Ghosts of Careers Past

My daughter had her sixth-grade band concert tonight. I always find these a little difficult. My various joint issues make sitting through the thirty minute segments incredibly uncomfortable, and tonight's unadvertised twenty-minute awards presentation during the second half made the evening downright excruciating. Although my daughter's band wins top awards in the competitions in which they participate, I have tremendous difficulty getting my wife to understand that my East Coast high school band was truly world class, far away and above, beyond the talents of the haggard music programs of the Midwest. Add to that my formal education and years of training as a professional musician, and I cannot adapt to finding the sounds of a middle school band 'good,' regardless of their abilities juxtaposed against their collective age.

Every time I attend one of these concerts, the shadows of that career past waft forward and torment me. I wish I could say they were good memories, although they're far from bad. I wish I could look back in nostalgic bliss, but I'm always overwhelmed by guilt and regret. I had a monastic dedication to my music. I began playing when I was eight, making a small degree of yearly earnings by playing in professional orchestras by the time I was twelve. I continued my training, earning a ranking of number one on my instrument in my home state by the time I was a senior in high school. I earned a Bachelor of Music in Theory and Composition with High Honor from Michigan State University, as well as a Master of Music in Applied Music from the same institution. I was invited to partake a Fulbright Scholarship to do primary graduate research in Europe. I had a solid, notable reputation across the state. My skills were formidable and phenomenal, if I do say so myself. And then it all went away.

There was no one simple reason, no grand tragedy, no nefarious conspiracy that led to the end of my career. I performed in C-level orchestras throughout the state, and virtually all of them were financially troubled. One orchestra in particular, by the time I had come to resign, was taking three to five months to pay us for concert cycles (i.e., I was paid for the Christmas concert cycle around Easter). One of my orchestras felt that my fledgling family (back in the day when I had one child) was a hindrance and nuisance to my participation. But, perhaps the biggest cause of the end of my career was sheer boredom, or laziness as the perception may fall. My formal education was superb in that I was exposed to all the major repertoire before I began my graduate studies, and therein lay the poison; I was tired of playing the things I would be playing ad infinitum for the rest of my career. There were some opportunities that sported growth from my orchestras, such as a church choir directorship, and the possibility of entering into the labor relations field through an attempt to unionize one of the more financially beleaguered organizations, but pride and arrogance blinded me to these chances to remain in the field.

I don't miss the rehearsals, the temperamental conductors, the in-fighting and politics. I miss the respect, authority, and power I once held. I miss that, once upon a time, I was a professional with which to be reckoned. Snippets of opportunities creep forward now and then, such as the offer to compose a piece for an East Coast girls' choir to commemorate their anniversary, but it's hard to shift gears so drastically, and there is something tainted about wielding one's art to another's fancy. I've been trying to schedule a discussion with a past composition professor, thus far to no avail. However, with the school year just recently ended, perhaps I can finally ply his ear.

Three Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

The tide's come in and gone out, the storms rolled, fists thrown and rebounded, and still we remain.

The reinforcing struts my wife and I added to bolster our marriage were recently threatened, much by my own carelessness, much by the escalated behavior of my oldest son.

Just this past weekend, his emotional issues and stubbornness crested, resulting in an altercation with the White Trash Witch's son (much exaggerated by that whining brat), further damage to his siblings' property and our home (a broken screen door added to the recently kicked-out front window), and increased insults thrown at my wife and myself. After he stormed into the house, having re-exited several times on his sister's bike, or in order to kick it from the front porch down to the sidewalk, I asked my wife what she wanted done with him. She unleashed her words and imagination in one torrent, causing him to take flight again. He eventually returned, refusing to go to his room. He grabbed an empty plastic bottle and hurled it at my head; I reflexively kicked the chair in front of my towards his legs, briefly pinning him against the wall. I again ordered him to his room, and he again refused. It should be noted at this point that, in over a year of family therapy caused by and geared towards my oldest son's disciplinary issues and disobedience, no therapist, official, or authority has been able to offer any advice or guidance as to how to handle the recurring situation of his abject refusal to comply with the wishes and directives of his mother and myself. Having witnessed first-hand the fierce non involvement of the police when he shattered the front window, I had no confidence in either their judgement or competence were they to be summoned if I laid a finger on him. Nonetheless, at my wits end and with no other alternatives, I firmly gripped his shoulders to move him upstairs to his room.

He took his first swing and barely glanced my shoulder, the blow intended for my face. I lost my composure, my clarity, my control. I was on autopilot, and fixated on attacking the foe at hand, my oldest son. My swing made its target, landing square on his face just to the left of his nose. He swung again, hitting my left upper arm. I took his head down in a choke hold with my left arm, thrusting uppercuts into the crook of my elbow with my right. As my wife and her friend tried to separate us, my wife taking a few hits to the arm from one or the other of us, he twisted his face around, planting his teeth against the crook of my elbow, preparing to bite. All I felt was the light graze of his teeth against my skin, and reflex took over again; I pummeled the back of his head three times, then smacked him square in the face three times. The fight ended with his bellowed wish for my death, accentuated by his plans as to how to achieve it.

My wife wants me to get anger management therapy, and I've agreed, but things are rarely as simple as that. Therapy for me does not address my son's very real issues. In the past year, any time I've 'let up' on my son, he's leaped forward to cover that gap with aggression. He seems to be convinced of his own superiority despite the complete nonexistence of any shred of fact or fancy to make such superiority even conceivable. He wants to be a robotics engineer, yet refuses to work on his math or science skills in school. He insists on help with every homework assignment without attempting it on his own first. Beyond his issues, are the issues that have cropped up between my wife and I, some being revisited. She promised me equal time with her friends, yet has let our involvement dwindle and her exploits with them maximize. She will go through several consecutive days off from work without washing a single dish, while I can go for three or more days on overnights and have to wash a week's worth of dishes at the end of it. I'm willing to do my part to improve situations, but solving 'me' will not correct 'all.'

My wife and I have new wedding bands on layaway. We had been making progress with our date nights. I still love my son, but I will not let him tear asunder everything that I and we have been working to build and repair. There are new bright suns on the horizon, in the form of a training program and attached job in computer programming with Jackson National Life Insurance that pays in excess of 200% of what I'm making in the retail/convenience store industry. I have been through too much and struggled for too hard and too long to throw that all away. The entire family could benefit so much from this opportunity, but we all benefit only if we all stay together.

I have my own concerns about anger management therapy. I investigated it in the past, when a misunderstanding with an aging customer service representative at a previous job led to an employer mandate to seek therapy. I can't sit for a glorified meditation program; my temple offers that twice a week for free. As well, I will not drug myself to make his misbehavior acceptable. There is much to sort out, and it all must be equitable.

Taking the Bad with the Good

Reconciliation has been achieved; the wife and I are functional again! I don't have any magic formulas or breakthroughs to share, though; our reconciliation is the result of a lot more selflessness, a lot more relaxing of stances, and a lot more of each of us listening to the other. We're working through our mutual difficulties rather than assigning blame, rediscovering what we want out of the relationship, and opening up to the other more so than to friends and confidants.

Just this past Sunday we hosted several of her friends at our place until rather early Monday morning for an impromptu tattoo party, something of an icebreaker for me to be introduced to her Detroit friends and a kickoff to my vacation from work. We're having a few people over again tomorrow for a little more of the same, but beginning a little earlier in the afternoon.

Probably the best indicator of the improved status of our relationship is the fact that we've put new wedding bands on layaway. She agreed a few days ago to our beginning to wear them again, but discovered within minutes of returning hers to her hand that she's developed a gold allergy, causing small sores to break out on her ring finger wherever the gold made contact. Thus, she's placed a clearance silver engagement band and I a titanium band on layaway, mainly only to wait out the resizing of her ring. Despite the differing materials, they make quite a good match.

The vacation was simply to prevent my 'going postal' at work, and it couldn't have come too soon. Just before it began, a shift manager who has some unknown personal beef against me performed a store walk-through that essentially trashed and discredited any work I had done on the overnight shift. I refused to stay longer than ten minutes to help correct what I know damn well did not need correcting, shoving past her at the time clock to end my shift and leave without a word. I know she made a formal complaint of her walk-through, and I made it adequately well-known before my vacation began that I was not backing down from my position; I've left worse shifts for other shift managers, and inherited worse shifts without complaint--my function is not to ensure that the management that follows me does not have anything to do but take numerous smoking breaks and drink coffee. I return to work in three days, though it is with even less commitment than I've had before. During my break, I've applied to several positions in companies outside the retail industry; it's definitely time to make my break and end this extended temporary transition, although I am still going to try to transfer to the main office in an administrative capacity.

The biggest family hurdle at present is my oldest son's behaviour, or rather the lack of such. Two days ago he achieved his fourth suspension of the current school year, this one for ten days for fighting, which will consume the majority of time left for this school year. He celebrating by picking a fighting with his sister and I after he got off the bus, realized he bit off more than he could chew, and kicked out the largest window in our living room. He ran from the house as I called the police, who were extra helpful as they stood there impotent, explaining that, since this is his residence and it's like he's only destroying his own property, they wouldn't even fill out an incident report on this call. My wife and I are discussing sending him to her mother in Kentucky for an extremely extended respite. Thus far he thinks it's for summer vacation; he's in for quite a shock when he realizes that, not only is he there for the better part of a year or more, Kentucky observes year-round school, in which he'll be enrolled rather quickly. It may be the only thing that enables him to pass the seventh grade, given his disregard and sloth.

We are making progress, despite his lack of same. Much as it may be regrettable that we must consider shipping him off, I have not only my own well being, but that of my wife and two other children to consider. If he doesn't wish to be part of this family, so much the better his removal.

Always Look On The Bright Side

The answer was in front of me all along. Or, at least, part of the answer. Less is more. The key was not to pour on the pressure, but to back off, to ease up, and let things happen.

Several days ago, prior to her most recent road trip to Detroit, as well as during, via text message, I told her flat out why it bothered me so much that she frequented the clubs and made these overnight visits, completely barring me from participation.

Several years ago, she made similar visits to various bars and clubs with her cousins. Now, her family never fully approved of me, and in turn, I can't really approve of them. My wife told me how she was the family lackey, how her mother had physically, emotionally, and psychologically abused her, how her older brother bullied her. Her family had some ill-conceived, laughable notion that their history of alcoholism, Neanderthal brutishness, physical competitiveness, and commonplace incest (no, not joking or exaggerating in the least) made them objects of nobility, demanding a 'kiss my ring' sort of admiration and fealty from anyone connected to the family. That was, until I came along. I made it clear to them, through word and deed, that they were not gaining a son, that I was liberating their daughter. I told her mother bluntly that the next time she rose her hand to her child, she'd end up staring at the bloody stump at the end of her arm. I let them know in no uncertain terms that they were living roof of Darwin's theories. Summarily, it became the mission of her cousins to split us up, by any means necessary.

They tried seducing me. The thought still brings on waves of nausea. Call me discriminating, call me aloof, call me an elitist, but I just get motivate myself to get turned on by stretch marks, flesh-pocking cellulite, and chronic STD's virulent enough to render the usual orifice for sexual congress a biohazzard posted by a detour sign to the 'back door.' That failing, miserably, they frequently invited my wife out to clubs, and every time, they had a would-be affair waiting for her, fully intending and even encouraging her to cheat. I'm grateful that she resisted, and thankful that she received no harm greater than a wandering grope, though even that is unforgivable. However, the effect on me, which I have only just begun to realize with her current clubbing, was to grow to distrust anyone with whom she had social interactions outside my view. While I am making efforts to be more trusting, it comes with great difficulty. I trust her; I'm confident enough of where I am now that I can declare that to myself without the air of trying to convince myself. Those with whom she socializes, however, I do not trust. So many so close to her have disrespected and ignored our marriage vow that the probability of anyone else doing so is to prevalent. It doesn't help that she's hanging out with men, albeit gay men. She continually tells me that they're not interested in her, or any woman for that matter. I argue back that, so long as they still have penises, there is that remote chance that they'll want to experience how the other half lives.

And though it was a far more difficult discussion, we did talk about my concern that she might want to see how the other half lives. At first, predictably, she was offended, but I held my ground and explained to her that my suspicions were not the result of anything unrequited or of mere spite, but the result of months of her hiding plans and behaviour from me. She said she couldn't believe I had asked her that, and I told her that I couldn't believe that she had gone to such great efforts to keep everything from me that I was forced to wonder and worry.

These discussions, these confessions were the small incidents that began the turning of the tide.

A few days ago, just as I was ending my shift, I sent her a love-letter I had composed on my cell-phone in a series of saved text messages. When I got home, without provocation or a single word, she sat closely next to me on the loveseat. It may seem so insignificant an act to so many, something trivial and not worth remark, but after months during which she strove to avoid any discernible physical contact with me, that position she took next to me spoke volumes. My pulse quickened, my chest became tight, and for once it wasn't some middle-aged health crisis; it felt good and right. I gently rubbed the curve of her hip, and she didn't flinch away.

Two days later, following an overnight shift and a morning pre-surgical radiological scan, we walked our youngest to school together. Half way back, on a whim, I grazed her fingers with mine; we held hands the remainder of the way back. We then sat on the loveseat again, talking for an hour and a half before I had to turn in and sleep for my next overnight.

Late last night, as we moved during sleep, the covers slipped off both of us. I awoke to find her lying naked next to me, still half-covered by the blankets. I caressed her bare back; she didn't flinch. I kissed her, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back; gentle shifting, but no flinch. We made love, fully, arduously, with passion and avarice. We held each other throughout the rest of the night.

As ecstatic as I am that we have progressed this far, I am no fool. A night of fantastic passion, no matter how wonderful, no matter how mutually approached, does not heal the rifts that have led to the past several months of hurt and accusation. We still plan on scheduling marriage therapy, once schedules and finances can be appropriately coordinated. To assume this was our solution, our fix, would put us back on the same road again, but months and months further back. We're in this for good, forever, not just the satisfaction of the here and now.

I'm unaccustomed to having things to which to look forward, to anticipate. Hope is fleeting, but it's here, available for the taking. I'm going to take my fill, hold it close, and work towards a better and healthier marriage, for both our sakes.

A Trip To My Own Personal Asylum

Things become curiouser and curiouser.

Things are progressing with my hyperparathyroidism. I've had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, a charming Englishman with whom its a genuine delight to work. I've done the blood work and the 24-hour urine collection, and am now waiting on the radiology department of the local hospital to contact me for my appointment. The lab results are far more difficult for me to interpret, so I may be forced to wait until my follow-up appointment in roughly two weeks to see what they really mean.

Unfortunately, another aspect of my conditions that advances is the mental distress. A common accompanying diagnosis for parathyroid and thyroid conditions is chronic depression, which, in my case, is most certainly complicated by my continuing marital difficulties. I find myself running a greater gamut of potential neuroses as time progresses; in the past week, I've tracked my wife on Facebook, convinced she was having an affair one day, manically overjoyed with how well we're doing the next, in the grips of anxiety and anger on another, and so on and so forth. I do not doubt for a moment that I need help, and that speaking to a professional therapist would help, but I remain concerned about starting any deeply invasive psychiatric procedures if the source of my mental issues are solely physiological. Even the best and most respected of psychotherapists would agree that if my depression and other issues stems from my hyperparathyroidism, a sort of neuro-metabolic issue, antidepressants and other psychotropic medication would have no effect, its best intentions being metabolized away by my condition before any benefit could be realized. It is also fair to surmise, along the lines of my endocrinologist's suspicions, that if my hyperparathyroidism is primary, then it is also congenital and began taking effect on me some seventeen years ago, predating my earliest diagnosis of depression. Granted, most of my concern and fear generates from ethnic sources; the Pennsylvania Dutch trust psychiatrists and psychologists even less than they do physicians. However, I still feel my concerns are legitimate and not the mere musings of hypochondria.

In an effort to apply a practical solution, I've arranged for myself a sort of pre-emptive convalescence; I've submitted a vacation request at work and have already had it approved. I've taken off the week beginning with Mother's Day, following through to the following Saturday. I may even have the option of having off the Thursday through Saturday preceding and the Sunday through Tuesday following, if I appease the boss enough and display just enough carefully-crafted and politically correct mental hardship need. My vacation destination? My easy chair and the coffee-table/ottoman in front of it. This isn't a 'get real excited and go out and do things' type of vacation; this is a 'Christ I need some time to myself before I go postal and kill everyone around me' type of vacation. I might contact my temple and see if they're sponsoring or even permitting retreats at this time of year, maybe head to the lobby of the local library for an entire day to just read and have a tech-free day. At the very least, I hope to have a successful date or two with my wife, perhaps overcome her sexual barrier. No definite plans yet.

I realize that of late, these entries have become far too diary-like, and should anyone actually be reading these 'pages,' I apologize. I write primarily for myself as release, but any writer compelled to set word to page or screen secretly or publicly desires and audience. There is no falsehood intended by the description of the blog; there are rants and conundrums and diatribes and opinion-editorials a-plenty to be had. I just need to unpack the personal effects first. Patience, door reader. I will strive to make it worth your while.

Customer Service, NOT Servitude!

What's happened to the very concept of customer service? Doesn't anyone take pride in providing excellent service while selling their products anymore? It's an old weary complaint those of us in customer service here on a tediously regular basis, and on occasion, make ourselves of those who have the nerve to either pretend to be of our calling or to ignore that component of their own trade. We are an under-appreciated horde of professionals, often overrun with the uncaring, unskilled, and under-intelligent, treated like human offal be the even less caring, far more unskilled, and those of sub-mammalian intelligence. Yet, the high and mighty would be crippled and fallow were they to locate products and secure services for themselves in the many of our venues into which they strut, paper tigers that they are.

It is, perhaps, ironic, or tempting fate, to be writing online while a make the following assessment, yet I firmly believe it was the dubious advent of this technological age which rendered my profession so disrespected and moot. To paraphrase "Devil's Advocate," once the entire world was fiber-optically connected, every minuscule neuron coddled, coaxed, and teased to climax, every minute synapse treated as some magnum opus, the proverbial fifteen minutes of fame were insufficient, and every being barely capable of uttering cohesive syllables aspired to titanic fame and power. Add to that the more recent phenomenon of the rebirth of the rebel popularity of the criminal, specifically the 'gangsta,' which glorifies great wealth had by little labor and in defiance of anything legal and acceptable by traditional social standards, and the result is a disdain for those who serve others without avarice and in legal capacities.

Of late, we are expected by our cerebrally-challenged clientele to be able to read their minds based on semi-Neanderthal grunts or less. God knows how difficult it is to look up at the gasoline pump at which one has parked and decipher that peculiar symbol known in professional circles as an Arabic numeral, much less relay it to the person behind the counter in less than a simian utterance. I'm certain it is now commonplace and perfectly acceptable among the physically mobile, hearing, and sighted, to step no more than two paces into any store regardless of size, clarity of aisle labelling and clearance of passage, turn to the nearest associate, and bark out the name of a product or substance in thick colloquialism, expecting us to clearly interpret that as a call for help, not because the customer cannot find the product, but because it has come beneath them to do their own shopping. One of my recent customers who was absolutely incapable of communicating at which pump he had parked was my oldest son's middle school guidance counselor; what hope have we for the future when the supposedly stable past, propped up before our children as role models, behave as ignorami.

I need to escape this profession. As dire as the effect on my colleagues would be, we need to become a completely self-service society. I observe my oldest son, recognize the insurmountable sloth I see in him, that I despise in him, and realize that it isn't only current popular culture that promotes his indulgent laziness, it's my very profession. So long as there are individuals whose function it is to provide and retrieve, there isn't any motivation for the lazy and self-important to get off their asses and do a thing for themselves. It's time to return to the Darwinian ideal, to let those that cannot provide for themselves dwindle and die, absorbing themselves for sustenance until they're no more than empty husks. Without the proletarian, there is no bourgeois or patrician. Without the patrician and bourgeois, the proletarian survives.

Drudgery Continues

I would be extremely glad spring break were over tomorrow if it actually meant something to the management of this household.

My oldest son's principal graciously collected his homework for him and delivered it to my store. There was a further two day delay getting it to him, as the manila file folder full of homework was delivered into the hands of a coworker for whom it was far less than a priority to get it to me. My son had his back homework by this past Tuesday, then added his own personal delay, cracking it open today. Unfortunately, the bureaucratic powers that be have given him ample excuse for sloth; we have yet to receive an answer or clue as to when he might be able to return to school. So much for educating our youth being a priority.

My wife has been working extra shifts, but not as a reward for exemplary service. Her ultra-'butch' boss has called in every shift my wife would have had off, a trait shared with the 'butch' shift manager I must occasionally deal with at my store. One would think that assuming the masculine role might also include increased fortitude or constitution, or at least a staunch work ethic; no such luck. It appears the warrior women of the Lambda Society are susceptible to more disease and injury than the most ill-ridden premature infant. Nonetheless, her amended work schedule has permitted the two of us even less time to talk and work things through. Trouble is, I think that's much to her liking. I don't find it merely coincidental that she has rarely, if ever been alone for confidential discussions. Gives me a great deal of pause that she'll readily and willingly participate in any marital therapy.

It's been a true struggle to get the kids to help out with any housework beyond holding the furniture down while they watch cartoons or play Xbox. We've discussed having chore teams, and working on a chore chart, but they have a poor example blocking their way to seeing things as they should: the Live-In. It's both startling and disgusting how she considers financial contributions to household expenses to be her sole obligation to my wife and I. Granted, the money she has through her working-soldier husband has been extremely helpful, and she's always ready to chip in when money runs low, but that's precious little compensation when I get home from a 10 1/2 hour shift to find every dish we own either in the sink or mouldering on the stove top, her homework for her online classes incomplete and her corpulent mass testing the springs in our couch from a prone position. As well, it's not just issues with the children that are complicated by her slothful presence; it eats away at what little privacy my wife and I had in the first place, such that we have resorted to a spoken code and communicating through text messages when we're all in the same room, which, of course, is always.

There is some positive news from the past several days. Through some creative networking with local physicians and clergy, I've located a doctoral marriage therapy clinic at the local university that charges less than half the fee the previously least-expensive clinic does. The wife still thinks it's too expensive; I think she never thought I'd find anything at all and is running out of stall tactics. Regardless, she has agreed to attend the sessions I book for us. All that remains is calling for an appointment and coordinating our schedules. This also follows that most difficult of discussions, the "so, honey, you still AC or have you gone DC on me?" talk. She claims to still be straight, acted repulsed when I asked if she and her 'bff' were more than just 'bff's'. I still retain a shred of doubt; her level of objection and repulsion suggests the cloaking disgust of those not ready to leave the safety of the closet, and she is more attached to this friend than I believe she ever was to me.

Once these appointments are made, our financial and scheduling obligations will increase. It will be far more difficult to assume classes or even explore programs, but at this point, I'm willing to sacrifice a great deal to save our fourteen year investment in each other.

One Side or Another of the Forked-Tongue

She said that her best friend (notably not me) had an extremely trying day.  The friend had learned that both her grade-school best freind, with whom she's been having an affair, and her mother-in-law were diagnosed with cancer within a day of each other.  That should have been my first clue, the first warning bell.  My wife's discussed this friend often enough, made clear that her friend did not approve of her mother-in-law or her pathology for embezzling Girl Scout cookie money from her daughter, that concern over a diagnosis of cancer would bring such overwhelming and instant grief.  Nonetheless, I disregarded the bells and whistles and continued listeneing as she said that she was going to run to WalMart with this friend because she needed to talk.  That was 10:30pm.  By 2:45am I was quite certain that story was a ruse; boring as our town may be, only the truly brain-dead and desperate would subject themselves to the manufacturer-abusing bargain aisles of WalMart in excess of four hours.  Indeed, my suspicions were growing solid when I texted her around midnight to buy more coffee, replying that there was another can in the cupboard with far too many 'lol's' to be reasonable, it just wasn't that damn funny unless you were the party duping the inquirer.

I spoke with her breifly around six in the morning, after she had apparently been back for two hours, awakened by the cackle of the White Trash Witch from across the street; funny how everyone must tiptoe about for a three-mile radius when her precious bratty whelp decides to go to bed around two in the morning, but no such courtesy is paid for me eight feet from my bedroom in my own home.  She said she stayed out because she's frustrated and irritated with our live-in, the one she told no one about until she was but a few miles from the house, inbound from Tennessee for eight months.  No mention of WalMart, no acknowledging the lie she blanketed over her own children in order to stay out for six hours after work with minimal familial interference.  Clearly irritated that I had emerged to see what had kept her out all night.

It's the lying that really gets to me, and not regarding this particular incident only.  When it's just the two of us, she vents her frustration and extreme dislike of both the White Trash Witch and the live-in.  Can't stand either one of them, the inability and ineptitude of the Witch's child-rearing coupled with her forcing her faults upon everyone who comes in contact with her son, holding the public at large responsible for his ill-manners while also defying their analisys of his beavior, the immense sloth and unfit physical proportion of the live-in, too tired and fat to pitch in with household chores, too satiated on her soldier husband's take home twice a month to find work, to slovenly even to get the homework for her online classes comleted on time.  When together, however, their all the best of friends, even calls the live-in her sister.  Makes me wonder what she says about me behind my back and to whom.  The only thing certain right now is that when her lips move, she's lying.

I suppose that's why, deep down, I still suspect she's having an affair.  If she lies about virtually everything else, why should I grant her trust in this, despite her angry and sarcasm-laden objections?  She claims she's not having sex with anyone, and to an extent I believe her.  She's not having straight sex with anyone, for the signs would take too long to eradicate, and she's not that thorough with anything short of her preparations to go out to her various gay clubs.  I think there was far more than humor behind her 'sister's' birthday presents to her this year, an assortment of penis-themed drinking vessels and lolliops and an extensive collection of small-scale vibrators.  If there's anyone I suspect of now being her paramour, sex or no sex, it would be this best freind of hers.  To the casual observer, I'm certain it appears as though she is the spouse, and I just a dirty little secret of a cling-on from her straight past, or a meal-ticket, or sugar daddy, or something else insignificant and duped. 

Last night, while she was out, via text message, she agreed to go out and do something with me, only me.  Her response was brief and seemingly enthusiastic as well as insulting to my intelligence; does she truly forget that I showed her how to program her phone, that I would be dim enough not to recognize the canned response I had programmed for her?  I'm honestly not certain if I'm going to hold her to this commitment, or if I'm just going to disappear for a few hours.  I want to go out with my wife, but the person who now occupies half my bed is hardly my wife.  She claims her changes come from within, and perhaps I still believe that, but I can't help but wonder what might have been had she never met the flock of faggot freaks with whom she now spends the vast majority of her time.  Unfair as it might be, I hate them, not for what they imagine they are, but for the seeds of deceit they've planted in the woman I love, or loved.  Don't really know what it is anymore. 

Easter Weekend

It's been a strange and colorful weekend. Easter usually is for us. Not for any pageantry, not for the majesty and mystery of the Resurrection story, but for cultural and social clashes that surround these holidays, when the Christian and Christian-influenced portions of Western society try to impose their views of normalcy upon this Buddhist family.

I awoke relatively early on Saturday, considering it was a day off and that I would be working the 6:00am shift on Easter Sunday. Around 10:30am, there came a knock on the door, which was preceded by some milling about of persons unknown on my porch. I opened the door, and what to my bleary eyes should appear? Jehovah's Witnesses, two of them, and Black at that! Now this my seem as mere bigotry to the casual outside observer, but it remains a startling religious evangelical phenomenon to my Pennsylvania Dutch-raised East coast eyes. Black Jehovah's Witnesses? Do the Baptists know you escaped their clutches? Are you sure you aren't from one of those fringe, nondenominational Black congregations that speak of proper dress codes and conduct for men and women that are such the rage among local Blacks? I peered nervously around the corner for a contingency of Asian Jews or Hasidic Hare Krshnas.

The first group (yes, I said first) followed a routine script, telling me that the Watchtower spoke all about the most important figure in history, and who did I think that was? "Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ," said I, and their eyes gleamed and softened, "who got most of his ideas and spiritual practices from the Buddha." Their smiles faded somewhat. "Who?" asked the smaller, rounder, more motherly of the two. "Lord Siddhattha Gotama, who gave up his throne to become a mendicant, found spiritual enlightenment, and taught the path to enlightenment to others. He became a buddha, and due to his teachings, is today known as the Buddha." It was almost disheartening to see the fight fade slightly in their eyes. "I'm really not sure what you mean," she continued, dismayed. "Jesus based most of his teachings on sayings of the Buddha, and most of his miracles are abilities the Buddha displayed due to advanced practice in meditation, most notably walking on water and the story of the loaves and fishes." "Well," she continued, bracing herself and returning to the script, offering me a copy of the Watchtower and asking if we could go over it on a future visit. I took it, saying "Perhaps."

That visit prompted some prone shouts from the bedroom, my wife wanting to know who was bothering us while she didn't bother to rise or dress. I told her not to worry about it, since she didn't have to deal with them. Things calmed back down, the kids returned to their cartoons, my wife returned to her obliviousness. Forty-five minutes later, a second knock on the door.

I opened the door again to find two more Black women, somewhat taller, more slender, but still in the uniform dark-colored, big-hatted finery found among the evangelicals who interrupt their Easter festivities to do their Lord's work. These two, I'm certain, had communicated with the first group who reported unsuccessful conversions. This group spoke along the lines of how hard people are working now, and whether or not they were working too hard, and how this paralleled some of the end-time prophecies of Revelations. I was offered a second, different copy of the Watchtower, asked if I would genuinely go through it (which I will, eventually), and asked if we could discuss my findings on a future visit. I again said maybe, as I worked a rotation of all three shifts, which of course, drew them right back in to endorse their reading materials further.

Again, the caterwauling from the bedroom, but this time she had managed to get up and wrap a blanket around herself so that she could spy on them from a parted curtain at the living room window. I reminded her again, that despite her objections and offense at their arrival, she didn't have to deal with them.

Evangelism in any form is difficult for me to deal with. It's one of the reasons I left the Christian church some twelve years ago, but far from the only reason. I understand the philosophy that some avoid conversion to one faith or another simply for lack of hearing that faith's message, but still find it offensive. In this age of technological advancement and wonder, can it any longer truly be said that every message is not inherently heard, is not available to be found by any curious enough? I greatly respect and honor the teachings of Christ, but cannot get around the people spewing them with ample drippings of self-righteousness and assumed superiority. This so-called master of the Universe certainly doesn't exhibit any self-respect when choosing his earthly PR team. I left Christianity because of the pettiness and ignorant fumblings of His followers when they so ineptly execute and misinterpret his words, but I wasn't content to merely run from something. I had to have a purpose, a goal, something to run towards. I began a search for a faith or system of beliefs that did not advocate eternal damnation for non-believers, did not shun those who chose to leave that particular flock, and , if possible, in the name of which no violence or war had ever been waged. I found Buddhism.

We are a religion for lack of any better term. It is a life path, a collection of teachings that, if followed, offers one the most moral and peaceful of existences, even superior to that Christianity had offered. The Buddhist missions ended nearly three millenia ago, and were the mere spreading of the teaching and conversions of those who chose the path. There were no conversions by torture or threat, no killings, no violence at all. Buddhism acknowledges that it is not the only path to enlightenment, and does not in any way present itself as a path to absolution. We do, however, point out that ours is the only path to enlightenment in which one is free of obligation or bond to any god or clergy. We respect all other religions and philosophies, and will pass on the teachings to any who seek us out, but we do not intrude upon the traditions and beliefs of others.

I worked from 6:00am to 3:30pm on Easter Sunday. The shift itself was relatively uneventful, but still difficult as most of the customers wished us a Happy Easter, and I was genuinely struck for an appropriate response but to regurgitate the same. I had to deal with and hurriedly fill a call-out, resulting not so much from the claimed lack of childcare, but more likely from the advent of some social or family gathering in the name of the Holiday. It is also the burden, not only of retail but of non-Christianity, to keep the world spinning so that the 'blessed' can gather to be unproductive for a day of celebration.

A Retail Wage-Slave's Rant

My doctor's appointment didn't turn out so bad, actually had some mixed results. On the plus side, all talk of surgery has been put aside for the time being. My doctor pointed out one of the first things I learned about hyperparathyroidism, specificly the difference between primary and secondary hyperparathyroidism. The two are difficult to diagnose, so we're going to approach it from the secondary interpretation; I'm now taking heavy-strength prescription vitamin D supplement, which should, hopefully, correct my calcium level, which in turn, should lower my parathyroid hormone level. The minus side is that in the course of the examination, the doctor discovered a horrible case of veinous insufficiency in my left foot, the result of a deep vein thrombosis roughly three years ago. So, in additional to a referral to an endochrinologist and a vein specialist, I was prescribed medical support socks, knee-highs. I fully expected top find an AARP card in the mailbox when I returned home, complete with a complimentary truss.

My shifts at work over the past two days have been challenging at best. Something happens in the more guttural neighborhoods of this blighted city when the weather warms up. The furry vermin head indoors for room service, and the two-legged ones wander out to spread their filth and disease, in the process spilling those pesky brain-cells and their burdensome IQ points with every puff of reefer-laced cigarillo and regurgited malt liquor. I grow very tired frustrated with retail. It's not exactly the sort of job that requires a great deal of intelligence or skill, and thus garners precious little respect, especially in the convenience store industry, but oh, how bitchy and incompetent are the mighty and the miniscule when faced with the options of finding something on their own or fending for themselves. There was a time, some forty or fifty years ago, when customer service commanded a particular level of proletarian nobility, and a well-earned modicum of appreciation. Wearing a uniform wasn't laughable, playing Steppin Fetchit for meager pay wasn't castigated, and wasn't so meager, either. One could earn a liveable wage seeing to the demands and custom of the average bourgeois and lower. Until the questionable advent of the Technological Revolution, that is (and yes, I am keenly aware that this diatribe is delivered because of and courtesy of that very revolution). Within a pitifully short degree of time, customer service became confused with and overrun by the eroneous concept of customer servitude. Because we didn't ply the wares of the new technology on anything but a macroeconomic basis, we were determined to be below average, studpid, uneducated. We were assigned a quota for scorn to be received by the very bastards we serve. Those assumptions regarding our abilities, opportunities, and options rankle me daily. It is horribly difficult to tolerate the treatment receive from my clientel, spoken to as if I were an idiot by the flotsam and jetsom of society whom I could easily outhink and intellectually overwhelm, being requested to re-asess a receipt and make certain of my calculation by thugs that can't be troubled to, or are incapable of reading the simple Arabic numerals on our gasoline pumps.

Ours is an industry that discourages collective bargaining, advocacy for career-minded employees, fair treatment for our workers from both upper management and client alike. We have not yet adopted such lofty and modern concepts as the internal customer, evidenced by the harsh treatment we receive from our maintenance and retail supply departments, entities that wouldn't even have work were we not to exist. I do my best to compensate by backing up the associates under my purview, supporting them against the irate customer even when I feel, privately, that a particular policy or ordinance is being over-interpreted by the employee. The vast majority of customer still believe the falacy that 'the customer is always right.' That myth, that laughable rallying cry of the rude and ignorant still persists from an ancient time when there was no liability law, no government agencies and regulations regarding myriad aspects of sales and transactions, before products of particular qualities were restricted to purchase only by those who met stringent requirements. When a customer utters that foolish phrase, it can virtually be guaranteed that the employee is either being scammed or ask to disregard and violate a law, and suffer the consequences because of some 'honor-among-thieves' code under which they imagine we live, like troglodytes. Get used to it people, you must be over eighteen to purchase tobacco and lottery, and over twenty-one to purchase alcohol. Furthermore, if you don't appear to be exorbitantly over those respective ages, we are obliged to ask for proof, in the form of pictured identification from a recognised government body. We don't like it either, but not from the petty concerns of the inconvenienced consumer of those vices. Our burden isn't just not being able to drink or smoke; it's incarceration, conviction, long-term felony records from both state and federal charges, as well as loss of employment and virtual blackballing form an industry that, while we seek to escape it, provides us with a near constant demand for trained, expereinced employees.

Playing hardball with difficult customers is both the least favorable part of my job and, at times, the most rewarding. There's nothing quite like turning that sarcastic attitude back on its issuer with greater flair, greater skill, and the assurance of righteousness under the law as back-up. I have frequently and with glee refused sale to indiviuals who, although they may be well over the legal age for consumption of any restricted product, couldn't be bothered to renew their identification or driver's license with the state, quite often by as many as five years or more! I have absolutely zero tolerance fort someone who claims to be an adult yet exhibits the irresponsibility of their own children, or, often, grandchildren. And for those of you who like to whine, cry, and bitch that it's your right, your right to purchase tobacco or alcohol? Please point out the passage in the Constitution of the United States of America that secures unto you that right? Please, feign intelligence, maturity, and literacy, and point it out! I DARE you! Like it or not, WE are in control of that transaction, WE have final say, so if you want excellent customer service, cough up some damned CUSTOMER COURTESY!

Needless to say, I'm thrilled that I have tomorrow off. I need the rest, and wouldn't accept an additional shift if the call came. It's nearly 2:00am, but I've only been home for about two and a half hours, and still have a great deal of unwinding to do. My wife should be returning home from her road trip to Detroit within the next two hours, a growing and aggravating new tradition that's cropped up within the past several weeks. We have much to discuss, much to resolve, before I accept that marriage counselling isn't futile, that she hasn't turned from me completely and is engaging in mere humoring. I've set an arbitrary deadline of this coming Monday. Fact of the matter is, if she can't be troubled to find the time to give our marriage a little first aid in the entire weekend, then there isn't a marriage to save; it's been dead for some time, and I've been refusing to smell the rot.

Awkward Presentations

The scholarship presentation was far from what I expected. I had assumed it would be in the newest middle school in the district, which sports the largest and most technologically current auditorium in the surrounding three districts. Instead, it was held in the fieldhouse of possibly the most violent high school in the district. Safety wasn't a concern, however, as the primary sponsor and organizer of the scholarship program is the civic police department; you couldn't have found more cops at a supersized Dunkin' Donuts, including the current and formner chiefs of police. Much to our daughter's dismay, we insisted upon parental preview and approval of her wardrobe, a decision that proved pointless; the farmer's market/flea market/auto auction back home in the Pennsylvania Dutch country of Southeastern Pennsylvania had a slightly more tactful and tasteful dress code, namely torso/groin/foot coverings utilizing no less than one inch of thread and half a yard of cloth or cloth substitute. I became keenly aware that, if not for the children due merely to their age, the parents probably were intimately familiar with the inner workings of the police department, but along entirely different avenues. At least it was educational for my youngest son and daughter, as they were introduced to an entire palette of social values and behaviors, not the least of which was the clearly widespread belief that what one ethnic enclave would consider offensive if presented by another was perfectly acceptable when launched at other etnich enclaves offensively. I have never before so directly experienced such a phenomenon as the expression of ethnic pride in as base and primitive a manner imagineable, followed by a diligent brainstorming session designed to produce results meant to outdo one's neighbors in proving themselves to be the exception to Darwin's theories. It comes as no surprise that the global militant Islamic factions hate us so, but it is horrifying to realize how ripe and begging of annihilation so arrogant and boastful a nation of boors such as ours has become. We need not fear any enemy from without; the ignorance and greed that will eventually destroy us is homegrown.

A difficult discussion with my wife is looming. Almost a month ago she said she didn't really want to leave and end things, but that significant changes in both of our demeanors was required. In all that time, it feels as though she has become more secretive rather than open, more distant. We both have physiological issues to tackle, hyperparathyroidism for me, a long-neglected dental abcess for her, and those issues certainly are bound to interfere with any marital progress. Something else, though, is lurking just below the horizon. She's made certain lifestyle choices over the past four years, completely altered the nature of the company she keeps. Given her fascination with drag queens, I've been inclined in our most heated arguments to ask if she'd want me more if I wore a dress, though I've never actually stooped to saying such a thing. Lately, though, I've been inclined to ask if she'd want me more if I were a woman.

It's by no uncertain means a difficult topic to breech. I've envisioned and simulated a thousand different outcomes of this discussion, and none of them so far is what I would term as 'ideal.' If she has shifted her orientation, I might come off as hateful rather than hurt. If she hasn't, she might be offended by the implication, despite her championing the cause of gay rights. My biggest fear is that the discussion might bring too early and abrupt an end to our fourteen years of marriage, destroying anything we had built together in the better years, leaving no closure, only bitterness and resentment. I've yet to figure out how best to tell her that asking the question is the most painful thing I've ever considered in our relationship, but that not asking and merely wondering has been excruciating. I don't know how to effectively relate to her that I deserve to know, and that her lack of communication and continued isolation has left no firm ground for our relationship. I hate wondering, and I hate not knowing, and I hate questioning if not only her heart but her entire being and nature have turned from me.

She's all along stood firmly by the insistence that she isn't cheating on me, hasn't had sex with anyone else. I don't know at this point if she's capable of realizing that sex isn't required to make any other relationship an affair. All she has to do is give her heart completely to someone else, and I may already be too late.

Difficult Discussions

Had the discplinary readmittance meeting for my oldest son at the district's student services office today, accompanied by his family therapist. Went much as planned, except that there was no immediate resolution. The forces that be still have to question the other student involved in the altercation, then bounce the issue around the usual collection of administrators, most of whom are so distant from the parents, teachers, students, and certainly any given situation as to be dangerously irrelevant in their frequent misuse of power. It being but a few days before the start of spring break, he won't return to school for two weeks at best. The day drew to a close with a routinely scheduled parent-teacher conference for my youngest son, in which the remote possibility of retaining him in third grade for an additional year was raised, solely due to his comprehension abilities and a displayed difficulty with paying attention in class. Luckily, having displayed excellent work when he does focus, the common scholastic misdiagnosis of ADHD wasn't mentioned. Certainly made for a hard days for the boys. My daughter's biggest trial today was being snubbed by the welfare-leech babysitter's child after he asked her to play outside; he ran off to watch some questionable adult play with a remote control car out by the dumpsters behind his apartment complex. Pedophile bait, anyone?

My wife was approached by some fight-dog trainers this afternoon while she and our long-term temporary live-in walked our two Brazillian terriers. Of course, she only discovered that after she passed the odd couple's home, fended off some unusual propositions about selling the dog, and was then followed by one of them in his car for half a block. Just before she turned down another street, he offered her $100 per dog for both of them, letting it slip that they'd make great dog food for his extensive and visibly mauled collection of pit bulls. We decided that perhaps another walk down that street to get a house number might be a good idea, followed by a call to animal control.

One bright spot on the very near horizon is a scholarship-presentation ceremony tomorrow night for my oldest son and daughter. That is to say, they both have already received the scholarship, along with several other children throughout the distrtict, but only she will be able to attend with us from this household, as his continued suspension precludes his attending any function on any school district grounds. However, I'll delay any discussion of that event until tomorrow, rather than make whistful conjecture as to what might or might not happen.

The thing most on my mind for the last week or so, especially in the last two or three days, has been my doctor's appointment scheduled for this Thursday, in which we're to discuss the blood work results from my first appointment with him about three weeks ago. During that first appointment, actually my 'meet-and-greet' apointment with this newly re-discovered doctor (he saw my oldest as a newborn for a few months almost thirteen years ago), I mentioned to him that I was being tested and screened for multiple endochrine neoplasia, type 1 (MEN1) for the past three years. At the risk of waxing proverbially hypochondriac, MEN1 involves 'new growth' (neoplasia) in the major glands of the endochrine system, specifically the parathyroid, the pituitary, and the pancreas. I have already satisfied the first prerequisite for the condition, having had a confirmed diagnosis of hyperparathyroidism three years ago, and have shown scattered signs of the condition progressing. What alarmed me about the blood work results was the revelation of the degree of my hyperparathyroidism. Normal parathryroid hormone levels in the blood are roughly 6ppm to 11.7ppm; my level is 431ppm. The same blood work also revealed some advanced kidney damage, another trait of the progression of the illness.

I've never been one to give much thought to longevity, finding that such thoughts smack of arrogance or selfishness for reasons I don't fully understand. Neither have I ever given much thought to my own healthcare, having never had any dreadfully serious illness (apart from the high volume of kidney stones caused by the hyperparathyroidism) nor having ever had surgery more serious than the removal of my wisdom teeth. This is, frankly, frightening ground for me. Though I haven't received a definitive prognosis yet, I'm aware that my extremely high hormone levels point not to pharmacuetical solutions, but to surgery. Real surgery. Not the 'sit back and relax while I give you a local' surgery, not even the 'count backwards from ten and we'll see you in fifteen minutes' surgery. The 'in time, the scar across your neck might be slightly less jarring' surgery. There may be a laser option, but I have no real clue, despite a probably unwise level of internet research on the subject. I am greatly concerned that the procedure may damage the thyroid, causing wild fluctuations in my weight. I have no idea how long the recovery might take, nor if I will be dependent on synthetic parathyroid hormone after the procedure. Beyond these immediate concerns are the long-term concerns with MEN1. The final stage of MEN1 is pancreatic cancer; my father succumbed to lung cancer following a remission of prostate cancer in 2007, so the genetic predisposition for cancer exists. A high frequency and volume of kidney stones goes back in the men of my father's side of the family some fifty generations, which, I've been told, is a likely if not guaranteeing factor in the existence of congenital MEN1.

I have more to live for than my own indulgence. I have family depending on me. As difficult and near-impossible my marriage seems at times, as difficult as my relationship with my oldest son can be, what's to become of everyone else should something dire occur? And perhaps most troubling of all; if I receive that final, terminal diagnosis, should I continue to try and save my marriage, or set her completely free?

Counseling, Coupling Conundrum

We're getting ready to jump one of the primary hurdles presently in our marriage. We've resolved that we don't want to split up, but have also agreed that there isn't much hope of staying together successfully without professional help. So, towards the end of last week, I started making calls to various marriage counselors.

Thus far, we've only had one call back, from a therapist who operates out of my doctor's office, which is only a block and a half away. I spoke with the clinic director, and I like what I hear about their philosophy and approach. She assures me that my wife and I would remain in the same room together throughout our sessions, that there would be no individual therapy within the marriage therapy. This is a crucial issue for me; almost five years ago, we engaged in couples therapy with a state-funded clinic that performed in-home visits to perform the sessions. We were slated for twelve to fourteen sessions; my wife and I had one joint session, I had one privately with the counselor, and my wife and the counselor consumed the remainder of the sessions. Despite what my wife likes to argue, that was not marriage counseling, that was private therapy for her.

However, as every cloud has its silver lining as well as a potential to produce lightning and thunder, there is a hitch with this therapist. The clinic doesn't accept our insurance, which is designed more for critical mental illness treatment than for relationship counseling. Without insurance, the fees per session begin at $125 per hour, with a scale that can slide as low as $80 per hour. My wife balked at this outright, and even I have to admit this range definitely pushes the outer edge of our financial envelope. The even worse news is, as I learned doing some online research late last night, that the prices we were quoted were, on the average, at the lower end of the fees commonly charged for marriage counseling, even with insurance. I'm sincerely hoping that with a combination of negotiating with the clinic director for either a lower fee or biweekly sessions and continued discussion with my wife, we may reach a point at which we can all agree and begin mending things, preserving the past fourteen years rather than making it an ill-advised investment in time.

Sad to think that only the wealthy can afford to save or destroy a marriage. The poor must have perfect marriages, or none at all; therapy is only slightly less exorbitant than divorce.

I remain hopeful. There have been a few bright spots in the past several days. Having her 'sister' hear has caused her to turn to me as confidante and ally in our shared predicament. Just this morning, she lay quietly as a stroked her naked back, the peripheral curve of her naked breast. Not a single flinch as I kissed her back and cheek. Hopefully the time is near in which she'll return to fully accepting my touch. I'm amazed at my own patience, that I haven't exploded in this long drought of intimacy. Frustrated as I may become, as much as I know that I can thrive and survive without her, provide for my children, succeed within my career, I'm just not interested in accomplishing any of this without her.

And so I wait.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Rough week coming up. For reasons unknown, our store, which isn't staffed particularly heavy in either customer service representatives or management personnel, is loaning help out to other stores. While this creates a greater challenge for us on every shift to complete required tasks, it also creates the opportunity for overtime in one's home store, a rarity to be sure. Presently, I'm waiting to hear if I work on Tuesday or have the day off and am subsequently available for my oldest son's re-admittance meeting at Student Services. Roughly a week ago, he punched another kid in the face when that child insulted his mother. Noble sentiments, perhaps, but still poor decision making. We've tried to explain to him that the other kid's words hold power only if he allows them to, but he's headstrong and short-tempered. I certainly hope he's able to return, not only for the sake of his education, but for the sake of my sanity; if he stays home much longer, I may have to arrange for an abortion in the forty-fifth trimester.

On Wednesday, I have an appointment with my new doctor to go over some test results from my recent routine physical. Routine in name, anyway; the tests ran confirmed a past diagnosis of hyperparathyroidism and revealed its severity. I'm expecting the topic of surgery to come up during this appointment, and that makes me none too comfortable. Save for wisdom teeth extraction, I've managed to make it forty years without being cut open for anything, so I'm not anxious to start now. At the same time, I can't deny a strong urge to be rid of this condition. It was an eye-opener to me to see the long list of symptoms for hyperparathyroidism and realize how long I've been dealing with them. I was diagnosed with clinical depression around the time I began passing stones like a gravel quarry; that was a symptom. Moodiness, irritability, constant aches and pains, digestive distress, all symptoms. The real revealing aspect was the realization that virtually every one of my wife's complaints as pertains to marital strife was listed as a symptom of my condition. I'm eager to see how our relationship improves with this issue out of the way.

Wednesday night holds a little-found occasion in our household. My oldest son and my daughter will be receiving a Hope scholarship from the Lansing Police Department, which will pay for two years of community college anywhere in Michigan. I'm proud of them both, of course; I just wish they could be as proud of themselves. Nothing makes an impact on my son regarding his behavioural issues, and my daughter hides her head when the occasion is mentioned, as though it's something worthy of shame. My wife and I have asked her several times if she's being picked on at school for academic success--I remember starkly the hate-filled words and physical abuse I received for daring to succeed--but to date she claims that no one is bothering her.

Other things are in the works as well, and although won't be happening next week, the foundational work must begin soon. I've made contact with a couples counsellor located nearby. Although I'm hopeful regarding their philosophy and outlook, it's finances that have me concerned. They don't accept our insurance--Blue Cross Blue Shield doesn't cover couples therapy--and although they have a sliding scale, it doesn't slide quite far enough for my comfort. If I can convince them to allow us to have bi-weekly sessions, we may be able to swing the payments. I'd really refer that to looking from scratch for another therapist. Also, I've begun looking into accounting programs at local schools. While I'm still very much interested in forensic accounting, I've learned that the certificate for that program is a post-graduate program offered to established CPA's, indicating that I'd be better off attending the local community college and taking advantage of their program for holders of other degrees. That program teaches almost exclusively preparations for the CPA examination, skipping a great deal of general education, in acknowledgement of the fact that the participants already hold at least a bachelor's degree. Regardless, I still have to look into financial aid and scheduling. I just don't see myself the online class type; I think I'll be more comfortable going to a physical class.

Still have a few more hours on this day off, and then work two days of shorter, later shifts. Off to enjoy a pipe or beer, or maybe even a nap before the real world of dirty dishes and laundry comes knocking on my peace and quiet.

You've Got To Go Back To Go Forward

Been a quiet night so far. The odd and frequent shift changes at work are playing havoc on my sleep cycle, so even though I only worked a seven and a half hour shift, I feel extremely tired. Tomorrow promises to be no better, starting off with a 10:00am meeting at work which will probably last a little over an hour and a half; too early to clock in to run the second shift, too late to bother traveling all the way back home just to turn around and head in again. At least I can wear street clothes in and change into a one of several uniforms I keep in reserve at the store at a later time. The awkward part will be filling in the time between my shift and the meeting, the best prospect for doing so being a combination of window shopping at the nearby Rite-Aid and reading a book in the lobby of the hospital (my store, while selling food prepared on site, offers no public seating areas). If nothing else, I'll have plenty of time to ponder life situations.

I had never thought I'd be forty and considering returning to school. I've contemplate4d several career changes, as well as returning in some way to the music industry, but always thought and somewhat hoped that I had finished with formal schooling. Never had any dislikes about school; actually quite enjoyed it, showing an affinity for learning and admiring the empirical acquisition of knowledge for its own sake. However, I was always aware that, short of obtaining a position as a university professor or private school teacher, school and university was simply an avoidance of the real world and its associated responsibilities. Even now, some part of me feels that pursuing a fresh education while my oldest children are just beginning middle school is being selfish and doing them a disservice. But, reality is what it is. Everything in this brave new global and electronic society requires a degree, documentation, accreditation, which, subsequently, requires continued formal education.

For some time now, I've considered obtaining a degree in accountancy. Not exactly as adventuresome as law enforcement or social activism, not as brainless as the retail field in which I'm currently imprisoned, accounting presents two definite advantages for me: one, it concerns the cold logic of number as opposed to the whim of people (and is actually akin to my original possession, mathematics and music being opposite sides of the same numerical coin), and two, it's a field with continual and virtually unlimited demand, for there will always be people making money with no considerable ability to manage it, and there will always be taxes. To add a dash of adventure and social relevance, I've heard of a program available locally in forensic accounting, i.e., locating paper trails, discovering covertly diverted funds, off-shore accounts, and other law enforcement applications. I've always had a keen interest in the criminal-science shows like CSI, Criminal Minds, and the true crime stories found on cable television, but never fancied myself a policeman, or tolerating the steps to become one. I can, however, easily envision myself as a grindstone-nosed clerk, pecking away at the numbers and ciphers to reveal a criminal payroll. It's how they got Al Capone, after all.

So, it's time to tap away at the keys, locate some local programs, established the time-commitment required, and see if there's still any financial aid to be had, and take a chance at having a life again, one for myself this time. It's difficult to remember the last time I actually enjoyed what I did, rather than thinking that I preferred what I was doing to what I left that position to do currently. Time to find out if I can get three or four steps forward by taking a few steps backwards.

A Man's Work

A hell of a day.

The agitation started early, or relatively so. The cable guy came knocking on the door at about 11:30am, damned irregular for a Sunday and highly inconvenient. I had only dozed off a little after 4:00am, both from waiting for my wife to return from Detroit on an 'emergency' road trip (a drag queen and a post-operative now-male transgender breaking up warranted an intervention our own marriage, as of yet, has not), and from my readjustment to regular life after a week of third shift. Cable was a need for the live-in leech, something I'd honestly rather do without. The only change we need to make to the Springsteen song "57 Channels and Nothing On" is the number of channels, although I am grateful for again having Food Network and being able to watch PBS past midnight. The early disturbance already had the wife riled, and it didn't help that I had to put the excited dogs in the bedroom with her while the cable guy performed the installation.

So, with only a fitful seven and a half hours of sleep, I got up and dressed, continuing with the laundry I had been doing up until about 4:00am the night before. In less than an hour, the developmentally-arrested welfare brat from the apartments across the street had to come and check out the cable, even though I and every other able-bodied worker have already been providing him with top-notch high-definition cable funded by our involuntary payroll-deducted contributions to state and federal welfare programs. His mother thinks his toddler-level clinging and behavior is cute, and perhaps that fallacy helps her deal with the remorse resulting from the child's father choosing a high-paying sales career in Alaska over prolonged unwed white-trashery with her. My own son's friendship with this whelp troubles me to no end, and I still can't resolve if it serves to cloud his choices in the company he keeps, so much below his own age and abilities, or if it's a result of those poor choices. The brat's mother, of course, thinks me simply a harsh and overbearing father, that I and all the school officials that continually deride her for bringing up an intentionally mentally degenerated child must not know what we're thinking, that even my own daughter must be mistaken when she describes the imbecilic antics he practices in the classes they share. He skulked through our first floor like a frightened china rodent, only emitting sounds approaching confidence to make ridiculous and annoying shrieks and sound effects on top of the Xbox din coming from the dining room; my oldest son's greed and misbehavior cost all of us a degree of privacy, but he simply can't be trusted to share or remain civil in his own room.

I took a long walk to the closest convenience store branch of my employer to buy fresh light bulbs, still remarking humorously to myself that I should stagger their installation so that I'm not always replacing every bulb in the house at the same time. I used the walk to try and break in a pair of work shoes I had bought too hurriedly several months ago and still hadn't worn through a full shift; even on the walk, the four smaller toes of my right foot and my left ankle started to feel sore then numb up. By the time I got back, some forty minutes round trip, and that was while taking my time, entropy was in full swing; the Xbox blared as my three children and the imported brat challenged each other for who could say nothing the loudest, the live-in was working on the homework for her online class that was due three days ago, and my wife was wandering through the house texting and talking to various members of her flock of freaky faeries trying to patch up her star-crossed pair of social fringe misfits. Since it was now 4:00pm, I thought it was high time I had breakfast.

The food didn't do much for me. I returned to my housework, literally hiding in the basement, sitting on a chair that I had just reglued and clamped for the seventh time in a year. I wept, from sheer stress and the apparent display of my wife's priorities. She'd been making birthday celebration preparations for her side show for several days, making the absolute zero degree of time she spent even thinking about my own stand out like a broken and humming neon light. Her haste and concern in responding to their broken relationship highlighted the back-burner level of disregard with which she treated our own. All I'd wanted from her all weekend was just a few minutes of time to focus on us, and that was too much to ask. I still plan on calling marriage therapists in the morning, but I'm keeping my little directory of divorce lawyers close at hand. Before she left for her customary Sunday night bacchanal of alternative lifestyles, I reminded her that she might actually have to commit to making the therapy sessions instead of dropping everything for her estrogen-starved starlets.

I've got a little less than an hour before she returns home. Just enough time for another beer and a cherry-cavendish pipe. Time to light up and mellow out, the rant exhausted now. Still a hell of a day.

When It Rains, It Pours.

It's been a confusing two years at best.

Not too terribly long after the last post, my wife informed me that she wanted to separate. We had an argument in the morning, and by early afternoon, she headed towards a friend's apartment, determined to move the kids in with her. That same day, animal control showed up to investigate complaints from a particularly nosy neighbor that there were too many animals in the house, and most, if not all, were diseased. Angry as I may still be at the neighbor who was quick to point fingers and castigate rather than reach out and help, our mutual clinical depression and her fixation on taking in every stray she could find while disregarding the family's health and the state of housekeeping combined to our doom. The house was declared uninhabitable, and we were forcibly removed.

We hopped from one hotel to another for several weeks, getting help from my mother in Pennsylvania towards paying for the hotels. I continued working at a Foot Locker outlet in Jackson, a daily commute of some seventy miles one way. The continued wear on the car coupled with our housing situation and the associated expenses drove me to embezzle from the company. I confessed my wrongdoing to my supervisor as the signs grew that the funds were going somewhere, and was able to avoid prosecution by repaying everything I had displaced. Regardless, the action cost me my job. The silver lining in the storm clouds was the opening at the local family shelter that became available as we drove back from Jackson that day.

We spent a little over a month at the Haven House shelter for homeless families of dependent children. The programs in place were designed to get us gainfully employed again and in a stable residence of our own, and we threw ourselves into the task, but life at the shelter was far from comfortable. Politically correct or not, we were one of two white families living with eight other black families, and were frequently treated with the attitude that we didn't deserve to be there or participate in the programs. As whites, we were welcome to pay into the system, but utilizing that same system was vociferously discouraged. We made the unforgivable error of not remaining quiet and simply assuming our places as the new minority. We spoke out when relatives with homes of their own were permitted to visit and consume the shelter food and resources before even our own children were permitted to eat. On more than one occasion, it was uncovered that several of the families conspired to turn prospective landlords against us for spite alone. We learned hatred and discrimination from the very people who claimed being hated and discriminated against, and despite preformed opinions and biases to the contrary, it was not our family who drew first blood. Nonetheless, we did our time, eventually ending up in our current jobs and in a small upper-level two-bedroom apartment in the Moores River Park neighborhood.

Things were good for a while, especially while the lower level of the house in which our apartment was made remained unrented. It was by far the smallest space in which we had ever lived, but it felt like a palace compared to the shelter, being solely ours. That ended roughly two months later when the first-floor apartment was rented to the most selfish and anti-social mental patient (and her son) that it has ever been the misfortune of this family to experience. She immediately began protesting the situations of which she was made well aware upon moving in. She complained when we walked across the kitchen floor. She complained if we spoke before 8:00am or after 10:00pm. She complained when my children used the stairs to get out to their school-bus stop. She complained whenever we ran water. The complaints eventually led our sadly weak-willed landlord to sue us for eviction citing the numerous noise complaints, even though he admitted in court to the unreasonableness of her complaints. Again, we were determined the most reasonable and therefore the easiest targets. At our proverbial eleventh-hour, we located the house in which we currently live.

The house is quite wonderful. Three bedrooms and a complete basement, larger than any home we've had before. The rent is tough, but we manage. We're seeing a family therapist for our oldest sons many discipline and behavioral issues. Now, however, old issues are coming home to roost. My wife recently expressed an interest in ending our marriage again. She's uncomfortable with the fact that I'm so uncomfortable with her new circle of friends.

While living in the house from which we were removed, my wife became associated with a group of drag queens her worked at her store. She began going out to the club where they perform, assisting with shows, driving them to pageants, and so on. She has actively excluded me from any of this, citing that they're uncomfortable around me (this group that is said to be so accepting and desiring of acceptance). I find them, frankly, the most shallow, two-faced crowd one with which one could ever hope to spend time, a group fringe even among the fringe group that sired them, namely the LGBT demographic. She argues that the two-facedness is part of the drag queen scene, which I then in turn argue is further reason not to trust them. Recently the situation degraded to the point where she was spending her days at our babysitter's apartment, and was supposed to spend her nights there as well, although she couldn't bring herself to do so. We've since progressed to talking again and sharing a bedroom, though things are far from repaired. The problems with our oldest son's behavior certainly aren't helping things, and now her best friend/adoptive "sister" is living with us for the next eight months, wearing down further the time we might be able to work on 'us' alone. I still have to compete with her 'amazing friends' for attention on our anniversary and my birthday, and her birthday is now a drag queens-only event, excluding even our children.

What a way to mark my fortieth year so far! Even as I sit here and compose this, I'm unsure if it's the marriage therapists I'll call on Monday or another lawyer. We're not going to magically heal without effort, and acknowledging that effort is needed isn't enough. I can make a hundred appointments with a hundred different therapists, and it's all for naught if she comes along just to humor me. I need a show of interest and effort, some proof that it's me she really wants to stay with and not just the physical trappings I've been able to provide.