Pet Dad Dilemma

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This past summer, Kate and I took Andrew to the vet, fully expecting to be coming home with an empty carrier. He wasn’t eating or grooming or doing anything other than curling up in the cave underneath the scratching post. He’s eighteen years old, and he has either pancreatitis or pancreatic cancer—this was inevitable. But rather than do something final, the vet prescribed a new painkiller and appetite stimulant sent us home to give him one more chance to pull through. Some time to say goodbye. It only took a day for him to return to his old self.  

Six months later, he’s doing great, but he is definitely old. During his last appointment, the vet told us that we didn’t need to bring him in ever again, that the next time he sees a doctor will be the last time. Which begs the question, how will I know it’s time? I’ve asked this question of a lot of people, and the consistent answer is, he’ll tell me. But will I listen? 

Here’s the problem: he’s pretty achy. You can tell by how slow he moves and the position of his tail. My attempts to increase his painkiller dose any farther than it already is have turned him into a sleep zombie, so I’ve scaled it back. But, even though he seems to be feeling some pain, he’s pretty active. He helps me cook, and he follows me from room to room. He’s cuddly, he’s playful, he’s grooming himself nicely, and he’s so hungry. When I look at him, I don’t see a cat who’s ready to retire. Am I just seeing what I want to see? Has he been signaling that it’s time to go, and I’ve been missing it because I desperately don’t want him to go? I mean, he’s literally been with me a third of my life, and I can’t imagine living in this little condo without him.  

I do understand that Andrew has lived a long life full of love, comfort, and adventure. It’s not him who will be missing out when he retires. I know that. 

So which is it? Is he hanging around because he wants to? Because he wants to sniff a few more things, sleep on a few more laps before it’s time? Or am I being selfish and not letting him go? I don’t know, and I don’t know how I’ll ever know. What I do know is that he’s my friend, and I want what’s best for him, and I hope to figure out what that is soon. 

Na-na na-na na-na na-na!

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I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t stand Batman. I realize this puts me at odds with most of the geeks out there, but I can’t keep this to myself anymore. And don’t get me wrong, I loved the Adam West series, The Dark Knight, the Tim Burton movies, and the animated series from the nineties, but the character himself, particularly in the comics and the DC Animated Movies, is a truly terrible character, and he’s most of what drove me away from DC Comics.  

It comes down to the fans, who say that Batman is more realistic and relatable than the other superheroes because he doesn’t have powers. Really. Batman is a billionaire so wealthy that he can siphon money out of his publicly traded company to buy tanks and submarines, and the IRS and his shareholders don’t notice. And let’s consider this: Batman is a master of martial arts, all disciplines, something you’d have to train for every day, all day, for your whole life to be. But he doesn’t have all day because he’s also a genius engineer who designs and builds all of his gadgets and vehicles for every occasion, sometimes even thinking them up and constructing them mid-fight. He’s an expert crime-scene investigator (so that means a solid understanding of chemistry and physics, just to start), as well as a doctor who performs expert autopsies. He’s also a master of linguistics. All without going to college. It’s said that, with thirty minutes preparation, Batman could defeat Galactus (for those not in the know, Galactus is a hundred-foot giant who eats planets), and I don’t doubt that Batman, as characterized in the comics, could. 

So I need someone to tell me who they’re hanging out with that this is relatable and realistic. When I hear douchebag fanboys complaining about how Rey from Star Wars is a Mary Sue, I roll my eyes, knowing with reasonable certainty that these same fanboys worship the ground Batman walks on, despite the fact that he is the ultimate Mary Sue. Batman is never wrong. Batman doesn’t make mistakes. Batman never loses a fight. Batman attracts the hottest women. Batman has the fierce, undying loyalty of everyone around him despite the fact that he treats them like garbage.  

Is Batman cool? I guess. Is he badass? Most definitely. Is he relatable? Realistic?  

As for me, I like my heroes to make mistakes. I like to watch them get their asses kicked. That way when they get back up or they make the right decision, it’s a triumph. I like my heroes with a little meat on their bones, not a two-dimensional wish-fulfillment fantasy. I want a hero I can relate to, and Batman’s not it. 

Bookmaking

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In March of 2017, I started to write again, ending a two-year drought. I wrote stories to submit to magazines and anthologies, and I wrote stories for the writing contest I love to play in. When I got booted from the contest, and when I got tired of rejection letters, I came to a crossroads. I was finding that I really love to write, but I couldn’t just write for no reason, I needed a goal. I needed a story idea. And so, a year ago, I decided I was going to write a novel. I didn’t know what it was going to be about or what was going to happen in it, but I figured I’d work through that as it became necessary. 

Four months later, I found myself at another crossroads. I was almost done with my novel, and I really loved the act of writing. What should I do? It turned out I should write the sequel. And again, three months later. And so, as of this writing, I’ve got four completed novels, and I’m well into my fifth. 

They’re not very good. I don’t mean that the writing’s bad or that I’m a bad writer in general (I happen to think I’m pretty good at it), but writing my way, i.e. not knowing how a chapter is going to end when I start it, has been described in every article, blog, and podcast as the wrong way to write a novel. I don’t really do recognizable character arcs—my main character does the thing because it’s the right thing, and she’s the most qualified to do it, and she doesn’t really change. I simply think of something that fits the characters and situations and might present a challenge, and I run with it.  

Also, I have too much dialogue. Every editor I’ve ever encountered has told me I write too much dialogue. So fuck those guys, I’m writing for me. 

I’m considering publishing on Amazon, but that’s a lot of work for what will ultimately be very little reward. And I’m utterly incapable of promoting myself, so that’s something I need to figure out before I take that leap. 

So, long story short, if you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to, it’s been me and my fountain pens living in an urban fantasy world with spirits-demons and fairies and gods and the corporation that secretly controls the country. Who knows, maybe you’ll get to see it someday. 

Drinking Deep Thoughts

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I’d promised Kate that I’d stop drinking after I fell to the ground and couldn’t get back up. It wasn’t the first time I’d fallen like that, but we wanted it to be the last. I told her I’d cool it for a while. 

“Not good enough,” she said. “Stop completely for a month.” 

So I stopped drinking. Around her.  

A man who takes a nighttime trip to the grocery store, picks up a four-pack of tiny wine bottles, takes a long detour home, stops in a park where he can drink them safely, and disposes of the evidence with a trash bag and a bottle of mouthwash seems like someone with a problem, right? 

I didn’t put it together. I mean, it’s not like I had to drink every day. Still, sneaking took effort, and so, when my wife had to leave town for work, I had a chance to kick back with a bottle of wine slowly over the weekend. 

I wheeled my grocery cart through the garish greeting card aisle, through the fog of freshly baked bread, and through the corridor of fermented grapes. There was Germany and Italy and Argentina and South Africa and—it was definitely time for some Australia.  

Within two steps after removing the bottle from the shelf, I froze. “No,” I said, every part of me in complete agreement.  

I returned the bottle and left it behind. 

I don’t remember the last drink I took, but I remember the first one I didn’t. 

That was ten years ago, exactly. I haven’t had a drink since. Do I miss it? Yeah, I do. There are days when a glass of wine would really hit the spot. But I can’t. I’m not reliable when it comes to alcohol. Some people just aren’t. It’s not fair, but it’s the way it is.  

In the meantime, I will enjoy my iced tea or soda or (my latest passion) lemonade. It’s not much of a substitute, but it’ll do.  

A Turd in the Hand

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I didn’t know the dog poop was on my shoe until I pulled it off and got it all over my hand. People not cleaning up after their dogs is something that gets discussed a lot at condo board meetings, but no one seems to have any solutions. I say if you see someone not cleaning up after their dogs, you should shoot them with a paintball gun, because Jesus, how freaking hard is it to pick up crap with a plastic bag, when the condo freaking provides plastic bags? 

This has really ruined my morning. 

The Pen Is Mighty

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On my birthday, I woke up and biked eight miles to a cafe a few towns over that I love. I ordered a latte and some chocolate cake, because it’s my birthday and I want cake. I get my latte and my cake, settle into a table, and get to work updating my journal.  

That’s when the guy shows up. He’s an older man, mid-fifties, in sandals and socks, and he is fascinated by my pens. I can’t blame him. They’re a set of twenty-five felt tip pens that run the spectrum from shades of brown and green to shades of red and orange (including black and gray). The man likes office supplies, and so do I, so we bond over that. He concludes by handing me a card and telling me he owns and operates a “Global cannabis business.” Then he goes to the restroom, which is right behind me.  

I put his card in my bag and go back to journaling. 

A few minutes later he sits down at my table and asks me what my passions are. I tell him. He asks what the thing I’d like to accomplish the most is (getting a lot of people to read my writing). He says, “You and your wife should come by my place this weekend. We’ll talk. I could get you those readers.” I say thanks. He tells me about the three Cs of his life: Christ, Cannabis, and Capitalism. But especially cannabis. And he tells me why. Eventually he leaves.  

I didn’t go to his place. I wonder if I’m going to see him again at that cafe. I wonder if he’ll remember me. He’ll definitely remember my pens. 

The Song Remains the Same

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The music at work is … inoffensive. It’s shopping music, it has to be. But it can be grating when you have to listen to it over and over. And through it all there’s one song I hate. It’s not the worst one we play, but something about it sends chills down my spine from the opening words. I didn’t even know what it was called until recently, with the help of my friend.  

I mention it because I’ve gone five shifts in a row without hearing it. I’ve heard the other annoying songs, but not this one. Does this mean it’s been taken out of rotation? Is my nightmare finally over? Only time will tell. This is not to say I’m free of the thing—I still get it stuck in my head at random. But it’s something. 

Year in Review

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My one-year review at work was earlier this month, and it could have gone worse. Basically my biggest area that needs improvement is “Teamwork,” and it needs it bad. I was told that to improve myself here I need to socialize more. I said I’d try, and I’ve made several attempts, but I am so lost. How am I supposed to talk to these people? What am I supposed to say? Do I have anything in common with them? How would I even know?  

This didn’t used to be so hard. I mean, I’ve always been shy, but I’ve always been able to fake it. Now I don’t even know how to hold a conversation.  

My first assignment from my supervisor was to learn three things about a coworker and report back to him. I learned four things. It’s a start. 

Tough Call

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One of the biggest rules at work is that the managers don’t want to see any phones on the sales floor. No problem, I just shut mine down and drop it in my pocket. And that’s worked out for me just fine. 

Except for that one time I didn’t turn it off. 

And so, in the middle of a transaction and in a long line at the cash register, the sound of a dog barking, i.e. my ringtone, came bursting out of my pants. I tried to ignore it. 

My customer raised her head like a cat hearing a can opener and asked, “Did you hear that?” 

And the phone kept barking, because the caller wasn’t going to accept me not picking up. 

“It sounds like a dog,” she said.  

I couldn’t switch it off, nor could I turn it off afterward, because “No phones on the floor.” So I spent the rest of the day in fear that this person would call back.  

But I never left my phone on again. 

Shifting Duties

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There are three major jobs for people with my skill level at work: Register, Maintenance, and Sales, which I am good at, okay at, and terrible at, respectively. This is because Register is really straightforward, Maintenance lacks structure, and Sales involves approaching shoppers out of the blue and convincing them to buy stuff.  

Almost every one of my shifts is on the Register, which is safe, because I know it and can handle it, even on the worst day, and it’s the one place I’m comfortable making small talk.  

However, I’ve noticed a new trend lately. I’ve been getting a lot more Sales and Maintenance shifts. And on top of that, I’ve frequently been pulled off the register and flung out onto the floor to help customers or to make the store look pretty. I’m picturing the managers gathered around, working on ways to get me out of my comfort zone. Kate says I’m being paranoid. 

And then one day a manager came to me and said, “You’re doing a better job at approaching customers on the sales floor. We were all talking about it at the meeting.” 

See!? See? 

One of the bits of jargon that is used at work is that, when it comes to bad sales figures, bad enrollment for our customer appreciation program, or even a messy store, these things aren’t called problems—they’re called opportunities. It gives us a chance to sell more, or to step up our sign-up pitch, or to make the place sparkle. And so, in this vein, I’m not being treated badly by being pulled away from the thing I know, but I’m being given an opportunity.  

I just wish it wasn’t so daunting.