Pushing 40. Unemployed.
Again.
When is it too late to try and follow a dream? Is it ridiculous of me to consider taking a chance on something new now? Start a business? No money to start one. Move away and find something new? Maybe 15 years ago, before the kids came along. Get a degree? Let me count the reasons that isn't feasible...
I have all the time in the world, but no time at all. Starting over isn't what I'm supposed to be doing at this point. Worrying about feeding my kids isn't supposed to be an issue at this point. What the hell happened? Where did everything go wrong? Where do I go from here?
I could start writing music again, hope to sell a song or two. I could finish one of my 20 year old screenplays, hope to find an indie producer who thinks it's worthy of something. I could buckle down and turn this blog into something, see if there's enough interest in my incessant blathering to make a little revenue that way. Start my own record label, write a novel, record the next huge wedding song, figure out how to become the next Youtube sensation...
Most likely I'll end up answering phones again. Or tending bar. Or cutting keys down at the hardware store.
Or selling flowers under an overpass.
All the while telling my kids to never give up on their dreams...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four?
I love my family. Really, I do. But if my parents get to be ninety something and falling apart, I do hope one of my brothers steps up.
My great uncle just turned 92 on Saturday. About a month ago, he wrapped his car around a tree. In the last year, he's probably been in 3 or 4 accidents. He can only see out of one eye, can't hear even with his hearing aids in, suffice to say my mother has written the DMV to ask that they NOT EVER reissue him a license. He's a hoarder, as well. The first week he was home from the hospital this go 'round, he fell twice. Once it took him almost two hours to get up, and the next time he would have been there for days if my mother hadn't happened to stop by and check on him.
My grandmother (this uncle's sister) lived just around the corner from us, three houses away. Before she passed, the house was sold to my mother and my uncle (Mom's brother.) I lived there for awhile shortly before and after I was first married, then we moved out when my estranged aunt moved in. This past October my uncle passed, leaving the house solely in my mother's name, its only occupant being my estranged aunt. Being a 1958 cookie-cutter ranch, there are no stairs or even steps to deal with. My folks decided to move my great uncle there for a while, so they can get his house cleaned up enough it's not a hazard to him or any other living thing. He fought almost kicking and screaming. He didn't need to move there. He was perfectly capable of driving, as soon as the insurance paid him he was going to get another car. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He wasn't about to become anybody's burden.
Next Monday will be two weeks since he's been there. Upon relenting, his one request was that he could come over to our house for dinner every night, so he could have "at least one decent meal a day." Every night now, ten minutes before we eat, my father drives over, three houses down, and picks him up for dinner. It takes that long for him to get from the house to the car, into and, momentarily, out of the car, and into our house.
Yes, I live with my parents. No, it's not by choice, it's not a lifestyle decision, it's not something I'm proud of.
At all.
But that's a story for another day.
I don't generally eat with my folks. I get my food and retreat to my bedroom where it kinda seems like I actually have my own space. When my kids visit, though, dinner is a family sit-down deal. As it should be. Except now I have to sit next to my uncle. Some teeth are missing. When he sits, or stands up, there is inevitably a symphony of wind breakage. First row, in front of the speaker stack levels. He wears Depends. He can't hear. He's the only one in the room oblivious to the aural mayhem. Every move his out-of-warranty body makes is accompanied by a low, guttural groan. When he chews, his mouth doesn't seem to be able to close... making the slobbery lip smacking all the more curious. Milk is slurped, as is the post meal cup o' joe. He reaches across the table and stabs a roll with his fork, rather than asking someone to pass him one. His scent is less than pleasant. I've been surprised I'm able to finish most meals thus far. Noisy eaters absolutely nauseate me. No exaggeration. Combine all of the above, my children should be looking upon me as a god after each meal kept within the confines of my belly.
He was a great guy as I was growing up. The uncle that read EVERYTHING. Therefore he KNEW everything. He lives on a lake, so we were always over there fishing or ice skating or whatever there was to do each season. A lifelong bachelor. We have our theories about that, but he's not gay. Every time he came over to visit, my brothers and I each got a box of Cracker Jack. Back when the prizes inside were actually cool. Every birthday, Christmas and Easter there was $10 in the card, along with whatever gift he was giving. Nowadays it's $25, mainly because he's old and doesn't even attempt to do anything exorbitant with his gifts anymore. He was on a submarine crew during WWII. Afterwards, spent the rest of his working days on a printing press at a major newspaper. A helluva guy any which way you look at it.
Now he's a decrepit old man, slowly losing his memory along with what little hearing and vision he has left. He falls asleep in whatever chair he might be sitting in, irregardless of the time of day.
And he nauseates me.
It only nauseates me more that I have to admit that of myself.
And I wonder if one of my kids, or nephews, or anyone who loves me at that point in my life will be jotting down similar thoughts...
My great uncle just turned 92 on Saturday. About a month ago, he wrapped his car around a tree. In the last year, he's probably been in 3 or 4 accidents. He can only see out of one eye, can't hear even with his hearing aids in, suffice to say my mother has written the DMV to ask that they NOT EVER reissue him a license. He's a hoarder, as well. The first week he was home from the hospital this go 'round, he fell twice. Once it took him almost two hours to get up, and the next time he would have been there for days if my mother hadn't happened to stop by and check on him.
My grandmother (this uncle's sister) lived just around the corner from us, three houses away. Before she passed, the house was sold to my mother and my uncle (Mom's brother.) I lived there for awhile shortly before and after I was first married, then we moved out when my estranged aunt moved in. This past October my uncle passed, leaving the house solely in my mother's name, its only occupant being my estranged aunt. Being a 1958 cookie-cutter ranch, there are no stairs or even steps to deal with. My folks decided to move my great uncle there for a while, so they can get his house cleaned up enough it's not a hazard to him or any other living thing. He fought almost kicking and screaming. He didn't need to move there. He was perfectly capable of driving, as soon as the insurance paid him he was going to get another car. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He wasn't about to become anybody's burden.
Next Monday will be two weeks since he's been there. Upon relenting, his one request was that he could come over to our house for dinner every night, so he could have "at least one decent meal a day." Every night now, ten minutes before we eat, my father drives over, three houses down, and picks him up for dinner. It takes that long for him to get from the house to the car, into and, momentarily, out of the car, and into our house.
Yes, I live with my parents. No, it's not by choice, it's not a lifestyle decision, it's not something I'm proud of.
At all.
But that's a story for another day.
I don't generally eat with my folks. I get my food and retreat to my bedroom where it kinda seems like I actually have my own space. When my kids visit, though, dinner is a family sit-down deal. As it should be. Except now I have to sit next to my uncle. Some teeth are missing. When he sits, or stands up, there is inevitably a symphony of wind breakage. First row, in front of the speaker stack levels. He wears Depends. He can't hear. He's the only one in the room oblivious to the aural mayhem. Every move his out-of-warranty body makes is accompanied by a low, guttural groan. When he chews, his mouth doesn't seem to be able to close... making the slobbery lip smacking all the more curious. Milk is slurped, as is the post meal cup o' joe. He reaches across the table and stabs a roll with his fork, rather than asking someone to pass him one. His scent is less than pleasant. I've been surprised I'm able to finish most meals thus far. Noisy eaters absolutely nauseate me. No exaggeration. Combine all of the above, my children should be looking upon me as a god after each meal kept within the confines of my belly.
He was a great guy as I was growing up. The uncle that read EVERYTHING. Therefore he KNEW everything. He lives on a lake, so we were always over there fishing or ice skating or whatever there was to do each season. A lifelong bachelor. We have our theories about that, but he's not gay. Every time he came over to visit, my brothers and I each got a box of Cracker Jack. Back when the prizes inside were actually cool. Every birthday, Christmas and Easter there was $10 in the card, along with whatever gift he was giving. Nowadays it's $25, mainly because he's old and doesn't even attempt to do anything exorbitant with his gifts anymore. He was on a submarine crew during WWII. Afterwards, spent the rest of his working days on a printing press at a major newspaper. A helluva guy any which way you look at it.
Now he's a decrepit old man, slowly losing his memory along with what little hearing and vision he has left. He falls asleep in whatever chair he might be sitting in, irregardless of the time of day.
And he nauseates me.
It only nauseates me more that I have to admit that of myself.
And I wonder if one of my kids, or nephews, or anyone who loves me at that point in my life will be jotting down similar thoughts...
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Midnight on the water, I saw the ocean's daughter...
Have you ever met someone that you just couldn't stop thinking about? Wouldn't stop thinking about? Someone you feel like you've known for a lifetime, but maybe it's only been a month, or a week, or a day?
You wonder if you even ever cross her mind without you reminding her you're alive. You want to skip your usual "good morning" to find out how long it takes for her to say it first, to say anything first, but you don't want to find out that she might not say anything... so you say it anyway.
When you're together, you hang on every word that comes out of her mouth, drinking it in like wine from the Grail no matter how small the talk... because you don't want to miss even the smallest thing that might mean something.
When you close your eyes all you see are hers.
At dinner, as her leg bounces under the table, you wonder if she's just fidgety. Or wishes she was somewhere else.
Or is just as nervous as you are... and for all the same reasons.
You want to let her know how you feel. Need to. But you're scared to death it will scare her off.
You get sick to your stomach at the thought, even though you don't even know quite what it is yet, or what it could eventually be.
All you know is that you really want to find out.
Even though you have similar personalities, a similar sense of humor, like-minded thoughts and opinions... you're still on your best behavior. Not because you might be afraid of offending her, but because she deserves that of you.
You're happier than you've been in ages. Ambitions and motivations are rejuvenated, you want to be a better you than you are.
You've never been so scared in your life, and you're not even to a point where that would seem at least somewhat rational.
You don't know what you're feeling or why, just that it's good... and if you are just tilting windmills you don't want to know even one second before you're supposed to.
Despite steeling yourself as best you can against it, the thought still creeps in that she'll realize she can do so much better than you. You almost talk yourself out of it before anything has a chance...
Like usual.
But you don't.
Well, have you?
You wonder if you even ever cross her mind without you reminding her you're alive. You want to skip your usual "good morning" to find out how long it takes for her to say it first, to say anything first, but you don't want to find out that she might not say anything... so you say it anyway.
When you're together, you hang on every word that comes out of her mouth, drinking it in like wine from the Grail no matter how small the talk... because you don't want to miss even the smallest thing that might mean something.
When you close your eyes all you see are hers.
At dinner, as her leg bounces under the table, you wonder if she's just fidgety. Or wishes she was somewhere else.
Or is just as nervous as you are... and for all the same reasons.
You want to let her know how you feel. Need to. But you're scared to death it will scare her off.
You get sick to your stomach at the thought, even though you don't even know quite what it is yet, or what it could eventually be.
All you know is that you really want to find out.
Even though you have similar personalities, a similar sense of humor, like-minded thoughts and opinions... you're still on your best behavior. Not because you might be afraid of offending her, but because she deserves that of you.
You're happier than you've been in ages. Ambitions and motivations are rejuvenated, you want to be a better you than you are.
You've never been so scared in your life, and you're not even to a point where that would seem at least somewhat rational.
You don't know what you're feeling or why, just that it's good... and if you are just tilting windmills you don't want to know even one second before you're supposed to.
Despite steeling yourself as best you can against it, the thought still creeps in that she'll realize she can do so much better than you. You almost talk yourself out of it before anything has a chance...
Like usual.
But you don't.
Well, have you?
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