Some the smallish ankle-hugging kind. Some long enough to reach the knees. Some with holes. Different brands and sizes. Nearly all white.
My wife is a trooper. She sorts them – the ones that have pairs – and bundles the likely mates together. She hates it, so I volunteer to help on occasion. I hate it worse, though she claims that’s quite impossible. Every load of laundry has socks in it. And since there is not much room left in the drawers, they all go in the big laundry basket sitting by the shoe basket near the front door.
And every morning it’s the same worn and weary refrain . . .
“Mom! I can’t find any socks!”
Thus, as dubbed by She Who Must Be Obeyed, it has become the “MOOOOOM! I can’t find my (muttered under breath through clenched teeth) damn socks!” basket. Or, when she’s really grumpy, the “MOOOOOM! These-socks-don’t-fit-anymore-so-I’m-throwing-them-on-the-floor-beside-the-basket!” basket. These castaways end up . . . ? You guessed it. Back in the laundry, where they’ll be washed yet again and put back in the basket. As the world turns . . .
You’d think, after all these years, we’d put our heads together and come up with a solution. Anything would be better than this most annoying and predictable of morning rituals, scrambling for socks while trying to finish breakfast, catch the end of Curious George, and make it to the bus stop. You’d think . . .
But the other night, in a rare moment of melancholy, in, of all places, the middle of the Housewares department at Wal-Mart, with so many viable options for ending the monotony stacked upon the shelves, my wife observed . . .
“Ya know? In a few years, we’ll miss that . . .”
Tru dat.
One day, there will be no morning routine. At least not one involving frantic kids and piles and piles of socks.
So, in the basket the socks will stay.
But I’m wondering . . . perhaps, just to make it more fun . . . I might have to buy a green pair . . .
Because it’s T-shirt Friday at the Gimcrack Hospital, and because my wee one is so darn cute, I offer you this . . .
I sat down this afternoon to write a post titled “Dinner with Nietzsche”. I planned on weaving philosophy and wit into a humorous tale about my attempt to convince my daughters to finish their parmesan rice last night for dinner by reading to them from Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. “When you’re done eating, I’ll quit reading!” I told them, and then droned on and on over their deafening squeals of protest. It would have been a great post . . .
But I decided to clear out my Reader first.
Courtesy of derfina, I learned of a fellow blogger named Lisa who is in the final hours of a long battle with cancer.
I don’t know this woman. And, unfortunately, unless something truly miraculous happens, I’ll never have the chance to interact with her, to exchange emails with her or read any new updates about her life, about motherhood, about being a survivor.
And she’ll never be a Tweaker. I’ll never see her name pop up in my comments, offering her own unique hue of wisdom and compassion.
Though told by the author of the most recent post that Lisa is heavily sedated and will probably never get to read the comments left by her readers, I left one anyway . . .
I am new here. Never read this blog before. But a fellow blogger mentioned this situation today, and I wanted to drop in and leave a note. She’ll never see it, but that’s ok; it’s not for her. It’s for all of you, the ones who have taken the time to show that you care by being here for her, our fellow blogger.
This is the soul of what we do. For some, it’s about numbers. A paycheck. A zillion hits. But for others, it’s about the friends we make and the impact we have on one another. During the times when I’ve been down, and posted about it, it never fails that someone leaves a comment and lifts me up. I cherish the thoughts, the words, the wind it all puts in my sails.
This is why we are here. And why I keep doing it.
Peace to you, the friend I never met. Your star is shining, and we’ll keep it alive . . .
You, dear Tweaker, are cherished more than I’ll ever be able to completely articulate. In so many ways, small and large, you move me. I write for me, share it with my little corner of Blogland, and you swing by on your way to wherever for a quick chat. To say hello. To encourage me. To set me straight. To interact. And for each of you – even the ones who never say anything at all – I am grateful. You probably get sick of hearing me say it. But I mean it. Every time . . .
I bet you nearly passed out when you saw a new post from His Cheekiness pop up in your reader.
“Holy crap!” you cried, blinking your eyes, or perhaps rubbing them with your balled up hands, for surely you thought they were playing tricks on you.
(Me? I’m trying to figure out why Word keeps wanting me to change your to you’re in that last sentence. I want to scream, “I know what I’m doing, you persnickety piece of crap! I’m an ENGLISH MAJOR, for chrissake! [right click, Ignore Once] “Take THAT!!”)
Anyway . . .
Here I am!
With a list!
And pictures!
So “reach up there and pull those seats belts tight on more time!”
(Some people really hate that line . . . but, HEY! ‘Tis the season . . . and it’s MY blog, dammit . . . )
HOW TO ENJOY YOUR LAYOFF WITHOUT REALLY TRYING
1. Dance with the One Who Brung Ya
Especially if it’s your eight-year-old daughter and the event is the annual Girl Scout Father Daughter Dance.
This will, of course, require a trip to Kohl’s for a shirt and tie that matches the cute little purple dress she thinks she wants to wear. But when you can’t really find anything that looks swell next to that particular shade of purple, and she grows weary of telling you “Just pick one already!” you’ll have to go to Plan B and look for a new dress. This will probably take TWO HOURS or so, and will place you in the uncomfortable position of having to ask a complete stranger, the uppity woman who keeps looking at you funny, “Does this look alright? Is it cute? Too provocative? Will it be warm enough? Am I bothering you?”
Eventually, some frazzled-sounding lady will announce over the PA that the store will be closing in twenty minutes . . . so hurry the f*** up! Yeah YOU!! In the girl’s department!!! Harassing the other customers!!!! Pick something and GET the HELL OUTTA HERE!!!!!” You’ll swear to the gods that you will never take your daughter shopping by yourself again . . .
. . . even as you pat yourself on the back for picking such a cute outfit. You’ll dance the night away with the most beautiful girl in the place . . .
. . . doing the Chicken Dance, or The Locomotion, and YMCA (twice!). You’ll watch her and smile as she does The Limbo Rock . . .
. . . and then, even though she’s getting too big for it, you’ll pick her up and do one last slow dance . . .
. . . fighting back tears, choking on the lump in your throat. You’ll be amazed at how quickly it all goes by . . .
2. Go on a Double Date
There’s no better opportunity for this than Valentine’s Day. And there’s no one cooler to ask along, besides your wife, than your fifteen-year-old son and his girlfriend. It’s your chance to teach him how to properly take a girl out and make her feel special.
First, make a quick stop at Wal-Mart for a last-minute bouquet of flowers and box of chocolates; it’s all fresh, for the most part, and clearance-priced to move quickly! And while you’re there, be sure he gets a new belt, since he probably lost the one he had and keeps hiking his pants up. That just looks silly!
Then, after another quick stop, this time at Guitar Center for a new strap for his acoustic and some new strings, make your way carefully along the busiest street in town to the mall. There you’ll find Red Robin, his favorite restaurant. They don’t take reservations, so you’ll only have to wait about thirty minutes. You’ll pull him aside and tell him that’s plenty of time for them to sit in the crowded entryway, hold hands, and stare deeply into one another’s eyes. Whisper sweet-nothings while they wait. He’ll look at you weird.
And, since there’s a Barnes & Noble right around the corner, you can sneak away while they’re not looking and buy a book, just in case things get boring. Your wife will roll her eyes at how predictable you are.
Once you’ve got a table, order a round of Bottomless Freckled Lemonades and the Towering Onion Rings. Be sure they say cheese . . .
. . . especially when you convince them to sit for some professional portraits at The Picture People. Tell them, in your best calm yet demanding tone, “I’m paying for all this, dammit, so you’ll smile when I say smile!” They’ll probably think you’re crazy, beg to be let loose to run around the mall and shop at the cool stores like Hot Topic, but they will say cheese . . .
. . . and you’ll buy an 8×10 of that one because, well, it’s just so darn awesome. Even they’ll agree that they look really good. And then they’ll disappear until closing time. You’ll hold your wife’s hand and not tell her that you feel really old.
For a nightcap dessert, you’ll swing by DeBrand for some real chocolate . . .
. . . because your wife will kill you if she doesn’t get some real chocolate . . . NOW! . . . and then try not to stare into the rearview mirror too much as you take your son’s girlfriend back home. You’ll fight the urge to tap your wife’s shoulder and give her the wink-and-nod. You’ll know you done good when you find out the next day that she told her mom she felt like she was walking on clouds all night long. You still got it, big guy . . .
3. Attend a Sporting Event
Fret not that you live in a smallish Midwest town where there are no big-time franchises. Instead, content yourself with a evening watching the NBA D-league Mad Ants! Your nine-year-old son’s Cub Scout pack will decide to attend Scout Night, where he and his fellow Tigers, Wolves, Bears and Webelos will get to take the court and give the up-and-coming players high-fives . . .
. . . and then suffer through a night filled with bobbled passes, poorly-timed alley-oops, and lopsided final scores . . .
But who cares! He’ll learn about setting picks, stuff his face with overpriced nachos and pizza, ooh and ahh and OUCH! his way through a disturbing halftime show . . .
. . . spend a few hours banging thunder sticks with a good friend. . .
. . . and make some new ones.
The Madam Ants, they are called, and he’ll swear you made him pose for this one. But he’d be lying!
4. Remodel Something
Since you’re laid off, you’ll probably find that you suddenly have way too much time on your hands. And your home office? That little corner of the world you call yours, even though you share it with your wife? And the kids? And the dogs? That crowded, high-traffic cubicle where you make the blog magic happen? Yeah. It’s become way too cramped. So you might decide that your wife can have the entire room to herself . . .
She can scrapbook in peace! Have room to stretch out! Watch Grey’s Anatomy without your witty commentary!
Meanwhile, you can buy some new bookshelves . . .
. . . lug everything upstairs to that side of the large master bedroom that never gets used, buy some paint, and create your own space . . .
. . . where people still won’t leave you alone. But you won’t complain . . . too much. You’ll enjoy the room to move, and the fact that all of your books now have homes on shelves instead of in boxes stacked in the corner. You might find that you’ve become so organized that the only thing left to do is . . .
5. Hug Your Wife . . . Often.
. . . because she is your bestest buddy ever, and puts up with all your crazy shit. She eats the cookies you bake with your daughter . . .
. . . and believes in you no matter how whacky you are. If your wife is like mine, she makes living fun. And, despite all the lemons, there’s no drink sweeter than that . . .
After holing himself up in his room for most of the evening, my son Beefcake, age 9, came down and excitedly shared his latest creation with me. This is the same Beefcake who cries at movies with his dear old dad. Who is the star of so many cool memories. My sweet little boy who plays basketball every Saturday morning, smiling at the fun of it all, staring down the referees with his steely gaze . . .
. . . and now he writes graphic novels. And I do mean graphic. He provided the narration, as recorded . . .
One of my favorite novels is Andre Dubus III’s House of Sand and Fog. It is an unsettling portrait of the clash between exuberant expectations and catastrophic outcomes. Where what one initially determines to be a boon instead opens doors behind which ultimately lurk unending conflict and soul-shattering despondency. Toward the end of the novel, as the story tumbles toward its denouement, lies one beautifully written yet startling sentence . . .
And once again, while Bahman and my wife and children wait in the Mercedes, its trunk full of luggage for a weekend at the Caspian Sea, I am inside our empty home for something I had forgotten, my briefcase or perhaps a favorite pair of shoes, a last-minute call to Mehrabad, all these things that must occur before we can take our safar together, our long happy journey, these last-moment details that can be trusted only to a father and husband, my hands over Nadi’s nose and mouth and eyes, this discipline to stand firmly in the face of her struggling, her gasping and twisting and kicking.
In those 107 words resides a timeline bookended by feelings of hope for the future . . . in one case alive and attended to, in the other cast aside, shrouded in a fog of despair and madness.
Without the dramatization and details, the story of Colonel Massoud Amir Behrani could easily be that of Karthik Rajaram, a 45-year-old financial manager living in an upscale neighborhood near Porter Ranch, California. Faced with financial troubles deemed insurmountable, he bought a gun, drafted two suicide notes, and then in early October of last year murdered his wife, mother-in-law, and three sons before turning the gun on himself. He left behind a Suburban, a Lexus SUV, and the morning paper.
Paint the same portrait with a slightly more dramatic brush, in hues tainted by scandal, and you get the story of Ervin Lupoe, a Wilmington, California radiology technician and father of five who killed his entire family on the evening of January 16, 2009. He left behind a grieving sister unable to reconcile memories of her loving brother with images of a killer.
Add some bitterly cold Midwestern air, a considerably more peaceful façade with nary a hint of incriminating detail, and a backdrop of domestic upheaval, and you get the story of 51-year-old Mark Meeks of Whitehall, Ohio, a service advisor for a Honda dealership, who, after killing his wife and two children, sent an email with the subject line “Life” to his father-in-law and then took the time to shovel the snow from the driveway in front of his modest, ranch-style home before going back inside and killing himself. He left behind baffled relatives with a slew of questions, no real answers, and wounded hearts.
Experts call is familicide, and say it is extremely rare. In an NPR interview, Dr. Louis Schlesinger, professor of forensic psychology at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York, says familicide, or family mass murder, occurs when a “despondent male figure,” a “rigid . . . depressed” man, gets a fixed idea in his mind that the only way to protect one’s family from an impending disaster is to remove them from the scene. “They kill the victims in order to protect them,” he says, and they are riddled with ambivalence, often admitting before the incident to homicidal feelings, a sign that “they want to be stopped from doing it.” Dr. Schlesinger agrees that financial or domestic upheaval can prod men toward unhealthy fixations and may ultimately trigger desperate actions, and he urges health care professionals to be on the lookout for signs of depression, to not take lightly any homicidal notions in depressed patients, and to be diligent in probing those in their care who show even a hint of an aggressive tendency.
The sad truth is that many men who experience depression will not realize it or seek treatment even if they suspect it. Instead of recognizing the signs of depressive behavior, we guys brush it off as a blue period that will pass.
Or we become stuck.
The extremes of life have a way of tricking us guys. We dwell on moments of joy and peace and contrast them with present debilitating circumstances. We trace the path that led from one to the other and question every decision. Every misstep. We realize that we are to blame, and that our families are the victims of our wrongdoing.
As a result, some men do unimaginable things.
This path, from what once was, or what might have been, to what now is, is a familiar one to me. I’ve skipped merrily along amidst the open and sunny meadows only to later find myself wallowing in the ruts of doubt and second guessing, with no welcoming hand to help me stand up and brush myself clean. Even worse, and perhaps more telling; I have fashioned my own pitfalls and then cursed myself for stumbling.
And yet I’ve never known the extremes others have. I’ve never been wealthy. Never travelled to exotic places. Never tromped through Disney Land. And I’ve never had anyone threaten to take my children away. Never felt the sting of betrayal at the hands of a spouse. To the more affluent or adventurous observer, my pendulum probably appears quite stationary. Too safe. Boring.
Perhaps so. But just maybe that’s what makes me different from men Karthik Rajaram, Ervin Lupoe, and Mark Meeks. Not better than them. Just different. And perhaps that’s why I can weather this road and not become fixated on doing something as desperate and final as murdering my family.
Or myself. I contemplated the possibility once. I came upon a moment in time that seemed too extreme to handle. The thought dawned brightly and burned its way through a haze of tears. For about ten seconds, I felt the world would be a better place without me, that my wife and children would be better off if I were wrapped around a tree. Yet I kept driving. Kept steering when the road demanded it and I arrived home safely. I spoke of it with my wife and we held each other. I made promises. The kind one intends to keep . . .
What’s gotten me all worked up about this stuff?
Tonight at 10:00pm, I will join the ranks of the unemployed. Laid off again. An extreme of the shitty kind. I saw it coming a couple of weeks ago; such is the nature of the field in which I am employed and the times in which we live. But things being as they are upon this road, I’d rather it happen now than later. We will make it through. It won’t be easy. My pendulum will surely sway a bit too close for comfort to the downside of life. But I’ll be clinging to my family. Holding them close and doing what needs to be done to see that pendulum begin its descend back to the middle. And perhaps the momentum will set it on a course toward better times.
Whatever comes, we will be here. Alive. Looking for hope in the smallest of things . . .
Not choice, but habit rules the unreflective herd.
Only when the sense of the pain of others begins does man begin.
To live exhilaratingly in and for the moment is deadly serious work, fun of the most exhausting sort.
Hope is necessary in every condition. The miseries of poverty, sickness, of captivity, would, without this comfort, be insupportable.
