Micturate

I’ve come to Phoenix to see my dad in the hospital. A tumor in his head was threatening to kill him, and they removed it two days ago. They also put radioactive beads covered in gel in his head to (hopefully) stop the tumor from re-growing in the same spot.

Since I’ve been here, he has been talking about how he has “heavy metal” in his noggin. Meanwhile, the chorus of the Imagine Dragons “Radioactive” song keeps popping up in my mind. Continue reading “Micturate”

Riding the train, riding the bus

My new job means that I’m on the train for work and then I transfer to a bus for another 20 minute ride. I’m still getting comfortable with being a public transportation professional. I’ve noticed some things in my month plus of riding.

First, people generally don’t talk to each other on the train, unless they are already acquainted. I haven’t made any bus or train friends yet, but I do think some of the people on these modes of transport are only friends because they’ve ridden together so long. But for the most part, people put their headphones on, watch movies, listen to music, a few read books, and many scroll through facebook. This isn’t a place for deep conversation, it’s a place for decompression. Especially on the way home. I’ve been trying to use my time wisely when I’m on the train, make it productive (in fact, I’m typing this post on the homebound train), but it’s much more difficult in the evening. After a long day in the city working, you just want to do something mindless. I’ve heard that Facebook’s reach is on the wane, but if the people on the train are any indication, Zuckerberg’s company should be pretty safe in the near term.

I love the engineers and bus drivers. Most of them are black, and they’re no nonsense, funny, gruff, sassy, practical and some are jovial. I overheard one, a gentleman probably in his fifties, tell a gaggle of admiring female riders that it was his last week on the job. He was switching to something new so he could spend more time with his family. You could tell the women adored him. He had them laughing the whole time, even with his sad bit of news. “Tickets,” they shout, and you better have them ready. “Up top,” they shout and everyone is ready. Well, not everyone. A few days ago, someone said he’d already shown his pass to the conductor, who hadn’t seen it. “Don’t get rude if I honestly hadn’t seen your pass.” But it was a minor incident without any lingering animosity.

The bus rides can be more challenging. I’m not sure who designed the seats on the Chicago city buses, but they are a slight step up from lying down on a bed of nails. They are too narrow, uncushioned, and want you to conform to them rather than the other way around. Your body rebels against them after only a few minutes of use. People on the buses are even less social, but that’s probably because it’s harder to form relationships with a more random set of people.

One more note on the train conductors. I love that they wear uniforms and caps. Sure, they’re sometimes wrinkled, and some are ill-fitting, but it’s that little bit of effort that makes it work.

I know people get sick of the commute into the city, but I’m not there yet. I wouldn’t call myself Mr. Professional Commuter yet (for example, I don’t know what car to get on to exit the train in the perfect place), but I’m getting there.

Defining Success

Because I’m thinking about goals and objectives at work right now (both for myself and my employees), defining success has been on my mind of late. It strikes me that you can get pretty far in life and not have defined success for yourself at all. It would be interesting to find out what percentage of the human population never defines it, just has “success” in their minds as a nebulous quality of having “made it” or “getting there.” I think the percentage is likely high. And then, when “it” never really happens and “there” seems as far away as the peak of Mt. Everest, disappointment and envy settle in.

Is the most difficult thing in human life defining your goals and sticking to them? Does discipline separate those who are satisfied with their lives from those who aren’t? I’m not sure. I think there are plenty of content people who haven’t ever defined success for themselves but do end up feeling satisfied with how things turned out. This may even happen at a biological level. Because the human organism prioritizes itself over others (whether this is eating the choice cut of meat or knowing at a cellular level one’s way of thinking about things is superior to someone else’s) and because as you age, you mellow out. Biology and the human process of aging mean you’re “ok” as the twilight years come on. The passions that drive the young to goals fade away. You find yourself on a porch, rocking, hoping that your kids stop by to play Uno.

All that said, I wish I had defined success earlier for myself, and constantly struggle to stay focused on what success means for me now. I recently watched a few interviews of Jordan Peterson, and participated in a future planning course. It is arduous and easy to let the goals you set up slip. At least it is for me. But I’m glad I did it – I’ve accomplished more this year (with it being the end of February) than I would have if I hadn’t done the program. Over and over the message rings out – define your success. If you don’t, well, you may be content, but you may also never know what you could have done.

I’ll keep revisiting this idea, whether at work, with writing, or at home dealing with my kids. This post is as much for me as anyone reading it. Success- define and achieve, define and achieve. Rinse and repeat.

New job

There’s a certain energy when you start a new job, which I did today. It’s taking a leap, it’s shaking new hands, shaking some trees, and people wondering about you and you wondering about them. “This guy seems all right,” they might be thinking. Or, “This guy might not know squat and now he’s in charge of what? Madness!”

I’m supervising people that I want to put at ease. A new boss from outside is always a strange thing. I know, it’s happened to me. There’s an art to doing it right and I want to do it right.

I’m working for someone new, and I want him to like me, but I don’t want to come across as a bootlicker. Keep your balance and pride, young man! A little bootlicking can go a long, long way.

I’ve inherited from my dad a lack of ability (or maybe interest) in retaining people’s names. That’s not a great characteristic to have on your first day. People open with their names and by the third sentence in the conversation the name is gone like hot breath on a window. No vestage of the name remains. My wife, who taught college classes, made a point of learning all her students names on the first day of class. What a gift she has. We’re a good team. She knows the names, I ask her about the names after the person at a party we’re at has wandered off. “How many times have I met him?” I sometimes wonder obliquely, a little afraid of the answer. She might give me a sidelong glance on that question before she answers.

I was at my last job for ten years. A long time by today’s standards. There was a lot of comfort in the job. I enjoyed it, and did it well without taxing myself. But this feeling today, where all is new and fresh and scary and jumbled and frantic was good. I wouldn’t want this feeling every day, but today, it was welcomed.

The Perfect Plot Twist

For the perfect plot twist to work on you, you have to feel afterward like you should have seen it coming, but you didn’t. As a result, when the big reveal happens, it blows you away.

If I know there is a twist in a plot – then, Game On. I’m like a hog snuffling after a truffle. Some (my wife) might say I have a problem. Continue reading “The Perfect Plot Twist”

Thanksgiving and 70

My mother turned seventy this past week. I flew my family out to surprise her in Colorado. As part of the surprise plot, my mother and my sister picked me (and only me) up from the airport, because my brother and I told her months ago he and I were going to celebrate with her. But she had no idea the whole family was going to be sprung on her. So while they were picking me up, my bro-in-law was picking up my wife and kids at another part of the airport. The conspiracy was on! Continue reading “Thanksgiving and 70”

Favorites

My youngest was on a favorites spree two nights ago, and my wife was coming out on the losing end of the stick. I was the big winner in almost every competition. “Who’s your favorite – a chocolate milkshake as big as your head, or Daddy?” “Daddy!”

We were at the dinner table during this episode, enjoying a meal my wife had lovingly prepared, and she was holding it together pretty well, until the dam finally burst. I think my youngest had picked our dead cat (whom she’d never actually met) over her mother, and the gloves came off.

“Who cooks your meals, changes your diapers, wipes your nose, takes you to therapy after therapy after therapy, agrees to be Stitch or Mulan or whatever random Disney character is lodged in that head of yours and I don’t even beat the cat? I mean, come on!” Continue reading “Favorites”

8:36 a.m.

Do you know the minute you were born? 8:36 a.m is mine. I always watch the clock on my birthday to see when I officially cross over into that next year. I’m sniffing around middle age now, and I’m not sure I like the smell.

My mom always says she loves the age she is now. She declares it like she’s planting a flag in the ground with her age emblazoned upon it. I’m not so declamatory, nor do I feel her absolute confidence. Maybe I know too much about slippage, how things fall apart, how the ends of my dividing cells are degrading, senescence in essence, and how old age creeps in and makes the aches ache and suddenly crawling out of bed seems like “one more thing to do.” Do I remember springing out of bed and attacking the day in my twenties? Not in that cartoonish fashion, but I can definitely feel a difference as I dip into my fifth decade on the planet. What is that line from the song: “My get up and go, just got up and went?” Continue reading “8:36 a.m.”

More on Anti-fragile Parenting

I’m trying to bring this new outlook (anti-fragility) to bear on various aspects of my life. The first, and most obvious, application is how I interact with my children. I want to encourage them to be anti-fragile. This leads me naturally to being more of a hands-free parent. I’m sure you’ve all read or heard about helicopter parenting, and how that stifles creativity. We aren’t raising Tom Sawyers any more, let alone Huck Finns. I read this entire article, for example, and while setting fires while in a designated park still feels supervised, it’s more danger than our kids typically experience today.

Anti-fragility is bigger than just having your kids roam, though. It’s having them roam with the right perspective. My wife was telling me my oldest’s biggest fear was being left alone, for instance, at a store, and not knowing what to do. I was thinking to myself, there’s a certain type of kid who would think, “All right, I’ve been left alone, what kind of experiences am I going to have? This rocks” Ok, maybe the kid would just have the last thought, but then he would go forth and do. And then I’m thinking, does that type of adventurous, come-what-may kid actually exist?

This line of thinking dovetails with the reading I’m doing with my oldest. Daddy daughter book club! She and I are trying to read the Hobbit together. I’m listening to it in the car, while she’s reading the words themselves. But I’m having to remind her all the time to read. She was excited at the outset, but then, she checked out a slew of other (dare I say, lesser) books from the library. They simply interest her more. The Hobbit can’t compete with the latest American Girl Adventure. The anti-fragile view of learning would say I should release her from the agreement to read the Hobbit, because fiction is only enjoyed (and learned from) when you want to read it. As soon as it is “assigned” the mindset changes and part of your brain shuts down. This was supposed to be an activity we enjoyed together, but I feel myself swiftly turning into a scold. “Have you read, have you read, have you read?” This is the same reason I quit trying to teach her piano.

I’m torn. Should we be done? I’m going to give it a think, and get her feedback. We already nixed one book (jointly) but this would be the second. Time for a new strategy. The daddy daughter book club is falling apart, after such an auspicious beginning.

And, of course, there’s also my son and his sports. I saw him outside practicing with the soccer ball. By himself. No one asked him to do it. I thought this was great. I need to get him more options (very anti-fragile) so he can try out as many sports as possible. But I also need to get him involved in things without rules (rules are fragile) so he can gain in confidence that he can handle anything. The artificial environment of a sports activity does not match life. I think there is some cross application, but in the end, I want all the kids to be good at life. And sports doesn’t fully prepare them.

So, in the end, my hope is that they are not afraid to be left alone in a store and, also, that they can function when there isn’t a rulebook.

And, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that I need to look for ways to anti-fragilize me, myself and I.

Brinley Cake

My youngest turned four on the 13th of this month, and we had her party yesterday. About sixty people descended on the homestead, we put up a bouncy house, the weather could not have been better and kids sucked down juice boxes like mosquitoes attached to a major artery.

The same cast of characters shows every year, though the guest list has grown steadily. We buy some pizza, Italian beef, my wife whips up a mean coleslaw and we stock up the fridge with drinks (besides juice boxes). My sister-in-law bakes a cake every year for the party. She calls it Brinley cake.

This cake is the the best cake ever made. Can I say that with a straight face? Yes. Because no matter what fine torte Louis the XVI enjoyed or what delightful baked sweet the Queen of England ever let pass beyond her lips, it cannot match this cake.

How am I so sure? There is an extra ingredient (besides the sour cream that makes it so moist you want to cry). The ingredient is Brinley herself.

My sister-in-law made the cake when my daughter was born to be part of the general celebration. But as it happened there was no celebration. The news was not good from the start. And oh, we were not prepared. At all.

My wife, who will willingly say she has the patience of a gnat on methamphetamines, used to joke with a friend that if she ever had a kid with special needs, the friend would have to adopt it, because my wife couldn’t handle it. (The friend is an avid supporter of Special Olympics). Be careful when big ears are listening.

The day after the birth I came home to see my older kids and my wife’s family who had gathered to welcome the new little one. I rose up from the couch in the living room, legs stiff, voice thick, nose plugged, the usual symptoms of grief. I thanked everyone for coming, and I’m sure no one understood the words, but everyone understood the pain. We tried to eat the cake then. It tasted like sand. Because everything tasted wrong that day.

The next year, the first time we had this party, the tradition began. My sister-in-law arrived with the cake in tow. My youngest daughter, who we doubted would even recognize us when she was born, smiled to her friends gathered around her. She did freak out a little when the whole group started singing to her though. Nonetheless, the Brinley cake was passed out and the people ate their pieces and closed their mouths on ecstasy, and weren’t scared to remark on it. The cake melts in your mouth, with chocolate chips strewn throughout like little nuggets of gold. Brinley had defied the doubters (including, at times, her own parents) and the cake’s flavor now had an ingredient no one, not the best European chef, could account for.

And so it was again, yesterday, that the Brinley cake arrived. We sang “Happy Birthday,” but this time remembered to sing it more Norah Jones style rather than Axl Rose, which pleased the girl of honor very much, thank you. She blew out the candles on her namesake cake, along with slightly too much drool, and then the pieces were passed around.

It was delicious. The best ever made.