I Have a Chipmunk Perched on My Shoulder, But I'd Prefer a Finch

Egg-Coffee and Dead Rock Stars

2015-01-05T18:31:00.002-06:00

Every year, the lady and I return to the Midwest for the holidays. We go because we miss our families and friends but also because we feel we need to. We’re guilty, catholic-raised deserters.

Six years ago is almost a decade. Seattle has been good to us during this time but it’s still a strain to be so far away from everything we knew, everything we grew up around for nearly the first four decades of our lives. The wife has it worse than I and, that’s why, every time we drive from her hometown, Minneapolis, to my hometown, Chicago, she asks if I would ever move back.

We stay with the lady’s mom when we return to the Midwest ever since she sold her house two hours north of the Twin Cities and moved into the cities. She also gets up early. She also makes egg-coffee.

At the age of 25, I learned that my taste buds had changed. For some reason, at this age, this onion-hating individual tried these tear-inducing vegetables and liked them. From that moment on, I decided I would try eating anything at least once – I could only say I didn’t like something if I had tried it. Turns out, I like most food. In fact, the list of food-stuffs I don’t like is so short, I can list them here without the risk of boring you: nato and some whiskeys of the super-stingy variety. For this reason, I find it very strange that I refuse to try the egg-coffee.

While in Chicago this holiday, I decided to not visit my friends and, instead, spend an afternoon at a museum to see the David Bowie exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Being a mega-fan, it was a wonderland. The items, seemingly random to some that I’ve talked to, were a perfect patchwork of artifacts linked between thought and expression. As I consumed the experience, bookended by David’s baby pictures and his coke spoon, I continually pondered his imminent death.

That makes it sound like I’m planning something or have received an inside tip from my Vegas bookie about a celebrity death-pool. I’m not and haven’t but Lou Reed is dead. That’s not really news. It was over a year ago that he passed, on a Saturday. It’s been over a year since KEXP riddled their Sunday playlist with cover versions of his songs that had me in tears. It’s going to happen to Bowie and it’s going to happen to the lady’s mom. It’s going to happen to my mom. It’s going to happen to my NW friends, my MW friends, you, the lady, and me.

I’m at the age that parents are dying. The list of dead parents is much longer than the list of foods I dislike. So, yes – I think about going home a lot and trying some of that foul-smelling, almost certainly horrible, egg-coffee.

Anti-Social Travel Cooler

2009-01-30T07:38:00.000-06:00

I've occupied my new apartment for forty-eight hours now. I've had two semi-restless nights on a graciously loaned air-mattress, eaten out a lot due to a lack of plates / pans, and spent hundreds of dollars buying inexpensive household items to get the lady and I by till we can get all of our nice stuff out west.

While staying at my friends for the last three months I often holed up in my room in an attempt to give them space while enjoying some myself. This solitary time does nothing for my social skills. I find myself verbally stumbling when I'm fortunate enough to enjoy the company of others. I'm so starved for conversation that nightly calls with the lady find me talking to her more than with her. I babble uncontrollably finding pause with my verbal assaults only after hanging up the phone. It's no different at work.

The team at work is a close knit bunch that have enjoyed work related, bond inducing world traveling. Beyond attachment these four guys are extraordinarily smart. Considering these two attributes it's not hard to believe that I find my head spinning as they weave a tale or drudge up trivial knowledge at breakneck speed. I've joined in on occasion but my overall plan is to be quiet. I do the tasks presented to me, am pleasant when addressed, and simply listen to the verbal whirlwind occasionally chuckling when I get the joke.

I feel like a high school jock in the AV club. That's not completely accurate. Imagine a four-hundred strong AV staff that stop feeding four-hundred projectors to stare at me as I enter the room. That's not completely accurate. Exaggerated or not, the dramatic drop in friends and the seemingly uphill battle to obtain new ones that live in the same state is disheartening.

A friend gave me permission to have a break down. She offered her shoulder if I should succumb to the pressure. It’s not that I haven’t considered a mild breakdown, but the bliss I was experiencing was due to self imposed ignorance. Offered permission, I now want to break down.

At night I sit on my travel cooler and watch DVDs on my computer which rests on one of the only items of furniture I own: My fifteen-dollar Ikea table. The bedroom furniture is sad and the front room furnishings are non-existent. When the lady gets out here in two weeks we'll pick out some items to occupy the front room. But when she gets out here I won't even care if there is furniture at all.

Normalcy Over-Easy

2009-01-22T20:38:00.005-06:00

Breakfast is the single most important meal of every day. Not because of it's "good start" qualities but simply because it fits. It's comfortable. Breakfast's consistent nature wins in the long run over the exotic tastes of dinner and lunch. It holds a constant comforting spot at average.

For three months I've lived with my friends in Seattle sans wife, dog, and sense of self. Waking up early in the morning finds me hiding in my room. The two children have been conditioned with a digital clock to abandon their beds at six-o-o and not a minute sooner. This mandate is overridden if the kids hear any noise prior to six-o-o (If someone is awake the day has started.) Such a noise could present itself as a house guest made breakfast, watched television, showered, or even from the simple act of opening his most certainly squeaky bedroom door.

There are so many opportunities to misstep in a situation such as this. Leave a dish out, eat the chips, comment on child raising. All bad. Even when approached with my cautious friendly touch. Not eating dinners they cooked, cleaning all sorts of dishes, and ignoring questionable behavioral from their kids is also meet with mild scorn. As hard as it is on me, it must be at least that hard on them. Sure I don't remember the last Friday night I had to myself, but babysitting seems a fair trade for a roof. Besides, it has been mostly good. I suppose maybe strained at moments would be a good assessment of the bad. I couldn't have accepted this job without their help. That said I'd gladly sleep on a towel in the corner of my very own place.

I move into our West Seattle apartment this weekend. It's not a separate part of the city borrowing it's name sake in an attempt to appear cool; It's in the city proper and stands alone as more of district or burrough. Within two blocks of our modest one-bedroom place are Indian, Chinese, pizza, Italian, and Thai restaurants. Same for a Blockbuster, two banks, coffee, bagels, second run theater, two grocery stores, gas station, a florest, and a place to go out for breakfast.

Though I don't have the keys yet, I visited West Seattle yesterday. I parked outside the apartment and wandered around. Window shopping down California Ave. for a few blocks before catching a flic, eating some za, and wrapping it all up with a grocery run to the fancy, high priced market. For five hours I pretended that I lived there and wandered around with a sense of neighborhood ownership and belonging. It felt good.

Three weeks till my wife flies in with our dog. Now that there is an end date it's almost harder to get through each day. I've busied myself with TV, books, and lots of sleep (naps and otherwise) avoiding the 'missing her' feelings. Even though things will still be upside down till our Chicago place sells, we move all of our stuff west, and purchase a new condo, there is one giant step toward normalcy about to happen; I'll soon be sharing my comfortable morning meals with my lady.

Close Call

2009-01-16T18:45:00.005-06:00

My new job is going well. The hours are long but it turns out I like working. I'm arriving an hour and a half earlier to work than at Sony and I leave anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours later. That said, it's not work.

Sure I have tasks, deadlines, and am challenged every day. None of it seems a chore. Only two months in, I received a glowing review. Not only was I a good guy, as my boss was prone to point out often, I exceeded his expectations for the position and was performing at a level which he expected at the six month mark. All of this was made so much sweeter since I was not laid off from my previous employer this last Thursday, as so many of my friends were.

My old boss didn't replace me when I left. So I'll never know if I would have actually been cut. Considering every single person in the marketing department I designed merchandising materials for was relieved of their jobs, I'm fairly confident my old position was not relevant considering the state of the dying music industry. It's unsettling getting a jolt of happiness from avoiding the cuts while watching so many of my friends cut loose, but having gotten out only two months ago, well ... I can't help but smile.

Fortunately everyone I was really good friends with at Sony were sparred. Are they the lucky ones? I've asked this question every time we've had lay-offs at Sony (once a year, for fourteen years, except the year they announced the big merger which resulted in a forty percent cut of the workforce the following year.) I know I was wishing to be laid off while at Sony. I know financially it would have been the best situation to receive a severance package especially considering the packages are based on tenure. My decision to go west has been proved to be a good one considering. Even if it wasn't for how much I love the job. Right decision. Even if I didn't love the weather (hitting high fifties while Chicago suffers through minus eighteen without considering windchill.) Right decision. Even leaving all of my incredible friends behind. Right decision.

That last one is a stretch. I certainly miss all of my friends. I can always return to Chicago if this place ends up not suiting us. If the job doesn't work out. If I miss my friends. Doing it on my terms is the most important part of the equation. So far so good.

Breaking the Ice

2009-01-09T17:20:00.004-06:00

Four months have passed since I've been writing here. While there have been a few posts in that time (nine if you count the two "I'm too busy to post" posts,) the steady stream of finger chatter has been essentially silenced.

I explained what a busy few months I've had to a friend on email today. I typed out a string of changes and adventures I've undertaken in the last 4 months and realized that every single change fell into exactly one month.

A move across the country when you've lived in the same place for thirty-seven years would have been enough. A new wife - enough. A nine-thousand mile trip to Japan - enough. Quitting a job you've had for fourteen years - you get the picture. Having encountered a life change cocktail like that, I'm surprised I remember to put on pants.

It's not the rain that has me down. It's the two-thousand miles separating my friends and I. In a month from now the lady will be out here sharing a roof once more after three long months of extraordinarily phone bills. Unless all of you plan to move two-thousand miles west, I've a reason to be down.

The longer you stay away from something, the harder and more awkward it is to come back to. Every day I didn't post I wondered how I would start back up. I've a dozen unfinished posts and I'm not sure they're even relevant any longer. I can write new posts in Seattle but I made so many back in Chicago.

I can make new friends in Seattle but I have so many back in Chicago.

How Much Blog Could a Blog Post Post if a Blog Post Could Post Blog?

2008-11-04T23:41:00.003-06:00

What's that sound? It's the sound of a million bloggers posting their satisfaction at the election of Senator Obama. This is one of those posts.

In federal facilities it is customary to display the image of the president. I've always found it an odd practice until tonight. Tonight I would gladly display a photo of our new president elect. Tonight I am encouraged by the decision the country has made. Tonight, for once, I am inclined to believe in hope.

Finally Sinking In

2008-11-03T11:34:00.008-06:00

In case you haven't heard, October was a doosey. Since my last post, five weeks ago on this wonder of cyberspace called Blogger, I've gotten married, travelled to Japan, quit my current job of fourteen years, and accepted a new job that requires a 2000 plus mile move west to Seattle leaving my new wife behind to sell the condo.

Since returning home from Japan, I've been a scheduling fool. If you are in this state, you've probably heard from me about getting togehter 'One last time.' While a small handful of friends couldn't be squeezed in, I did manage to work up a hectic schedule that saw me attending eleven lunches, twelve dinners, one family going away party, and a breakfast in two weeks. This left me little time to fix up the place for sale or consider what to pack.

Sounds like I'm complaining or that I prefer house work over friends. With the staggering amount of good news in October, I'm just trying to keep a level head and see the potential good alongside the potential bad (as part of my Velvet Murphy approach to life.) So when a friend talks about how awesome the new gig will be, I mention the political quality surrounding the creation of this position. When someone tells me Seattle is awesome, I mention that I'm leaving thirty-seven years of relationships and experiences behind.

Johnny D. is the kind of man guys aspire to be; Easy going, intelligent, funny, and willing to accept a man crush from me. He credits me with saving his kid from certain parking lot death even though I was simply part of the search team, not the hero. John is also part of my poker crew made up of current and ex music industry fellas. We've met at my place a dozen times in the last couple years to experience a constant ebb and flow of nickels and dimes while chatting away like school girls.

At the last poker night ever, this last Friday, John exercised one of his other admirable qualities: Honesty. During our extended goodbyes in the parking lot around one am, there was a lull. John said "Moving is something you're supposed to do when you're twenty. I figured, at our age, we're all here. We're settled. And we'd be growing old and playing poker together." While I'm most certainly paraphrasing, the gist of that statement resonates with me. It struck to the core of my hesitation.

I'm not dying and I'll be back as much as humanly / financially possible. But there is no kidding myself. Relationships will fizzle, become awkward, and perhaps die. I've thrown myself into this situation not fully comprehending the full extent of the consequences. The thought of a single relationship perishing has me second guessing this entire thing.

Like a child who won't look at you when you leave, as if gone unseen you've never left, I'm finding it hard to finish typing this post. If I wrap it up, and make my final poignant point I may crumble teary eyed on the bed. So let's just say, to all of you that I'm troubling with a two-thousand mile gap, you will be missed and the rumored fizzly, awkward, death of our friendship has been greatly exaggerated.

Too Swamped to Post Again

2008-09-24T07:54:00.001-05:00

... Busy flying out for last minute interview.

Theraputic Coffee

2008-09-14T11:46:00.005-05:00

The lady is in Minneapolis because I was supposed to play poker last night. I use the word poker loosely; We also play baseball, screw your neighbor, and have even played war for money. I also use the word money loosely. Last time I ended the night up over twenty dollars which, considering we play for nickels and dimes, means I had a stellar night. It's hard to get my six music industry guy friends on the same to organize a game, so when I had four on board I wrote the date in my calendar. Mere hours before I was to steal their money with my mad skills, I received three cancellations.

The lady sits in her room whenever I host poker night and is generally a good sport about not disrupting the guy talk with frequent visits. Needless to say it's boring for her so I always let her know as soon as we've settled on a date. This way she can make plans of her own. Hence the trip to Minny. Sometimes we all need time alone. While chilling with my lady has all the appropriate ingredients to provide a pleasant evening, the scarce "me" time is always a welcome occurrence. With no poker, I was going to get all the "me" time I needed.

For numerous reasons these last few weeks have been a mentally dizzying affair and the anxious, agitated state my brain resides reeks of nervous break down. It's brought on from too much and (strangely) too little going on. The list is long: Wedding plans, honeymoon plans, too much to do at work, no word on Seattle, family deaths, and now a financial blunder of sorts: Due to the poor responses for our wedding (Over forty percent of those invited have sent regrets) we are faced with coming in shy of our contractually defined food and beverage minimum to the tune of over two grand. While we were going to spend this money either way, this two grand is now just going to be handed over to the hotel in return for nothing. This hurts my frugal planning heart. My response to pressure varies. I'll rise to the occasion normally but this weekend I crumbled under the weight of it all. Crumbled as in sat in front of the TV, ate too much, and moped around sans lady. Needing a pick me up, I went to breakfast.

One of my greatest pleasures is this first meal of the day. The delicious food is partly the reason but it's also because breakfast is usually a mellow, un-rushed occurrence where I can regroup and unwind. For this reason even having breakfast alone is a pleasure. Parking at the counter, reading, and sipping coffee for an hour or two settles my soul. The dish washing station was directly in front of me. When my waitress would clean a few plates, the German gentleman next to me would exclaim "Herr Kaffee!" and answer any English to German translations asked of him. A chatty, coffee guzzling lady was to my left. Without my book, I would have suffered accounts of her grandchildren and perhaps worse.

I loose track of how much coffee I've consumed when the refills / top offs occur constantly. Even so, I'm positive I was working on a fifth cup when I gazed into the rising steam for what seemed like minutes. An answer to my anxious melancholy rose with the steam from the coffee and I broke this beverage stare down with a vision of the lady's smiling face.

Death Had a Busy Summer

2008-09-09T15:41:00.005-05:00

I'm so swamped I'm mentally tired. Few loose ends remain with the wedding but there are those few. The honeymoon is slightly planned; Loose clippings are strewn about our living room begging to be scoured and edited down to a casual itinerary. 4th quarter releases have kept the large format printers at work buzzing, my interns busy, and my blogging hat ignored. I've applied for the job four weeks ago now, with only one response from HR and no interviews scheduled. Add to the mix a dead aunt and cousin, and it's not hard to imagine my clouded psyche.

My younger cousin Elizabeth lost her battle with health issues derived from years of anorexia and heroin abuse. She was an energetic, always polite girl who possessed stunning beauty even if she never thought so. Anorexia brought on by body-image induced teenage confusion provided me with an awkward moment where I introduced myself as if a stranger. I knew she was coming to lunch. In fact she was the reason for the lunch. But as I said hello to the various relatives numbering in the double digits, I saved her for last, extended my hand and said "Hi, I'm Tom." Eventually she rebounded, filled out, but still looked to the magazine covers for who she should be and what she should look like. This led to breast implants at eighteen, submissions to Playboy, and five year heroin habit that riddled her with health problems such as seizures, the likes of such ultimately ended her time on Earth.

Sue never forgot to tell me about the time I came to her house, was asked how dinner was, and responded "This beef tastes like rubber." I'm sure it did, she wasn't known for her cooking. Her husband Ken is a despicable sort that never missed an opportunity to belittle even a budding teenage psyche. It's unfortunately a popular club, but I belong to (along with many of my relatives) the "I Don't Really Care for Ken Club." He's a self made millionaire from peddling copy machines coupled with a victorious lawsuit against Xerox that netted him some ungodly amount of dough. His offspring was not invited to the wedding as they are a cackling, self-absorbed duo. Heather, the oldest, shares a profession with yours truly. On the rare occasion she visits you'll be subjected to hour long stories about her trials as a design genius and yet not once has she even acknowledged we share a similar traits. Somehow, amidst all this ugly, Sue was a good egg. Maybe not a bright, shiny light of good egg, but certainly one of the good ones.

Sue had smoked almost her entire life. Watching her mom and dad perish from cigarette induced cancer wasn't enough incentive to quit. For two years now she has been bed ridden and required to sit up in bed so her lungs wouldn't fill with liquid. I haven't spoken to her in quite a while, and it was no surprise to receive a regret to our wedding invite. I sent seventy-five dollars of white daisies and yellow roses to her memorial and can't shake the image of her face or the fact that I never said goodbye.

I've had second thoughts about moving away. While I haven't been offered the job, I still consider it wise to mentally prepare and accept such a huge change as a possibility. If I move away it might not be forever but what's going to bring me back? The need to be around my loved ones, or my attendance at their funeral?

Off the Meat

2008-08-30T09:33:00.001-05:00

My friend Greg makes the best chili I've ever had. His graduation from culinary school provided him with a bag of tricks, but he also has a discerning tongue. Food is more than a meal with Greg. When dining together we often talk about the subtleties of a certain plate, and are generally on the same page. Somehow eating with him reminds me to slow down and taste my food. I mean really taste it, savor it.

Sadly Greg doesn't own a restaurant I can frequent. Not sure if his dreams involve such an idea, but I'd design his logo and menu for free. Receiving an invitation to a meal at his house is a welcome treat. Besides having a kick-ass wife, an adorable string bean daughter, and a remarkably verdant back yard, the seemingly effortlessly prepared meal always satisfies. And there isn't a scrap of meat in his house.

For a long time now, I've been contemplating going veggie. The reasons are obvious and somewhat endless. At the core of the reasons are that I don't enjoy the idea of killing something and then benefiting from it. I'm not a spiritual man but I subscribe to the idea that everything affects everything. A calf restricted from sitting or turning in their cage that also can't avoid standing in their own fecal matter doesn't scream yummy to me. Or humane. The rancher that deals with this sort of thing has to become desensitized to it or suffer mentally. In their desensitization they bury simple / basic traits of kindness which eventually will be expressed to other humans on or off the ranch. And so on.

There is no way I'm swearing off fish however. Which makes me a Pescetarian. How was this line determined? Not sure, but with Tokyo around the corner, I'd be foolish to go hardcore. I've had dreams about Japanese sushi. I will be skipping the chicken and horse shashimi.

It's only been a week and I can't say I'll never have meat again. I feel better, am sleeping better, and haven't really missed it all that much. Next thing you know I'll be protesting naked outside a fur store. Don't worry, I won't share photos of that.

Velvet Murphy

2008-08-25T08:32:00.001-05:00

I've had only a few moments of self enlightenment in life. One was inspired by a Velvet Underground song in my teens. "And everything was all right" might seem like a throw away lyric spewed forth by a hippie laying in the middle of a field, but taken to heart and applied generously, you'd be surprised at how comforting those five words are. Everything is all right turned into everything will go on. Letting one small thing ruin your day is setting you up for a big tumble when something big actually happens. How you react to life's daily trials affects your mood, the moods of those you encounter, and can / should ultimately set a mellow, relaxed pace for your entire life.

Murphy's Law provided me with the other moment. In it's original dismal verse, it paints a picture of an unlucky soul that the world is set on destroying. Take from that the basic message, with none of the depressed self loathing, and you get: Anything that can happen will. A phrase that, in it's preparatory sense, allows someone to consider every possible outcome in any situation. Coupled with the Velvet lyrics, I'm provided caution and comfort simultaneously.

Driving down the highway I am both worried about getting cut off and all right with it. When a loved one passes, I'm never surprised because sometimes people die. When they're gone, Lou's words level me out and push fond memories of the deceased into consciousness. I'm often one of the few at a funeral with a smile.

A few days ago the job was posted. I've waitied over two months for the post and have been trying to get to Seattle for nearly six. I've always known that things might not go my way. In prep, I've attempted to think of every possibility so, if confronted by bad news, I would be only mildly depressed as opposed to homicidal. For all the attention and thought I've given this job quest, I neglected considering one possibility.

The Seattle company had lay-offs just prior to the job being posted. Instead of walking papers, open positions were offered to the newly jobless. I hadn't considered this as a possibility, which is fine because I can't think of everything. But had the position been handed to someone with one foot out the door, my fragile kitten self would have been sent spiraling. Or maybe I would have been happy for them to get the position. After all, I still have a job. Even if I hate it.

Too Swamped to Post ...

2008-08-20T15:29:00.003-05:00

... Busy applying for job.

Gift Guilt

2008-08-11T09:01:00.000-05:00

Our third wedding shower was this weekend, which is good because we desperately needed a new ice cream scooper. Some of our household items are comprised of a mismatched, hand me down mess. Not wanting my divorce to linger, I succumbed to material requests in an attempt to get the ex out of my hair quickly. Mom provided me with spare cookware and plates that met my low maintenance needs for nearly a decade. Getting new stuff, especially since I asked for new stuff from some of you the first time, upsets what little etiquette I have. No matter, because all of this if for the lady.

At first the lady wanted to elope. The idea of a fairytale wedding never appealed to her. As preliminary plans were laid for our secret nuptials, the lady decided she wanted her sisters there. Once they were added, she couldn't get married without having a few of her close friends there. Inviting a few friends and sisters would upset the uninvited mom, and if mom was coming dad would surely be upset if not asked.

Even though our invite list expanded to include close to two-hundred people, remnants of that initial plan remained. Making our wedding bigger, we had only one rule we never comprised: Make sure everyone had a good time. Beyond that, every tradition we could break has been tossed aside. We will not be lighting a unity candle, I won't be fishing out a garter with my teeth, and having desert and wedding cake seemed redundant, so we opted for a cheese cake ending to your meal.

Both the Minneapolis and Chicago showers were well attended, featured our favorite drinks / snacks, and were lovingly planned by our friends and family. Thinking about this planning, we are overwhelmed. When thanked for all this attention, our families and friends respond similarly with earnest sincerity about how much they love both of us. Friends have said that an evening dealing with my ex was not offset by the pleasure of my company, resulting in sparse invitations to social engagements. In contrast, everyone likes the lady. So much so that everyone, no matter how much they like us on an individual basis, like the combination of us even better.

I'm at a loss as to why the lady went thirty-two years without getting hitched. I'd like to take this moment to thank all those less than perfect practice dudes for leaving her alone. I've never been happier. I've never been more myself, with no filters, and I've never smiled as much as when I see her face after a long day. The gifts you give are an expression of how you feel about the lady and I. They are given freely because you are happy for us. Every time I guiltily think about getting gifts from you, I'm reminded of the lady's smile; The only gift I really want.

My Life On Hold

2008-08-08T15:20:00.000-05:00

Summer is typically a tough time to make plans. Mostly because so many plans hit the table, without enough empty slots to accommodate them. While most of these plans are social and welcome, it's the downtime that gives pause for my mind to wander and obsess about the Seattle gig. I've been lying to myself. Tricking myself to believe this is not taking so long. Once I realized the self inflicted denial, I started to feel exhausted from the anxious, excited feelings. There's nothing I think about more.

You should see my closets. Considering a possible move, I've been boxing up non-essentials for months. I love organizing, so even if I don't get the gig, I'll be happy to have things tidy. Five garbage bags later, I can see the back of several cabinets, have consolidated plastic tubs, and have separated myself from so many "One day" items. Cleaning and organizing is a welcome side effect to having anxious feelings.

I should be painting the molding, fixing the closet door, putting some wood putty where the dog chewed the cabinet, and caulking the tub. These were the first chores I considered when first applying for the job, since selling the place would go smoother after tended to. When was that first interview? April? Let me check ... March 18th was my first phone interview. That's over four months ago. Or eighteen weeks, or one-hundred-twenty-six days, or three-thousand-twenty-four hours, or one-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-four-hundred-forty minutes, or ten-million-eight-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-four-hundred seconds.

Considering this, it's excusable that I've found premature preparatory chores to keep my brain busy. Especially since I haven't even applied for the job yet.

You're Not Helping

2008-08-03T10:16:00.000-05:00

We sent your wedding invite this week. The lady and I had a nice moment taking turns throwing clumps of invites into that big blue box before going out to breakfast. I'll never be able to forget the smile on the lady's face as the last of the marital mailing slipped from her fingers.

We're both in our mid thirties and have some money saved for the wedding. Having it completely paid for by the parents is tempting, but it makes us feel icky. The parents are helping and it's understood any money received is our wedding gift as well to help pay for it all; Whatever we need it for: Wedding bills, honeymoon, or a new iPhone, it's our gift. Grandma's friend Karen, visiting from Germany this October, wants to know what special German flavored gift we'd like for our wedding. A fancy, German born gift is not going to mollify our planning hearts into forgetting that Grandma invited a woman we've never met without asking.

We've been forced to make a few tough decisions about who to invite. There are a few friends we would love to invite, but space does not allow. The capacity of the room is so tight that a single person over one-hundred-sixty will require tables to spill onto the dance floor in a connecting room. That awkward moment when the bus boys come to take your table really makes you feel wanted.

Asked if Karen from Germany could attend, room might have been made but we've decided to put our foot down in an attempt to squash any further discourteous maneuvers from grandma. With my backing and assurances, the lady made an awkward, uncharacteristic, and lengthy phone call to a woman who has manipulated, lied, and belittled her for thirty-seven years. Not going to say the lady and I feel good about buttin' heads with grandma, but it is an accomplishment of sorts for the lady.

The lady and I have wedding plans under control. The invites we lovingly dumped into the mail box had been stamped and ready for months. Almost everything is done and the level of stress is minimal. Sure a move across the country might escalate the stress, but my money is on grandma being responsible for at least some of the escalation.

My Four-Hundred Dollar Haircut

2008-07-29T08:06:00.000-05:00

Keeping my water glass full will warrant more than a twenty percent tip. Cutting me off at a singular glass, while not provoking me to leave nothing, will certainly affect the girth of your food service wallet. I've always wanted to be a waiter. The lady's sister thinks I'd be good at it because I'm chatty. Engaging in conversations with strangers is easy, I go out for gossip riddled dinners with girlfriends regularly, and look forward to chatting with my hairdresser Sarah.

Years ago, I had my locks lifted at Marshal Field's hair salon by a girl named Vita. Vita is a fortyish, stick thin, Italian girl with impeccable morals, and questionable taste in men. Not wanting to leave me high and dry after she quit, she offered to trim my doo out of her home. Washing my hair in the laundry room utility sink was tolerable. Sitting in a dank, decaying basement in front of a television that always seemed to have Soul Train on was tolerable. Being joined by her father or sister, who also lived there, taking calls while working on me, and having random visitors stop by and conversing with her while she was tending to my mop was tolerable. When she started forgetting how to cut my hair...

I have my grandfather's hair. A thick wavy, cowlicky mop that's hard to tame. Beyond sharing hair attributes, all the Dietz men share a similar helmet like cut. Considering my potential follicle fate, I make every effort to avoid it. Changing hair dressers is tough. The quest to secure a replacement is never a straight path. Thinking I might have been paying too much for my haircuts, I went to a five dollar Quick Cuts and was provided with a horrible mess that made me look like I was five, so I called Heidi's in the mall.

I had been to Heidi's before, seeing a punk skateboarding kid named Charlie. While I enjoyed his company and cut, his prices had originally sent me to Vita. The manager told me Charlie had moved on but that he could squeeze me in that same night. I don't recall his name, but I do remember his Cavaricci pants and the helmet cut I received that day.

Wandering aimlessly around the mall I stumbled upon Regis Hair Salon where I randomly selected Sarah as my new mop muse. Sarah is a cute, bubbly sort, who is guarded and sassy without losing site of her manners. She worked quick, cut hair well, and I got out the door for a reasonable price. It had taken four months to find a suitable replacement for pre-laundry basin Vita, but the wait was worth it; Six years later Sarah is still tending to my mop. In fact, Sarah is such a good cut that I found myself reconsidering how I tip.

Gratuity should not be a standard, set percentage for every service. Everyone knows what to tip at a restaurant, but what should you tip for take-out, valet, buffet, or hair cuts? After careful consideration I've come up with my own tipping scale:

Valet and bag handling: Two or three dollars
Take-out: Five to ten percent (on a semi regular basis and only if it's a place I frequent)
Buffet: Ten percent
Wait staff: Ten to twenty percent
Hair stylists: Thirty percent

Sarah spends nearly an hour on my hair, talking with me the whole time and deserves more than a server. Since my haircuts with Sarah are thirty dollars, she gets a ten dollar tip, which means I surrender over four-hundred dollars to her every year. Maybe I should just shave my head from now on and put that four-hundred toward an iPhone.

If I move I'll have to find a new Sarah. This would also mean that I wouldn't have her capable hands cutting my hair for the big day. If you see me at the wedding with a shaggy, soppy doo, please be kind.

Delusional or Hopeful

2008-07-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

I find myself daydreaming often; I'm offered the Seattle gig over a cup of coffee while being praised for how well I interviewed.

Getting my current music industry job was simple. I knew a girl, who knew a guy, and I got an interview. Before the interview I was told "You pretty much have the job, we just have to go through the motions." Thirteen years later, I wonder how much effort, if any, I put into acquiring this job. For the Seattle job I've done test images, written notes on index cards for multiple phone interviews, and been very patient.

There is a fine line between being hopeful and delusional. For this reason my posts are confident relaying facts sprinkled with hopeful wishes, all the while knowing that things may not go my way. Here is what we know:

1) The job has been approved by the subsidiary.
2) The creation of the position is in the parent-company's hands, not so much so they can veto or approve it, but more so they can assign whatever parent-company attributes they need to assign, aka: Red tape.
3) I'm the only person that has been interviewed for the position so far. This privilege being mine before the position posted and any insider could raise their hand.
4) I've been told I made a tremendous impression on the creative group with the test images I created.
5) These test images helped solidified the case to create this position.
6) If and when the job finally surfaces from the red tape, I'm one-hundred percent positive that I will get an interview.
7) The position, while not necessarily being created for me exclusively, has been created around my particular skill set.

String these facts together and you have a bottomless bowl of hopeful soup. Originally I was told I'd be in Seattle for an interview by now. Notoriously slow, this process no longer brings out the anxious. I've found a sweet spot. A crumb of hope, born of facts, that compels me to remain excitedly patient. Not getting the job would be devastating. But as I've said before, I've been reminded how good hope feels. Even if it flirts with delusion.

8) The position has been approved. Mr. Web Editor will be posting the job in the next week or two, and looks forward to talking with me soon.

Six Reasons to Stop Jogging

2008-07-21T09:34:00.000-05:00

I've gained six pounds since I started jogging. Then I lost three pounds. Then I lost four pounds. All in a matter of a few hours. My scale either hates me or is broken. Maybe both.

Progress needs to be measured somehow. I feel better being more active and I know eventually I'll look better. I haven't been keeping the dieting part of this plan completely in check; I've had a few late night snacks and some disastrous meals. Nipping all my fatty habits in a single stroke was a dream.

I skipped jogging the day my traitorous scale revealed itself. Getting on a working scale doesn't appeal to me at this point, but I know I must since my pre-jogging weight (determined by the broken scale) is probably wrong. Then I became ill and fell off the exercise wagon. Nothing sounds worse than running a mile when your nose produces non-stop snot, your lungs are wheezy, and you get dizzy spells. It's not like I needed a big excuse to stop jogging. Any little excuse would do. Apparently what I need is an excuse to jog.

List of possible excuses to jog:
1) Jogging will save on gas
2) If I fall while jogging, I'll probably break my hip and can stay home from work
3) Those shirts aren't going to get sweaty all by themselves
4) If the Earth can make a daily rotation, I should at least be able to jog up the block every day

The lady finds excuses to exercise much easier than I do. She's been doing some cardio aerobic thing daily, just joined a gym, and gets to the treadmill when she can. Although I wasn't bed ridden the entire time being sick, it's taken about two full weeks to return to one-hundred percent. Now the hard part: Getting back outdoors and running 'round town.

Bets are being placed on which me you'll see at the wedding. Betting on tubby me is easy money, but the big money is on the long shot.

Little Lao Lady

2008-07-17T10:42:00.001-05:00

I thought we were friendly with our neighbors across the hall. She brought us sweets from her favorite bakery (which weren't very good,) after visiting her sister in Germany she would return with chocolates, and was always courteous to a fault running into her on laundry day. When she moved without telling us, our feelings got hurted.

As far as condo complexes go, this one could use a face lift. Our interior space is calming after a long day but the hallways with their brown burber, tan/yellow walls, and forest green accents hurt my designing, gay from the waist up soul. The worst aspect of recent remodeling efforts is the dungeon like elevator with fake stone linoleum floor tiles. We don't take the elevator.

Most of the tenants, from the seventy-two units, add to my general distaste.

Irv introduced himself by yelling at me from across the parking lot. My dog was on the lawn, which is a no-go according to the bylaws. I'm all for rules, even ones as lame as this one, but how about walking over to inform me like a civilized human?

One door down live the Kristovis. English is a second language, so conversing with them is ... well, awkward. When we congratulated them on the birth of their daughter, they assumed we were complaining about the crying and could not be convinced otherwise. The crying wasn't bad at all, especially since the child lives half of every year in Bolivia with Grandma because it's cheaper.

There is a couple we enjoy from 102 named Ken and Barb (guess what they substituted for a wedding cake topper.) Sharing a common age with Ken and Barb goes a long way for small talk, but no urges for social endeavors have arisen. Ken talks a lot, smokes a lot, and talks a lot. They work downtown Chicago and want to move West, increasing their round-trip commute to sixty miles a day.

When the movers arrived to move little Lao lady, we were confused. Nothing had ever been mentioned. That day in passing, we were told about the move by little Lao lady and how she would occupy the unit for a while longer since she still needed to sell it. A week later to the day someone else moved in.

While little Lao lady lied, we've already had pleasant encounters with our new neighbor. Her English accent is mildly mesmerizing, her daughter shy but polite, and when I found her car keys near the mail boxes she was overcome with joy. I hope her bakery doesn't suck.

Chuggin' Along

2008-07-15T09:30:00.001-05:00

Unlike past interviewers, Mr. Web Editor is keeping in touch. While he had no real news to relay, his update was detailed, heartfelt and appreciated. He explained that this company is a subsidiary of a bigger company and the job has been green-lit by the subsidiary but not yet by the parent company. Once it is (if it is) I'll be flying out for an interview.

Originally, for the first two positions I applied for, I would have been responsible for flying myself out for an interview and any moving expenses. Not a problem for a job that makes me salivate. This new position not only produces salivation but also finds me emitting enthusiastic monkey noises. It's been hinted that I might not have to pony up for the plane ticket this time around. If you've looked into traveling lately, you'll know why this is exciting. No matter, I'd pay for that ticket. I consider it an investment in my future. Both mine and the lady's future.

Hating Your Kids

2008-07-13T08:30:00.001-05:00

Every second Thursday of every month, for the last four years, I've meet Jill for lunch at Christie's. No confirmations needed, we just show up. Being farther away from the resturaunt, I'm usually late. Stalled by the semis in the industrial area, stuck at work designing garage sale signs for my boss, or getting a seventy-five dollar speeding ticket have been among my excuses. Today I was early. Which really means I was on time. Most importantly, I arrived before her.

Our friendship started over twenty years ago. I used to steal cassette tapes from her at Musicland. Somehow she didn't know, or didn't care. Once, I special ordered a Damned CD from her and was given guff for not buying it at a real record store. I'm surprised I didn't steal that when it arrived. Not sure how we went from casual mall encounters to late night coffee binges, but you'd often find us at Baker's Square, at midnight, spewing dramatic, useless teenage philosophy. When I say I'm not sure how, what I really mean is I can't remember. It's has been over twenty years.

Jill and I have never kissed. Which is strange because I kissed most of the girls I befriended during my teen years. It's probably one of the reasons we are still friends. Being one of my oldest friends, I'm excited for her to attend my wedding. She might not come now since her four year old isn't invited.

The Millennium Hotel is a remodeled Holiday Inn. It's been redone in a Frank Lloyd Wright fashion, with a bit more trendy club feel. As if FLW's cocaine abusing step son might have designed it. Originally we were looking at a large basement room to accommodate our guest list, but then we saw the fourteenth floor. It's the very top floor consisting of one long room on each the west and east side of the building. The all window wall of the west room provides a stunning northward view of downtown Minneapolis only one upped by the Dome room (connecting the east and west rooms) which provides a 360 degree bubble view of the city. One problem, the reception area accommodates only one-hundred and sixty guests.

We've reduced the guest list from two-twenty to one-eighty in an attempt to accommodate the capacity restrictions. To do this we've had to draw a line; Some single invites will be sent out, cousins have been cut, and invites restricting the attendance of kids.

Telling Jill her son can't attend wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't already told her the opposite and I have one more friend who is under the same impression. Not only am I not looking forward to that conversation, restrictions such as these are counter to my easy going overall attitude. I feel like a jerk. Will you still love me in the morning?

No Lonley Holidays

2008-07-11T09:33:00.001-05:00

The lady and I don't have a balcony in our condo. When a friend invites us over for a BBQ we're there. Typically the forth is a no brainer; There will a BBQ to attend. This year a last minute invite saved us from spending this grilling holiday in-doors. In return, we are naming our first born after our hosts: Micheith.

Christmas is going to be weird if I end up in Seattle. Sure I'll come back, but my return will have a reunion quality instead of the familiar, warm, and welcome habit like feeling visits convey now. If I thought it was hard to see my friends now, wait till I move. Will my return warrant a group outing? Or will I struggle to catch ten minutes each with friends as I travel across the city in an attempt to see everybody separately?

I'm not taking the possibility of a move lightly. Actually, I barely comprehend what havoc a move like this will wreak on my friendships. In the end I know everything will balance out; Some friendships will remain the same, some will fade, and others will actually become stronger. I'm getting ahead of myself. There hasn't even been an interview. Well, besides that "casual one" two weeks ago.

I've done some premature Seattle house hunting. I'll most likely be taking a pay cut with this job and, similar to our circumstances in Chicago, we would like to live below our means. We'll probably be looking for another condo, this time in the city of Seattle. New or old doesn't matter. We do however have three rules: Top floor, washing machine and dryer in unit, and a balcony.

Our current place is a self contained cell with no breeze to speak of, even with all the windows gaping. For this reason, comfort demands the use of air conditioning if the outside temp reaches a blistering seventy degrees. Maybe a balcony wouldn't cool our place down any better but at least we could lounge enjoying the weather. Or maybe even have a BBQ of our own.

Till then we'll have to rely on our friends to scratch that outdoor itch. The forth of July invite did just that. The lush yard was soothing under my bare feet, the promising smell from the grill appeased, and the friends ... well, the friends are going to be missed.

Thrifty Contruction Workers

2008-07-09T10:30:00.001-05:00

My boss Wayne didn't receive the nickname Wayniac because of an affiliation with Warner Brothers. He walks faster than anyone, talks faster, and even eats faster. Once at a twelve person business dinner, he woofed down his fillet mignon in four bites before the last person was served.

I've worked for Wayne for six years? Eight? It's been a while. In the beginning he wasn't an ideal boss. Decision making wasn't his strong point, but through a relentless on task approach, brought on by fail-proof organization skills, he has become one of the better bosses I've had. That said, we've never encountered conflict because he lacks a pair. I won't say I get away with a lot, because I do my job well. But the fact that I come in anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes late each day for the last five years without a peep, speaks volumes. Perhaps my seniority affords me perpetual artistic-type tardiness.

As co-workers become aware of the possibilities of the graphics department as it pertains to their job, they inevitably become aware of personal applications. On the clock I've made children's party decorations, birthday party invites, Christmas cards, and printed photos from hedonism. Yesterday, for the first time ever, Wayne asked me to make him a sign.

Wayne makes more money than me. He should, he's my boss. With this money he's purchased a house, out in the suburbs, closer to Canada than Chicago. Being new construction, every detail was obsessed over. Certain details weren't perfect so he's had the builder fix them over and over. With another round of fixes due, he's worried about the workers getting his perfect carpet dirty.

Keeping financial secrets is the fashion. I'm wary of sharing too much lest you perform some backward math and figure what I'm worth. While I'm not a millionaire, talking money is ugly. When the real estate bubble burst, Wayne's home lost ten percent of it's worth. In the same conversation he told me he lost forty-thousand. One simple math problem later, I know how much he paid and lost. He's potentially going to lose more if the builder sells cheaper houses in the hard to sell empty lots. That's why Wayne is hosting a community meeting concerning the class action law-suit in his back yard and again is worried about his carpet.

Being such a community leader comes with responsibilities. So when talk of a neighborhood garage sale came up, Wayne knew who could make the signs.

If I leave this job, in the manner and time frame I hope to, I will submit my resignation directly to Wayne. Since I probably won't be replaced, due to the record industry taking a hard nose dive into the shitter, it gives me no pleasure to think how this will strand Wayne without resources to get his job done. The pleasure I am afforded comes from a change of scenery, replacing one dream job with another, and not dying in this box of a condo. Still, I giggle slightly as I imagine a cold sweat on Wayne's departure pondering brow.

I Want My Dad Back

2008-07-04T10:20:00.000-05:00

Olof is a Swede. He was a good friend in high school, a bad driver, and his dad is dead. Somewhere around senior year we drifted apart but I'm not sure why. The best I can come up with is that I found new friends. Friends that ran in the same circles as girls. Friends that introduced me to my ex. I should have stuck with Olof.

I met Olof during freshman registration. We instantly clicked, talked and joked during the entire process, and succumbed to the wrestling team recruiter before leaving registration. We wrestled on the team for three years together, rode our bikes for hours on long summer days, drove to school together, and played cassette tape loading games on his Commodore 64. Olof's sister was also one of the first girls I ever kissed, which made sleep-overs doubly fun. Until her mom caught on. Senior year might have marked the end of Olof and I, but our parents remained friendly. On a regular basis our fathers went to awful movies together. If you ever wondered about the caliber of any particular flick, knowing that these two planned to attend was an indication that it would most certainly suck.

My father helped my uncle move to Virginia last week. My uncle is taking his mentally disabled sixteen year old, and leaving Chicago behind in search of a fresh start away from their massage parlor (non-therapeutic/happy ending) employed ex / mother. During the five day move, Olof's dad succumbed to a slew of organ failures, went into the hospital, and died. Not being able to say goodbye, was hard for my dad. Having suffered a loss of a similarly aged friend weeks earlier was also hard on him. Knowing his father also passed at sixty-two, harder still. Sharing an age with this triangle of death is giving him pause.

One day I will know exactly what to say to someone who has lost a loved one. That day will regrettably come when I've experienced a surplus of death and am practiced at how to approach the grieving. Until then I'm comfortable ... nay, happy that my brain and tongue are at a loss for words in such situations. Consoling Olof's newly widowed mother, I had a clear sight of the casket as I struggled with small talk. All I wanted to say was I'm sorry and cry, but the small talk continued to trickle out. Running into Olof's sister after twenty years was pleasant. Mostly because with her small talk would not do. She wasn't devoid of social grace, but she was true to her feelings when she proclaimed, through a endless supply of tears, that she wanted her father back.