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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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?
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?
Friday, March 26, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, March 22, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
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.
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.
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