, I think I'll skip asking for a heart. What I really want is a return on my investment with all of this healthy eating. Now don't call me ungrateful, because it could very well be possible that the only reason I'm still alive is because I changed up my diet years ago after watching Super Size Me. Still, I can't help but wonder why I seemed to be in perfect health when my diet consisted primarily of mumbo sauce and fatback. Could it be possible that I'm some rare breed of Southeast-ian who needs unhealthy food to survive?
When I was little I remember feeling down and lethargic many a day, but a quick trip to the ice cream truck and (a pack of Cheetos Paws, a pack of Now-and-Laters, one Chick-o-stick, one Trix Pop and a Little Hug aka Gummy Beary Juice later) I had unlimited energy. Going to play freeze tag after that was like watching the Crackhead Olympics...nobody lost/got frozen because nobody got caught.
Then again, that era was fraught with unexplained headaches, depression, blurred vision, heart palpitations and constipation. It could all just be a random coincidence. We'll never know because I had a shitty insurance plan called Group Health which was the precursor to Kaiser. Their solution to everything was to keep a log.
"So the other day I was coughing up blood and my mommy said I should come in."
"Hmm. That's unusual. The next time it happens write it down."
"I can't see out of one of my eyes."
"If your vision comes back, write down what you were doing at that moment and I'll look at it."
Ah, good times. Anyway, fast forward to today and I'm anxiously awaiting this appointment. I just feel blessed that I have money for a copay. I remember blacking out one day in high school just as I was running up the stairs in the hallway. It only lasted a second, but long enough for me to go tumbling down the stairs. I considered that a "log-worthy" moment.
This was back in the day when DCPS decided to save money by not having the school nurses come everyday. I didn't plan my random blackout accordingly, so she wasn't there. I told the Dean of Students who said I just wanted to get out of class (her educator heart was two sizes too small), so then I told the Gym Teacher and she said that I should talk to the sports trainer (who DCPS could afford everyday but not a nurse). He said he had no idea and told me I should go to the doctor.
I went to the payphone and scheduled my own appointment at Kaiser. I wrote up a note to leave school and signed my mother's name on it and then caught the bus to the doctor. It was there that I was told that I couldn't be seen because I didn't have my $10 copay. I told the woman that I was a minor and thought it was an emergency and asked to be billed later. She told me to go to an emergency room if it was a real emergency. I told her I had eight dollars and asked if she could spot me two. She said she wasn't allowed to do that. So I left and went back to school.
Years later, when the heart surgery thing came up, I was asked by a cardiologist, "Did you ever have heart palpitations or black out growing up?"
"Yep."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I kept a log."
Thursday, March 28, 2013
I've Failed and That Is Why I Succeed
I've failed over and over again...and that is why I succeed.
Michael Jordan had a poster with that quote on it years ago. That poster combined with the right 90's sports movie can get you killed.
I can do a lot of things if I put my mind to it. Sports isn't one of them. I JUST cracked 5'7. As of my recent doctor visit, I am now finally just one inch shy of the lie that I've been putting on my drivers license since I was about sixteen. Back then I saw the question as a goal more than a current state of being. Anyway, I'm short and if I'm just 5'7 now then you can safely assume that I was even shorter back in the 9th grade mid-puberty.
A buddy of mine convinced me to try out for basketball with him. I played casually after school with my friends and I was really, really good...in my mind. I could grab the rim at only 5'3. I could hit 80-90% of my shots just inside the arc. The only problem I had was getting to the arc (dribbling), remembering plays, and stopping other people from making shots at the other end of the court (defense). Outside of that, and maybe, you know, being able to make the shot if someone was guarding me...I was really good.
Oh yeah, there was this whole issue of coordination where I found it easier to make a three pointer than to try and make a layup on a fast break. Anyway, my friend convinced me to try out with him. The whole time I'm screwing up left and right. I can't remember the plays, I'm losing my assignments and the worst came when I kept passing the ball to people who weren't on my team. My friend was there 100%.
He worked with me through the plays after practice. He kept encouraging me to hang in there. He quoted that stupid ass Jordan poster to me. He was really good and didn't want to see me give up on myself. So I kept at it because of him.
Notable things that have happened over the course of me trying to play ball:
So on the last day of practice the coach asks me to stay behind. I already know what he's gonna say. At least I thought I knew. He tells me flat out that I suck (I got that part right). There is no way in hell that I'm going to start, but I made the cut. (Surprise, surprise) The only thing is that they have let's say 15 spots available and 18 guys trying out. Two guys just quit because of their parents telling them to focus on school so that leaves 16 people trying out for 15 spots.
The two bottom people were me and my best buddy who kept encouraging me to play. All this time, I assumed my friend was good enough to make the cut, but the coach tells me that he sucks more than I do. At least I can shoot and rebound. My friend can't do anything of use. The coach says, "Listen, the spot is yours if you want it, but I have to be honest. You are very fast. You beat everyone in those suicides and I think you have the stamina to run track. You should try it out, but you know that you can't do both spots here. So, it's up to you. If you want the spot, it's yours, but your friend gets cut. If you give it up, I think you have a bright future running track."
The next day my friend "consoled" me for not making the team and telling me that he'd do everything in his power to help me make it next year like he did. To this day he still doesn't know.
Michael Jordan had a poster with that quote on it years ago. That poster combined with the right 90's sports movie can get you killed.
I can do a lot of things if I put my mind to it. Sports isn't one of them. I JUST cracked 5'7. As of my recent doctor visit, I am now finally just one inch shy of the lie that I've been putting on my drivers license since I was about sixteen. Back then I saw the question as a goal more than a current state of being. Anyway, I'm short and if I'm just 5'7 now then you can safely assume that I was even shorter back in the 9th grade mid-puberty.
A buddy of mine convinced me to try out for basketball with him. I played casually after school with my friends and I was really, really good...in my mind. I could grab the rim at only 5'3. I could hit 80-90% of my shots just inside the arc. The only problem I had was getting to the arc (dribbling), remembering plays, and stopping other people from making shots at the other end of the court (defense). Outside of that, and maybe, you know, being able to make the shot if someone was guarding me...I was really good.
Oh yeah, there was this whole issue of coordination where I found it easier to make a three pointer than to try and make a layup on a fast break. Anyway, my friend convinced me to try out with him. The whole time I'm screwing up left and right. I can't remember the plays, I'm losing my assignments and the worst came when I kept passing the ball to people who weren't on my team. My friend was there 100%.
He worked with me through the plays after practice. He kept encouraging me to hang in there. He quoted that stupid ass Jordan poster to me. He was really good and didn't want to see me give up on myself. So I kept at it because of him.
Notable things that have happened over the course of me trying to play ball:
- Knocked a tooth loose
- Briefly lost consciousness when a fast break pass hit me in the temple
- Went up for a rebound, woke up in the locker room (elbowed in forehead...concussion)
So on the last day of practice the coach asks me to stay behind. I already know what he's gonna say. At least I thought I knew. He tells me flat out that I suck (I got that part right). There is no way in hell that I'm going to start, but I made the cut. (Surprise, surprise) The only thing is that they have let's say 15 spots available and 18 guys trying out. Two guys just quit because of their parents telling them to focus on school so that leaves 16 people trying out for 15 spots.
The two bottom people were me and my best buddy who kept encouraging me to play. All this time, I assumed my friend was good enough to make the cut, but the coach tells me that he sucks more than I do. At least I can shoot and rebound. My friend can't do anything of use. The coach says, "Listen, the spot is yours if you want it, but I have to be honest. You are very fast. You beat everyone in those suicides and I think you have the stamina to run track. You should try it out, but you know that you can't do both spots here. So, it's up to you. If you want the spot, it's yours, but your friend gets cut. If you give it up, I think you have a bright future running track."
The next day my friend "consoled" me for not making the team and telling me that he'd do everything in his power to help me make it next year like he did. To this day he still doesn't know.
The Greatest Show on Earth
So I took my daughter to the circus over the weekend (Yes, two posts in one week. I'm amazed too). It didn't go as I expected. Chris Rock explained it very well. His kids are rich, so he has nothing in common with them. They're his kids, yes, but their backgrounds are totally different. Same here.
The sheer notion that we had seats in section 121 completely eclipses the collective weight of any ten happy memories of the circus that I had as a kid. When I was little we sat on the roof of the DC Armory to watch the circus. I didn't even know they had animals there because we were so far away. We walk into the Verizon Center this weekend and, not only are we on the first floor, we actually had to walk DOWN some stairs to get to our seats. Did my daughter appreciate it? Nope. Half the time she was looking back at the poor people up in the rafters. The other half she was running up and down the row.
Then my friend who invited us to go was nice enough to buy my daughter a tambourine that lit up. She dropped that thing like five times. I was so embarrassed. Do you have any idea how much I used to beg for a sword at the circus? I put that thing on my Christmas list to Santa Claus (no joke).
"Dear Santa, I still want Optimus Prime, but in March can you give my mother an extra $20 on her paycheck so we can get a sword from the circus?"
Nine times out of ten, my mother looked at me like I'd asked her to give me a bone marrow transplant when I asked for a sword. She was so good at crushing dreams that she told me I wasn't getting a sword before we even got to the damned circus. "Look, we going to the circus. I aint got no money to buy you anything, because I spent half of my money buying these tickets, so I suggest you eat before we leave. Don't ask me for no sword when we get there, because I'm not buying you one. Fix your face. If you got a problem with it, we can stay home."
Sidebar: One year my grandmother took me to the Armory to buy the sword outside and then turned around and took me back home. I called her bluff on "Do you want the sword or do you want to go to the circus?" I lost. I thought there was no way she'd walk all the way down there to buy the sword and not go in. Yeah, I spent the whole night in my bedroom looking at pictures of animals in my encyclopedia and trying to remember what those animals did at the circus the previous year. Ever so often, I turned off the light and lit up the sword.
Anyway, my daughter didn't bow or kneel or curtsy as a show of gratitude for that tambourine like I would've back in the day.
The final straw came when my daughter asked to leave during intermission. "Let's go home!" WHAT!? At first I thought she mistook it for the end, but even when it started back up she looked at me and said, "Put on coat? Put on hat? Go to train?" Do you have any idea how many birthdays I had to give up in order to go to the circus?
My mother used to act like it cost $300 a ticket to go and I had to negotiate away actual holidays. "Now you know the circus is coming up. We can go, but that means we're not going to be able to go to Wild World for your birthday." The circus is in March. My birthday is in July. Either she picked cotton for a living or I was being played. My daughter is at the circus and I haven't threatened to take away Kwanzaa or anything and yet she wants to leave? Okay.
I know where we won't be going next year.
The sheer notion that we had seats in section 121 completely eclipses the collective weight of any ten happy memories of the circus that I had as a kid. When I was little we sat on the roof of the DC Armory to watch the circus. I didn't even know they had animals there because we were so far away. We walk into the Verizon Center this weekend and, not only are we on the first floor, we actually had to walk DOWN some stairs to get to our seats. Did my daughter appreciate it? Nope. Half the time she was looking back at the poor people up in the rafters. The other half she was running up and down the row.
Then my friend who invited us to go was nice enough to buy my daughter a tambourine that lit up. She dropped that thing like five times. I was so embarrassed. Do you have any idea how much I used to beg for a sword at the circus? I put that thing on my Christmas list to Santa Claus (no joke).
"Dear Santa, I still want Optimus Prime, but in March can you give my mother an extra $20 on her paycheck so we can get a sword from the circus?"
Nine times out of ten, my mother looked at me like I'd asked her to give me a bone marrow transplant when I asked for a sword. She was so good at crushing dreams that she told me I wasn't getting a sword before we even got to the damned circus. "Look, we going to the circus. I aint got no money to buy you anything, because I spent half of my money buying these tickets, so I suggest you eat before we leave. Don't ask me for no sword when we get there, because I'm not buying you one. Fix your face. If you got a problem with it, we can stay home."
Sidebar: One year my grandmother took me to the Armory to buy the sword outside and then turned around and took me back home. I called her bluff on "Do you want the sword or do you want to go to the circus?" I lost. I thought there was no way she'd walk all the way down there to buy the sword and not go in. Yeah, I spent the whole night in my bedroom looking at pictures of animals in my encyclopedia and trying to remember what those animals did at the circus the previous year. Ever so often, I turned off the light and lit up the sword.
Anyway, my daughter didn't bow or kneel or curtsy as a show of gratitude for that tambourine like I would've back in the day.
The final straw came when my daughter asked to leave during intermission. "Let's go home!" WHAT!? At first I thought she mistook it for the end, but even when it started back up she looked at me and said, "Put on coat? Put on hat? Go to train?" Do you have any idea how many birthdays I had to give up in order to go to the circus?
My mother used to act like it cost $300 a ticket to go and I had to negotiate away actual holidays. "Now you know the circus is coming up. We can go, but that means we're not going to be able to go to Wild World for your birthday." The circus is in March. My birthday is in July. Either she picked cotton for a living or I was being played. My daughter is at the circus and I haven't threatened to take away Kwanzaa or anything and yet she wants to leave? Okay.
I know where we won't be going next year.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
No, I'm Not Dead
I've been holding out on posting for a while because I'm not really in the frame of mind to be funny. While I see nothing wrong with posting serious things from time to time, there is such a thing as overkill, and I don't really believe that the stuff I'm dealing with would do anything other than depress you. Perhaps there is a slight possibility that it could serve as a PSA to make you appreciate what you have, but you could watch one of those commercials with the hungry children for that. But the number of people emailing, calling, texting and IM'ing me to see if I'm alive is increasing so here I am.
As a child, I often thought that instead of siblings to talk to God gave me the ability to talk to myself. I have a weird mind that remembers a lot of stuff in intricate detail and just a very strange way of processing things. Lately I've been down in the dumps and I had a really bad day last week. I'd go so far as to say I hit rock bottom. This admission is not a cry for help and certainly not a telethon where I have operators standing by for people to call me to cheer me up...But if you do want to call and make a financial donation starting somewhere in the $20-50 range, operators are standing by and we will mail you this limited edition autographed Ordale J Allen styrofoam cup--The Official Cup of Ordale J Allen.
No rock bottom, for me, is a good thing. There's no way to go but up. The realization that you've fallen as far as you could, slammed into the ground and you didn't die from the impact. So now, climb up and out of this hole. But that's not the "special" way that I view it nor the subject of today's post.
Last week, as I said, I hit rock bottom. I woke up the next morning and had this analogy where I saw myself as Bruce Willis in the back of the ambulance. (Huh?) You know how the old action movies from the 90s always ended with Schwarzenegger or Stallone sitting in the back of the ambulance. They were banged up and bruised to high hell and the chief of police/Army General/Whoever would come over and thank them for a job well done while the EMTs treated their wounds. They'd share some laugh or kiss the girl or whatever and the credits would roll. Well, as a kid I used to be fascinated by that scene because I'd think about how they barely made it through. A minute longer or one extra bad guy and they'd be toast, but they made it. I also used to think that now would be the perfect time for the bad guy from the impending sequel strike, but that's another story. They made it and that's all that counted. Well, that's how I saw myself last week. Rock bottom, but I made it!
Sadly, that's not how my life is going right now. About a day later after Rock Bottom Day, I got a call from my doctor with my lab results from my annual physical. Test results confirm that I'm still beautiful, but there is something wrong with some levels in my blood that make her a little concerned. She started explaining it, but doctors speak in a language that's just a few vowels short of being that Elfin language from The Lord of the Rings. All I know is that she gave me a phone number to call to schedule a follow up and the person answered the phone with, "Oncology Department." She spoke in her gibberish and the earliest they could see me is in two weeks. For those of you following at home, this is the SECOND time someone has mentioned cancer gradually in passing to me and told me to wait two weeks to find out more. (Worst. TV. Show. Ever.)
Now normally, I don't share this kind of stuff with people. I don't like pity and I keep my cards close to the chest, but I'm tired. Remember that strange analogy about sitting in the ambulance and the credits rolling? I want my credits. I don't want the sequel to start right now. The hero needs to go home and heal and put on some Ben-Gay. I need a breather. But life has other plans apparently. Now, I assume/choose to hope that because they want to see me in two weeks rather than the next day that I'm not too bad, but still. I got enough going on. I'm mentally and emotionally bankrupt right now.
But my brain is strange, as I said before. I remembered an interview with Muhammad Ali that I saw a long, long time ago in high school. He talked about how he trained for fights. I'm butchering this, but he said something along the lines of, "I run for miles and miles until my legs feel like I'm going to collapse and then I run some more. When I absolutely can't go any further, I stop. And THEN I begin my workout, my sparring and my training for the fight."
The true tests in life will come at you when you are least prepared and at your lowest. I mean, if you're in shape and ready then how can it really be considered a test? It's when you have nothing left in the tank...when you have no fight left in you...when you feel that you can't go on...that's when your challenge begins.
I remember a track meet years ago. It was the last one of the summer and my coach decided to sign me up for 5 races instead of my usual 3. Since I had to run each one twice (qualifying and actual race) that was a lot of running. I was dead tired by the end of the day. Hell, I was dead tired once I passed what would've been my usual last race (the third one) but I narrowly finished. Then this S.O.B. tells me he signed me up for one last race, my sixth! Are you kidding me? I could barely stand up. I had been out there since 8 that morning and it was like 10 at night with no food the whole day.
I lined up in the blocks and could barely hold myself up and then this stupid memory of one of those old Army commercials came on with the black guy flying the chopper saying, "This is for Mr ____ who told me to never give up. (Be ALL THAT YOU CAAAAN BE! GET AN EDGE ON LIFE IN THE AAARRMY!)" I don't know why, but I sprang out of those damn blocks at full speed. I was halfway through the race when I realized that I was supposed to be tired. I had a cramp in my abs, my legs were locking up but I felt no pain. I was coasting. I didn't win. lol Let me not build up your hopes of where this story is going, but I actually finished higher in that race (fourth, I think) than I ever did before. I killed my old time. I later died at home. LOL But I'll never forget that.
That's how I feel now. I'm not depressed. I'm not sad. I'm tired. I sure as hell am not happy, but I'm kinda cruising on autopilot I guess you could say. I've since gotten more bad news about someone other than myself that I won't go into (when it rains it pours), but I'm dealing with it. So...there may be some more extended breaks, but now you know what's going on (vaguely, at least).
When this all works out, it'll be a hell of a funny story (I hope).
As a child, I often thought that instead of siblings to talk to God gave me the ability to talk to myself. I have a weird mind that remembers a lot of stuff in intricate detail and just a very strange way of processing things. Lately I've been down in the dumps and I had a really bad day last week. I'd go so far as to say I hit rock bottom. This admission is not a cry for help and certainly not a telethon where I have operators standing by for people to call me to cheer me up...But if you do want to call and make a financial donation starting somewhere in the $20-50 range, operators are standing by and we will mail you this limited edition autographed Ordale J Allen styrofoam cup--The Official Cup of Ordale J Allen.
No rock bottom, for me, is a good thing. There's no way to go but up. The realization that you've fallen as far as you could, slammed into the ground and you didn't die from the impact. So now, climb up and out of this hole. But that's not the "special" way that I view it nor the subject of today's post.
Last week, as I said, I hit rock bottom. I woke up the next morning and had this analogy where I saw myself as Bruce Willis in the back of the ambulance. (Huh?) You know how the old action movies from the 90s always ended with Schwarzenegger or Stallone sitting in the back of the ambulance. They were banged up and bruised to high hell and the chief of police/Army General/Whoever would come over and thank them for a job well done while the EMTs treated their wounds. They'd share some laugh or kiss the girl or whatever and the credits would roll. Well, as a kid I used to be fascinated by that scene because I'd think about how they barely made it through. A minute longer or one extra bad guy and they'd be toast, but they made it. I also used to think that now would be the perfect time for the bad guy from the impending sequel strike, but that's another story. They made it and that's all that counted. Well, that's how I saw myself last week. Rock bottom, but I made it!
Sadly, that's not how my life is going right now. About a day later after Rock Bottom Day, I got a call from my doctor with my lab results from my annual physical. Test results confirm that I'm still beautiful, but there is something wrong with some levels in my blood that make her a little concerned. She started explaining it, but doctors speak in a language that's just a few vowels short of being that Elfin language from The Lord of the Rings. All I know is that she gave me a phone number to call to schedule a follow up and the person answered the phone with, "Oncology Department." She spoke in her gibberish and the earliest they could see me is in two weeks. For those of you following at home, this is the SECOND time someone has mentioned cancer gradually in passing to me and told me to wait two weeks to find out more. (Worst. TV. Show. Ever.)
Now normally, I don't share this kind of stuff with people. I don't like pity and I keep my cards close to the chest, but I'm tired. Remember that strange analogy about sitting in the ambulance and the credits rolling? I want my credits. I don't want the sequel to start right now. The hero needs to go home and heal and put on some Ben-Gay. I need a breather. But life has other plans apparently. Now, I assume/choose to hope that because they want to see me in two weeks rather than the next day that I'm not too bad, but still. I got enough going on. I'm mentally and emotionally bankrupt right now.
But my brain is strange, as I said before. I remembered an interview with Muhammad Ali that I saw a long, long time ago in high school. He talked about how he trained for fights. I'm butchering this, but he said something along the lines of, "I run for miles and miles until my legs feel like I'm going to collapse and then I run some more. When I absolutely can't go any further, I stop. And THEN I begin my workout, my sparring and my training for the fight."
The true tests in life will come at you when you are least prepared and at your lowest. I mean, if you're in shape and ready then how can it really be considered a test? It's when you have nothing left in the tank...when you have no fight left in you...when you feel that you can't go on...that's when your challenge begins.
I remember a track meet years ago. It was the last one of the summer and my coach decided to sign me up for 5 races instead of my usual 3. Since I had to run each one twice (qualifying and actual race) that was a lot of running. I was dead tired by the end of the day. Hell, I was dead tired once I passed what would've been my usual last race (the third one) but I narrowly finished. Then this S.O.B. tells me he signed me up for one last race, my sixth! Are you kidding me? I could barely stand up. I had been out there since 8 that morning and it was like 10 at night with no food the whole day.
I lined up in the blocks and could barely hold myself up and then this stupid memory of one of those old Army commercials came on with the black guy flying the chopper saying, "This is for Mr ____ who told me to never give up. (Be ALL THAT YOU CAAAAN BE! GET AN EDGE ON LIFE IN THE AAARRMY!)" I don't know why, but I sprang out of those damn blocks at full speed. I was halfway through the race when I realized that I was supposed to be tired. I had a cramp in my abs, my legs were locking up but I felt no pain. I was coasting. I didn't win. lol Let me not build up your hopes of where this story is going, but I actually finished higher in that race (fourth, I think) than I ever did before. I killed my old time. I later died at home. LOL But I'll never forget that.
That's how I feel now. I'm not depressed. I'm not sad. I'm tired. I sure as hell am not happy, but I'm kinda cruising on autopilot I guess you could say. I've since gotten more bad news about someone other than myself that I won't go into (when it rains it pours), but I'm dealing with it. So...there may be some more extended breaks, but now you know what's going on (vaguely, at least).
When this all works out, it'll be a hell of a funny story (I hope).
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Fly the Friendly Skies
I think I'm gonna go skydiving. I've never done it before. It was a goal of mine before the baby came, but once she got here I started to feel like it was no longer my life to risk. Once you have a kid you kinda have to put your own risky desires on the back burner. I still believe that, but I've been down in the dumps lately and can't seem to shake it. So I figure nothing makes a person feel more alive than thinking they're gonna die.
I remember sometime back in 2006 I was feeling a little down. I felt trapped in my dead-end job and stressed out. Then came a break in the clouds: The powers that be sent me on a two week business trip. I came back from that trip refreshed and ready for the world. I was so psyched when I got back that I put my nose to the grind and got a bonus and a promotion over the next couple of months. But it wasn't the trip that did it.
It was the flight there that breathed new life into me. I flew to Colorado, which is about as close to God as I've been, elevation-wise. I woke up on the plane right before we landed in Colorado Springs. I had an aisle seat, so I looked over to my left and saw the sky. No biggie, we're in a plane. What else would I see? I looked to my right and I saw the ground. Not part of the ground. I saw THE GROUND. Now let that marinate for a second.
In order for a passenger to see nothing but the sky in one direction and nothing but the ground in the other, the plane has to be tilted sideways. That's when realized I was kinda sliding to the right in my seat. We leveled out and as she was scurrying to the front of the plane, the flight attendant told me to turn off my iPod. I'm using the word "scurrying" for dramatic effect. It implies that she was moving swiftly and outside of the norm. I feel like saying "running for dear life" is too straightforward.
While "scurrying" she fell over to her side because the plane forgot how to fly. It started making this popping sound which does wonders for a person's confidence in it's craftsmanship. While she's falling to her side, I'm lifting up in the seat from what Physics would call inertia. My internal screams of "We're gonna die" were rudely interrupted by the pilot who came on the PA to say some nonsense about wind shears.
That's a term that I'd never heard before and I still need to write a letter to American Airlines to demand that they have dictionaries or glossaries, at the very least, of aeronautical terms. I still don't know the technical definition, but from what I surmised over the next--I don't know--five minutes of hell is that sometimes the wind can blow so hard that it gives the pilot an excuse to relive his glory days in the military.
Apparently, my pilot used to be Maverick from Top Gun. Before I get into that, I'd also like to take this moment to tell all of the pilots out there that there are just some things that you don't need to share with us. "Control had asked us to circle a while until the wind shears let up, but we're running low on fuel and need to go ahead and land..." IS NOT something I need to know. It says two things to me.
1) The experts on the ground think we should wait to land because now isn't the best time to try to land a plane.
2) Normally we'd listen but we don't have enough gas so we're coming down one way or another.
So anyway, after our heart-to-heart, the pilot tells us that we're gonna have to dive in order to get through these wind shears. "We'll be coming in faster than you may be used to." That was the moment when I saw the flight attendant sprint to her seat. We started "descending." That's a euphemism for flying full speed toward the ground.
The plane started bouncing up and down violently. I got that feeling in my stomach that you only get on roller coasters. As we got closer to the ground I felt us going faster. "Is he speeding up??? Does he not know what's at the end of this ride?" I started to think that this might be normal, so I looked at the flight attendant for comfort. I've been in turbulence before and the flight attendants usually sit there reading a book or something. Not this time. She did the Catholic cross across her chest and bowed her head.
We're gonna die.
We got to the ground but we were at an angle not conducive to landing a plane. He finally got us straightened out and then the wind picked back up just as he was trying to touch down. I felt the back wheel on the right hit the ground and then we bounced back in the air. The left wheel touched down the next time and we bounced again. Finally, I guess he just said the hell with it and put all the wheels down. It felt like we were running over railroad tracks or something. Then a loud noise and we stopped.
Honest to God, the first thing I did when I got off was kiss the ground. Bare lips on the cement outside our little puddle jumper. I have never been that scared in my life and from there, life had purpose. So...yeah I think I'll sky dive. It seems way less scary than that plane ride.
I remember sometime back in 2006 I was feeling a little down. I felt trapped in my dead-end job and stressed out. Then came a break in the clouds: The powers that be sent me on a two week business trip. I came back from that trip refreshed and ready for the world. I was so psyched when I got back that I put my nose to the grind and got a bonus and a promotion over the next couple of months. But it wasn't the trip that did it.
It was the flight there that breathed new life into me. I flew to Colorado, which is about as close to God as I've been, elevation-wise. I woke up on the plane right before we landed in Colorado Springs. I had an aisle seat, so I looked over to my left and saw the sky. No biggie, we're in a plane. What else would I see? I looked to my right and I saw the ground. Not part of the ground. I saw THE GROUND. Now let that marinate for a second.
In order for a passenger to see nothing but the sky in one direction and nothing but the ground in the other, the plane has to be tilted sideways. That's when realized I was kinda sliding to the right in my seat. We leveled out and as she was scurrying to the front of the plane, the flight attendant told me to turn off my iPod. I'm using the word "scurrying" for dramatic effect. It implies that she was moving swiftly and outside of the norm. I feel like saying "running for dear life" is too straightforward.
While "scurrying" she fell over to her side because the plane forgot how to fly. It started making this popping sound which does wonders for a person's confidence in it's craftsmanship. While she's falling to her side, I'm lifting up in the seat from what Physics would call inertia. My internal screams of "We're gonna die" were rudely interrupted by the pilot who came on the PA to say some nonsense about wind shears.
That's a term that I'd never heard before and I still need to write a letter to American Airlines to demand that they have dictionaries or glossaries, at the very least, of aeronautical terms. I still don't know the technical definition, but from what I surmised over the next--I don't know--five minutes of hell is that sometimes the wind can blow so hard that it gives the pilot an excuse to relive his glory days in the military.
Apparently, my pilot used to be Maverick from Top Gun. Before I get into that, I'd also like to take this moment to tell all of the pilots out there that there are just some things that you don't need to share with us. "Control had asked us to circle a while until the wind shears let up, but we're running low on fuel and need to go ahead and land..." IS NOT something I need to know. It says two things to me.
1) The experts on the ground think we should wait to land because now isn't the best time to try to land a plane.
2) Normally we'd listen but we don't have enough gas so we're coming down one way or another.
So anyway, after our heart-to-heart, the pilot tells us that we're gonna have to dive in order to get through these wind shears. "We'll be coming in faster than you may be used to." That was the moment when I saw the flight attendant sprint to her seat. We started "descending." That's a euphemism for flying full speed toward the ground.
The plane started bouncing up and down violently. I got that feeling in my stomach that you only get on roller coasters. As we got closer to the ground I felt us going faster. "Is he speeding up??? Does he not know what's at the end of this ride?" I started to think that this might be normal, so I looked at the flight attendant for comfort. I've been in turbulence before and the flight attendants usually sit there reading a book or something. Not this time. She did the Catholic cross across her chest and bowed her head.
We're gonna die.
We got to the ground but we were at an angle not conducive to landing a plane. He finally got us straightened out and then the wind picked back up just as he was trying to touch down. I felt the back wheel on the right hit the ground and then we bounced back in the air. The left wheel touched down the next time and we bounced again. Finally, I guess he just said the hell with it and put all the wheels down. It felt like we were running over railroad tracks or something. Then a loud noise and we stopped.
Honest to God, the first thing I did when I got off was kiss the ground. Bare lips on the cement outside our little puddle jumper. I have never been that scared in my life and from there, life had purpose. So...yeah I think I'll sky dive. It seems way less scary than that plane ride.
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