The Little Things

It’s been 65 days since my last full day of work.

Needless to say this has made me feel very low. All I want is to be able to provide for my family – my wife, my son, my dog, my nephews and niece, my parents, etc. I hear talk of all these wonderful things people do for vacation, or amenities they have for their house, or whatever, and I can’t help but feel jealous. I buy a frappe at McDonald’s and think to myself “Wow, I really shouldn’t be doing this,” and then I shame-drink the whole thing in ten minutes. OK, that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the gist.

So suffice it to say when I recently sat down with a group of individuals for a second time who were interested in hiring me for a fantastic position, I allowed myself to get excited. It was a great job with a great company. Suddenly, all my recent struggles made sense – this is what my next move was, and the agony before was leading to this. I, of all people, felt optimistic, a rare occurrence. Life finally was starting to make sense.

And then it didn’t.

I received the same e-mail that I’d come to expect. “Thank you. We enjoyed meeting you, but we decided to go in another direction.” Heart…ripped. Confidence…shattered. Tears…falling. Although my wife would never tell me so, or ever feel it, I felt once again like I failed my family. And when you get a second interview and it doesn’t work out, all you can do is question yourself. What could I have done differently? Did I answer a question incorrectly? Did I not make enough eye contact? Did I pick the wrong shirt? I pored over all the little details, wondering where I went wrong. As low as I felt before, I hadn’t yet hit bottom. This was bottom. This is bottom.

I haven’t yet gotten over the sting of my latest rejection. The most recent time someone told me I wasn’t good enough. When you hear over and over that you’re not good enough either by an email rejection, or by a company that silently rejects you by never responding, you start to believe it yourself, no matter what everyone else says.

The good news is the free time lately has led me to start writing again. It’s a story I’m very excited about, something I began working on in the Fall, but has recently gained momentum with the extra time I have. I’m about 50% of the way through. It’s short, but powerful, and I think it has a real chance. You see, writing is the one thing I always feel positive about, even though I’ve never had real success here either…yet.

Before I started writing today, I pulled up an old file on my flash drive that I started a few years ago. It was a file titled “Bucket List,” a list of 25 items that I wanted to accomplish before I hit that deluxe apartment in the sky. I felt it was foolish to view this list; surely it would only depress me more as I’ve done nothing of value since the list started. But I was wrong. I crossed off three items. 3 out of 25 might not seem like much. But it’s the little things that keep you going. It was an unexpected boost of confidence that I needed this morning.

Families are great at times like this, rallying around you when you are low. My aunt recently relayed a message to my mom who passed it on to me yesterday. “The teacher is always silent during the test.” This statement really resonated with me, as I’ve been praying extra hard to God lately wondering what I’m supposed to do and not hearing His answer. So to my Aunt Susie, I thank you. I really needed to hear that.

I’m not sure what’s next, but even though I haven’t seen progress in my life lately, I’ve surprisingly made some, even if it is just 3 out of 25. If you’re feeling unmotivated or unproductive, I can honestly say you’ve probably made more progress than you think too.

I’m excited to write today. I’m excited to finish this story and pass it along to an agent who may feel about it the way I do. Hey, you never know: maybe these rejections are happening for a reason, and the person who says “yes” will be the one person who I never expected to say it.

 

Reflections From the Last 4 Months

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

As I sit here drinking my coffee, searching in vain for jobs during my third day of unemployment and watching my baby sleep peacefully, it’s hard not to think about how things have changed so drastically in the past year and yes, even in the last month.

If you’ve tried following my blog (and yes, I apologize for the lack of consistency), three things should jump out in the above paragraph. Let’s address the first: I’m drinking coffee. OK, so that’s a bit of a white lie. It’s technically a Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino. I still hate coffee. Don’t worry – some things never change.

Secondly, “searching in vain for jobs during my third day of unemployment.” Unfortunately, my position within the bank officially ended on Friday, November 20th. And despite my best efforts over the past six months to a year, I didn’t land a job. Part of the reason (though I really think making excuses doesn’t solve anything) that I haven’t written to you as much is because I’ve been trying to spend my waking hours looking for a job. Sadly, the options out there for my expertise have been limited. Why hasn’t anyone hired me yet? That’s a damn good question. Consider it cockiness if you want, but I’m an extremely bright and talented individual. I’ve been a hell of a lot smarter than my paycheck in pretty much every job that I’ve had. I’m gifted in words and in numbers. Why hasn’t this translated to success? I postulate a few theories. 1) While it’s important to have a degree, mine is in Creative Writing: this doesn’t mean much to most people. 2) My whole career save for one post-college year at a bookstore has been in banking. Some people may fail to see how these skills transfer to their own business, but they would if I were given the chance. 3) I was informed recently that most jobs awarded these days are done so based on connections, not necessarily skill. I would explain to you why this is sad and an incorrect way of hiring, but that would take several pages you won’t want to read, and to be honest, I can’t blame this way of thinking. In any event, I just don’t know the right people. 4) Due to my shy nature, it’s very possible that I don’t interview well. And finally, the cliche you’ve been waiting for, 5) none of those jobs were meant to be. I

And finally, the third thing that jumps out, “watching my baby sleep peacefully.” On October 17th at 11:58 a.m. I became a father for the first time. Elijah was born at 6 pounds, 14 ounces and 20.5 inches long! There’s a story here as well to be published in a later post, but suffice it to say: you know how television and movies and (occasionally) books make the whole birthing process seem easy? Well it wasn’t. Lots of stress, lots of tears, lots of financial questions that took a while to be answered. Without complete faith in God and support from friends and family, it’s hard to say how J and I would have gotten through this as cleanly as we did. I remember posting a year ago when our pup Allie came home that she was going to teach me patience and teach me things about myself, things I would like and things I would not. She most certainly has, but Eli will prove to be my toughest teacher yet….and this is coming from the kid that failed 7th grade Home Ec.

That’s all for now. With my current wide open schedule, I’d like to tell you to expect more posts. For now this was just a quick summary to tell you: I’m Baaaaack!!

 

 

 

Is It God, Or Is It Me? Interpreting Answers to Prayers.

By now, you’ve probably heard the story about the drowning man. It basically goes like this:

A man finds himself drowning in the middle of the river and prays to God to save him. A boat comes along and asks to help and the man says, “No, God will save me,” so the boat keeps going. A man in a raft comes along and asks to help the drowning man, but again the man says, “No thanks, God will save me.” Then a whale comes floating by and talks to the man, but still the man refuses, claiming, “God will save me.” Eventually the man drowns. And when he gets to Heaven, he asks why God didn’t save him. God simply replies, “Well, I sent the boat, the raft, the whale….”

The story is so true, isn’t it? And that’s why I like it. Sometimes, we’re so consumed in our own lives and we think so specifically about a solution that we wonder why our prayers go unanswered when in fact, maybe, the prayers don’t go unanswered at all. Maybe God is answering them, but we’re not really thinking about it that way so we miss what He is telling us. I’ve been thinking about this story a lot lately, because I find myself in a similar situation—wondering if what I’m hearing during prayer is God’s voice…or my own.

I still find myself jobless, but not hopeless. Let me clarify: I do currently have a job, but as the bank merger was recently approved and we head towards the actual day of completion, my time with this company is ending and so far, I have no “What’s next” plan. That’s not to say it hasn’t been without effort. I’ve applied to several jobs, jobs I think I can do, jobs I want to do, jobs I think I may be able to do. Still, nothing has come back. Three failed interviews, a few other rejection letters before I even get to the interview stage, and countless other non-responses. I’ve put a lot of effort into this, filling out applications, searching each day for new potential opportunities and still I feel I’m getting nowhere. It has cut into my writing, my blogging, but unfortunately, I feel that it has to because finding a job takes precedent because of what looms ahead come Fall. I’m not upset about it—it’s just the way it has to be, and I’ve accepted that. Because as I’ve said before: I don’t want my baby to come into this world to a father who is unable to support him in the best way possible.

It’s stressful, big time, but I’m not deterred by it. I’m not panicking. YET. But that day may soon come. What I do instead is I pray. Now, I will tell you that I don’t pray in the way you might expect: on my knees by the bed, bowed head, closed eyes. I also don’t particularly enjoy praying out loud in front of a group of people because of how (for lack of a better term) unprofessional sounding I feel my prayers are. Basically, I pray to God like He is right next to me. I talk to Him like I would any of you (without any kind of swearing though, of course). My prayers aren’t fancy, nor are they very enlightening. It’s messy and sometimes my thoughts aren’t as clear as I’d like them to be, but I believe He understands. I also talk to God while I’m driving, biking, or even walking the dog. Sometimes I talk out loud, other times I don’t. Maybe I’m doing it wrong, and maybe that’s why sometimes I feel I’m getting nowhere, but it works for me. Does the forum, setting, or words you choose really matter? I’m not sure.

Lately, I’ve been asking God what I’m doing wrong. Why can’t I get a job? What does this mean? What am I meant to do? What is next? These are all important questions with potentially scary answers. I also ask God to grant me patience during this painful process, as it is something I desperately need when the rejection letters come rolling in. I truly don’t know what God wants me to do next, or if I’ll find out anytime soon. But the reason I started this whole post in the first place was that when I pray to God about these things, or when I’m randomly searching for jobs throughout the day, or while I’m walking the dog or riding my bike, or wondering about the next fifty years, the voice inside me says “Why aren’t you writing? Why aren’t you querying agents? I thought that’s what you wanted to do?” And the question I wonder about: Is it God’s voice…or is it mine?

God’s a lot more subtler these days, isn’t He? He doesn’t answer me through a burning bush, and let me just say: with the overgrown shrubbery in our backyard, God talking through a burning bush would solve a couple of my problems. But he also doesn’t swallow me with a whale, or make me build a big ark, so I guess that’s good too. My point is I think it’s hard to determine what is God talking, and what is your own thoughts? There’s a big difference. And if they’re your own thoughts, should you really be listening? Or instead, should you be listening deeper than that, really focusing on what He is trying to tell you beyond your own voice? That is where I struggle right now.

I believe in signs, and I believe God is in control. There is no question that I should be writing/querying more, but should I be focusing more on it now, I’m not sure. After all, if I’m going to get rejected by someone, shouldn’t it be for something I really want? Am I putting something on the backburner that should be in the forefront? Should the two be on equal ground? One of these days, hopefully a long time from now, God and I are going to have a sit down and discuss these thoughts, and why some of them just refuse to go away. Usually if I think about something and it keeps coming back to me—like writing—I take it to mean that there is something to it. It’s why I haven’t given up the dream yet.

But maybe I’m just misinterpreting. How do you hear God and know which way to go? I’d love to hear replies.

In Case Wal-Mart Security is Wondering Why an Able-Bodied Male was Driving a Motorized Scooter Through the Parking Lot

If you go to Wal-Mart enough in your lifetime, you will eventually get your own personal Wal-Mart story. The story might be about something that happens to you, but it could also be about someone else—what someone wears, says, or does. Wal-Mart is just one of those places where something always happens because everyone goes to Wal-Mart. So yes, I promise you, just as the sun rises and sets each day, you will eventually get your own personal Wal-Mart story. This is mine.

Yesterday, I stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home because the cat ran out of food. Normally, I’ll go to Target, or Giant, or hop in a boat and paddle to England and pick up his food so I can avoid Wal-Mart for these very reasons, but as I was paying my water bill on this side of town, I decided it would be fine just this one time. That was mistake number one.

I get to the massive parking lot and plant my car about fifty yards away from the store as I always do. I’m young, healthy, and I like to have a quick and easy getaway once I’m done shopping there, so I purposely mark a fair distance from the entrance. As I’m rushing towards the entrance, I hear someone call over my shoulder “Would you like to take this in for me?” I turn around, and sure enough, an old man next to his car is in fact talking to me and is pointing at a motorized scooter.

I laugh and say, “No thanks, I’m okay” because I assume that he’s joking. You know, old man talking to a young man about needing to use a scooter? It seemed like a joke an old man would tell. But as I’m socially awkward in most situations, I probably would have laughed anyway. It’s my go-to response, a coping mechanism to deal with social nightmares I’d rather avoid. You could run over me with your car or rob me at gunpoint, and I would still laugh as I hand you all my money and credit cards because it’s easier to smile and chuckle than to try and think of something clever or interesting to say.

Anyway, I laugh and say no thanks and turn towards the store, but I can tell that the old man is put out and he responds rather tersely, “Well, fine,” and it hits me that he wasn’t joking. He continues on and says, “I really don’t feel like walking this back to the store,” and I bite my tongue to avoid saying, “Then why the @#$* did you get the $#@*ing thing in the first place?!” I’m not a medical doctor by any means so I can’t diagnose one’s condition on the spot, but it seems this guy could have used a shopping cart to lean on, and he would have been just fine. But that’s just me.

Now if you know me, you know I’m a nice guy. I have a hard time saying no to people when they ask for a favor…you know, unless you’re my wife and then the word NO flies out of my mouth just out of principle. If you are a faithful reader or just tuning in now, you can even find a blog where I point out another situation where I was unable to say no by giving a stranger in the parking lot some money for gas even though he probably didn’t need it. But because I’m a nice person, I find my feet walking towards this man and his scooter even as the rest of my body shouts, “No! Don’t do it! Just run! Run now and don’t look back!” Nicety was of course my second mistake.

So I trudge begrudgingly over to the old man as I look longingly at the inside of the store, all the while muttering to myself why God has chosen me to have this experience today. The man begins to give me a brief tutorial on the mechanics of this device, but I’m barely listening. We’re about 300 feet from the store, so I’m thinking that it’s not too far to carry the scooter inside, or wheel it over like a bike. Mind you, it’s 90 degrees out and I will likely pass out trying to lift it but it’s still preferable to the glaring alternative. Unfortunately, the scooter probably weighs over 100 pounds, plus it is awkward so lifting is out of the question. Also unfortunate, the wheels don’t actually work unless you push the lever. So that’s out. The old man shows me the one lever is used for forward and one for reverse. I push the lever forward but the bike is not moving and I don’t get it. That’s when he explains to me, “It doesn’t work unless you’re sitting in it.”

It is at this point I realize that I, an able-bodied male, have no choice but to sit in the motorized scooter and drive across the parking lot. It is about 50 years sooner than I wanted to do this, and even then, I was hoping to die before the time came. And this isn’t just any parking lot. This is Wal-Mart’s parking lot. There isn’t going to be just a few witnesses to this event, there will be hundreds, perhaps thousands of eyes watching a young man ride a scooter across the parking lot at the blazing speed of 1 mile per hour. It is likely I will run into at least one person I know—if I’m lucky it’ll be a friend who harasses me about it for the next year. If I’m unlucky, it’ll be the pastor.

(But seriously, how slow are these things? Do you remember the scene in Despicable Me 2 where Dr. Nefario resigns and the Minions all give him a send off, but because he’s taking too long to leave, they all just go back to work before he even makes it out of the building? That’s exactly what it was like. Would it kill them to input some extra horsepower?)

So after about three hours on the scooter, I reach the crosswalk between the entrance to Wal-Mart and the parking lot—you know, the part where cars drive by. I come to the “intersection” and a woman in a white car stops and waves me through. I wave my thanks and continue on my way. It is of course at this moment that I realize that this woman is waving me along because she believes that she is doing a good deed….because I’m handicapped. And anyone who was not witnessed to the conversation between me and the old man (who is long gone, by the way!) also believes that I’m handicapped. As I’m processing the consequences of this in my head (trust me, I had plenty of time), the upcoming horror envelops me: there is going to be a moment where I have to get off the scooter and use my perfectly capable legs to walk into the store…and anyone who sees this is going to think I’m a horrible human being…all because I was too nice to say, “No.”

So a week later when the scooter finally makes it to the entrance (seriously. I could have purchased my goods and been home by now), I discover that the entry door is about three feet wide, and the scooter is at least twice that…so not only do I have to ride a scooter into Wal-Mart, I have to ride it in through the exit. I make it through the first set of double doors, but when I get to the second set of automatic doors, they refuse to open because I’m on the wrong side. I see the other scooters on the other side of the door, mere inches away, but I can’t get there because the frickin’ door won’t open. At this point, I’m exhausted and embarrassed beyond belief, so I say “Close enough” and creep away hopefully unseen.

Ironically, because Wal-Mart did not have the size of cat food I needed, I was forced to buy the bigger, 16-lb bag of food and haul it around the store while I picked up some other things; I could have used the scooter at that point. But there was no way I was riding on that thing one second longer than necessary.

So there you have it. My good-deed/embarrassing Wal-Mart story. To the security at Wal-Mart who witnessed this bizarre sequence on camera, this story is 100% accurate. There really was an old man with a scooter. Trust me. I’m not a swindler. Check the footage.

Dear Baby – How I Met Your Mother

Dear Little Baby,

You are now 19 weeks, the size of a mango, growing right on schedule to pop out in early November. What will you be? Well, we won’t know that for another 7 days, but we do know how you got here.

At an age entirely too inappropriate to fully explain, you will inevitably walk up to me while I’m  trying to watch the football game and ask “Dad, where do babies come from?” I’ll give you a big smile and give you the best four-word answer to that question there is.

“Go ask your mother.” – Then I’ll turn back to the game.

But what I can tell you now, little one, is a little background on how your mom and dad got together in the first place.

It was September, 2007. Mom and dad were both ripe out of college, but on entirely different paths. Your mom, fresh off her degree in Sociology from Shippensburg University, was working full-time at a senior living center in Carlisle. Dad just finished a 3-month internship that, while was a great experience, left his career trajectory in peril. Needing a job to pay his student loans, he took a full-time job working for a calendar kiosk at the Chambersburg Mall for the now defunct book chain, Waldenbooks.

The job was easy—restock books, find books, order books, check out books for customers, sit at a calendar kiosk, tidy up calendar kiosk, sell calendars. The manager at Waldenbooks was laid back, always had his face in his laptop playing World of Warcraft. The assistant manager was also laid back, though more motivated and muscular. Your dad got along well with both of them. The managers usually worked the morning shift, dad would work the evenings and their paths would cross in the middle. It was a relaxing environment, to be sure…until your dad met the supervisor on duty for the evenings. This part-time female employee was a pusher and acted like she owned the whole chain of bookstores. If you sat down for a minute, it was 59 seconds too long. If you weren’t constantly taking books from the stock room and putting them on the shelves, you were basically a worthless employee. Nor did this women like to relinquish control. She was all powerful, demanding, and a tad mean. There was definitely friction there as she knew how to push my buttons immediately.

Naturally, this person was your mother.

Now now. Don’t read into this negatively. Underneath this prickly pear, your mother was soft as a kitten. The hardened shell was there to protect your mother from previous disappointment. But it didn’t take long for her to warm up to your dad’s charm. The two bonded over movies and Nicholas Sparks books, and lamented over issues both were having with their separate love lives. As the two were getting closer, another employee commented that since your parents were both single, they should date each other…to which your mom tersely replied, “Never.”

Again, your mom claims this was said out of protection, not dislike. But your mom also famously says, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” The two remained close, but by the winter of 2008, your mom left Waldenbooks forever to take a higher-paying job with Walden’s parent company, Borders. By the summer, your dad began work at the bank and within a couple years, the bookstore would close and the company itself went belly-up.

But your parents kept in touch. They began dating in February of 2010 and were married by March of 2011 after your father proposed at Virginia Beach. They rented a townhouse for two years, bought a house, got a cat and dog along the way (more on them later), and in five short months, they will proudly welcome you into the world.

Ours was not a whirlwind romance. It’s not a story that will become a heartfelt movie that wins a bunch of Oscars. But sometimes the greatest of stories are the ones that don’t make it onto film reels, or even in the pages of books. They’re the ones that live on in our hearts, that we can recall even when the rest of our mind malfunctions—the ones we will cherish forever.

You’re lucky and loved, tiny baby, and soon you will know that. If you want to return the favor, I’d be okay if you didn’t cry all the time, and if you, ya know, slept through the night most of the time? But if not, that’s okay too.

Keep growing, keep healthy, and enjoy the cocoon you’re wrapped in right now. Soon enough, the weight of the world will be upon you as surely as it is upon us.

My Audition to be the Next “Dear Abby”

Years ago when I was a naïve little optimist who thought I could get any writing job I wanted simply by showing up, I had a fleeting fantasy about being an advice columnist. You know, the “Dear Abby” type: “Dear Writer, help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up, signed, Down and Out from Boise.” I thought this would be an easy transition for me. I was studying Journalism, had a way with words, was good with people, and obviously because I had no life experience whatsoever, I was the perfect person to dole out advice to anyone and everyone. It turns out it takes a little more than that. You need the Journalism and the way with words, and to be good with people. But….you need years of experience climbing that corporate ladder. On top of that, you have to be an “expert” at something.

Which is why the term “Relationship Expert” makes me titter like a schoolgirl. Is anyone really a relationship expert? What qualifies you for that, an advanced degree? Age? Years of dating? And truthfully, aren’t all relationships a little different? This isn’t like the rattling sound when you drive a car. Sure, maybe relationships tend to follow a pattern and there’s certain blanket advice you can give someone. But does that make you an expert? Do you need an advanced degree to say “There are plenty of fish in the sea?”

In any event, when I came across a recent article asking for such advice, I saw my chance to shine and play out an old dream of mine. So here it is, my audition to be an advice columnist. Newspapers, prepare to be amazed. I will post the question below. If you care to read the original article from the Huffington Post, you can click on that here, but bear in mind clicking on it will take you away from my article and that would not be groovy! I would also like to point out that I am not taking article length into consideration, and that is something our good friends in the Media World do have to take into account. So here we go:

I went on two dates with a girl, both of which were really fun, so I asked her out again. And out of the blue, I get a text message from her declining, saying that she appreciates the offer but is “feeling we’re not really compatible for the long term.” WTF? Of course, I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want me, but my confidence has been shaken. It’s now making me wonder about this other girl I have been on four dates with. I’m just afraid of being blindsided again. – WTF Freddie

Dear WTF Freddie,

First of all, let me say welcome to the wide world of dating! I apologize for not having my people meet you at the door. Your welcome basket of wine, ice cream, tissues, and sappy movies is in the mail. Not included: strong will. You have to find that yourself.

Basically, dating is one of those things that’s fun until it isn’t, and sucks until it doesn’t—especially if you’re looking for “the one” which it seems you are rather than just a temporary fling. Think of it this way: any relationship you’re in is going to end….unless it’s the girl you marry. That being said, relationships end for a myriad of reasons, and some of them do not make any sense, especially if you’re the one being “blindsided.”

I do have to agree with Terri. Two dates does not equal a blindside. She gives a perfect example, but let me add a couple just for “fun.”

•  Girl says “Yes, I’ll go out with you” and then cancels on you before the date even happens (You didn’t even have time to screw it up!)
• Someone you’ve known for years and trusted uncharacteristically stands you up, and then wonders why you were worried something happened to them
• Girl says “If it weren’t for my boyfriend, I could see myself being with you.” Then when said boyfriend is out of the picture, she’s still not interested (though that’s not really a blindside, just aggravating beyond belief!)

My sister would say I need to get out of the “Bitter Barn” and “Play in the Hay” but my point is this: dating is one of those things that sucks until it doesn’t, until you find “The One” and even then blindsides still happen, unfortunately, and then they hurt even more. Those sappy movies do a great job of making you believe in love, but they rarely show you how murky and painful the trail really can be. And though I’ve shown only examples of getting blindsided by women, guys are just as good as dishing it out too. Smart, sweet girls get hurt all the time and they don’t understand why.

The problem, I feel, is a lack of closure. If she ended it because you had B.O. or because she was captured by wolves, or if she was only compatible with you for a brief moment in time because she suffered from Benjamin Button Disease, at least you have something to work on for next time (though aside from B.O., I’m not sure how you can fix the other two). Closure is just one of the luxuries dating does not give you most of the time, and you can spend forever trying to find it, but the best advice comes from my girl, Taylor Swift—Shake It Off!

But if closure is what you need, here’s my two cents. Perhaps Miss Blindside was happy with you. Perhaps she really enjoyed your company and could see herself spending her life with you. But maybe she was too critical, maybe too picky. Maybe she was looking for something completely perfect, something that may not exist but she doesn’t know that yet, in which case, there was nothing you could have done to save it. As a great up-and-coming novelist wrote in his (yet to be published) book, “I believe there’s more than one right person out there for everyone. But the degree to which you are happy suffers if it’s not the perfect person.” Perhaps she was just looking for a different degree, and you have to respect that—at least she was mature enough to let you go now rather than leading you on, which would be more painful later.

Love is a battlefield. When we fall, we pick ourselves back up and keep going because we believe in love and we want to succeed. Congratulations on making it to four dates with the next girl—see, progress! Believe it or not, you’ve made it further than others. My last piece of advice to you, Fred: STOP WORRYING! If you’re allowing yourself to wonder what could go wrong, then you’re not staying in the moment with this new girl. Don’t let the haunts of the past hinder your future.

This new chick didn’t dump you, so give her the benefit of the doubt. It may work out, it may not, and who knows, you might be the one that ends up searching for a different degree. But just be yourself and don’t worry. As long as you don’t go psychotic with worry and become “WTF Freddie Krueger,” you’ll do just fine…

Dear Baby – Who Am I?

Dear Baby,

This past week, mom read you are 5 inches long and five ounces from crown to rump, roughly the size of the palm of my hand. A few weeks ago you were a peach. Before that, a bean. You’re growing strong and healthy and for that, we are excited! One week ago, your mom took a book that a very good friend gave to her and recorded your heartbeat, a treasured piece of you that we’ll have forever. It was really fast, at least twice as fast as mine, but the doctor says that’s good, that’s normal. While your heartbeat is going a mile a minute, so are the thoughts in my head, and I’ll try and be as concise and coherent as possible.

Assuming you are delivered by a female, there are no male assistants, and I don’t pass out in the delivery room (which given my predisposition to feeling faint in surgical situations, I’d place the current odds of that happening as 1:1), I will be the first male you see. Your father, your blood, will be the first male to hold you; given our family’s excitement of your arrival, I won’t be the last. Still, I thought I should take this moment to let you know the kind of person he is when that special moment comes.

Your dad is a dreamer, one prone to fantasies and constant daydreams. When he was young, he dreamed of being a famous athlete. In his teens, it was about being the hero and rescuing his latest crush from harm and having her fall madly in love with him. Lately, his dreams have been focusing on being a writer, and most days that seems just as crazy as the others, if not more so.

He’s smart, though he doesn’t always use common sense. From kindergarten on up, he caught on quick to new lessons and is still a quick learner of new tasks to this day. He’s got a great memory and can retain great amounts of information, though lots of that—sports statistics, actors’ names, television shows, video game knowledge—is pretty useless. He was always a great speller, loved to read, and was great with numbers—math was definitely his favorite subject.

As he got older though, he got lazy. Or, to be more accurate, distracted. Your father wanted to be a ladies man, was always crushing on some cute girl. When he wasn’t thinking about her at school, he was scheming up ways at home to get her to notice him the next day. Schoolwork didn’t seem that important when focus could be spent on pretty girls—eighth and ninth grade were particularly brutal as far as grades went. Dad wasn’t living up to his full potential. But he turned on the jets in high school, got that g.p.a. up to where it should be and got into a wonderful college. Never did catch the girl though.

In college, dad struggled again. One important thing to know about your father—he’s shy. Not necessarily nervous per se, but definitely shy, a trait that I hope you don’t inherit. He doesn’t do great in big crowds, but thrives more in a small setting. Even in a private school, dad found it hard to make friends and because of it, schoolwork suffered again. Dad lacked motivation, but it got better. He found some friends, even caught the girl for a little bit. But even on the days when he was by himself, or ate in the cafeteria at a table for one, your dad found inner peace, a calm in the solitude. Did he always like it? No. But because he was shy and didn’t have the vivacious attitude that would have helped make him the life of the party, dad proudly blazed his own trail.

That’s one thing I hope you do have, tiny baby—confidence, self assurance. See, your dad is a fighter. He won’t quit even when the chips are stacked high against him. He may falter, he may stumble, but he won’t completely fall over. He’s a strong introvert, but he managed to blaze his own trail. Perfect example of this is when he himself was a baby. His mom would shake this toy in front of him, the “Happy Apple” and he ignored it. Didn’t react to the sound, didn’t pay it no mind. His mom was worried he was hard of hearing. But that wasn’t the case. He just didn’t care for the Happy Apple like most babies did. He came out of the womb following his own path, and I hope you have the confidence to do the same, even when it’s hard. And trust me: sometimes it can be.

What else can I tell you about your “old man.” He loves music, all kinds of music, except maybe opera. In high school, he crushed high on Britney Spears while the girls crushed on Backstreet Boys and ‘N Sync. Now he’s an avid follower of Taylor Swift, a “swifty” as they say (don’t ask). Your father belts it out in the car, signing wildly out of tune and bopping his shoulders to the beat. And when no one’s around? Your father has the best dance moves of anyone around. He dances like no one is watching (because they aren’t) and he’s definitely got some nice moves. He loves going to the movies, he loves a great musical. You will inevitably be forced to watch Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables at some point in your life. I apologize in advance if it’s not your thing, because it’s definitely his.

He loves biking, hiking, snow days, warm days, playing in the ocean, going on vacation, going to baseball games, going to the park, football, March Madness, frappes (a little too much), soda (a lot too much), video games, ice cream, steaks, burgers, pizza, Wendy’s, roller coasters, water slides, Disney World. He loves reading, books of all types. He’s passionate about writing and damnit, he’s going to publish a book of his own before he dies even if he has to flip the world to do it. He gets carsick a little too easily, let’s the gas tank get down a little too far on occasion, he’s a below average swimmer at best, fiercely competitive at the very least, and he’s wholly dedicated to your mom, (but more on that later).

There’s a whole lot more I can say about your dad, about me. But that’s a good start. After all, I have approximately 153 days to do it. More excitingly, in 11 days, I can stop calling you “baby,” and “it,” and start calling you “he” or “she.”

Your dad’s a writer, sweet baby. It’s how he’s always best expressed his emotions so he’s not going to stop now. I have plenty more to say to you in the next five months, so be prepared. For now, stay strong, do your baby thing, and grow grow grow! Love you, kid. We’ll speak soon.

Let Me Say One Thing About the Jenner/Media Extravaganza and then I’m Done Forever

First of all, let me preface this by saying I truly have no opinion one way or another. If he wants to be Bruce, that’s great. If she wants to be Caitlyn, that’s great too. It’s their life, it’s their choice, it’s their journey. It has no effect on what I do on a day-to-day basis, nor will it. So they can do what they want.

But quite frankly, I’m tired of hearing about it.

Look, I get it. The media wants a hot story—they want to sell magazines, newspapers, get more clicks on their web articles than the competition. But at some point, you got to say “Okay, this story has run its course, time to move on.”

And this story has run its course, hasn’t it? Bruce Jenner, former athlete former Olympian, is now Caitlyn, a woman with a tough road ahead of her because society is going to cry “Shame!” and say it’s unnatural and say it’s an abomination. Truly, it’s not going to be easy because we are still a nation that doesn’t like change, that doesn’t like different. But that’s the end of the story, isn’t it? The transformation is complete—do we really need to be having daily updates?

Perhaps this is why the media is so in love with this story and won’t let it pass. Perhaps, it’s because we are (generally) a culture that is opposed to change that they feel the need to ram the story down our throats ‘til we choke on it. But honestly, it’s not going to change anyone’s mind, is it? If someone is opposed to something and you incessantly try to inundate them with a contrary opinion, it isn’t going to get them to change their minds; it is only going to make them angrier and cause them to dig their heels in harder. Not only that, but you start to lose the support of people who had no opinion one way or another before. Like me.

I consider myself to be a pretty tolerant person to culture that is different than my own. I wouldn’t have said that at 18, but college, age, and wisdom can do wonders to a person’s beliefs. I might not want the same things as you, but I can respect your desire for those things and not treat you any differently because of it. For example, I respect a person’s decision to choose their sexual preference. If a man prefers a man, if a woman prefers a woman, that’s their decision and I won’t treat them any differently than anyone else I interact with on a day-to-day basis. That’s what I believe in. I don’t believe in bullying. It’s stupid, it’s childish, it’s wrong, it solves nothing. Throw a bible at someone and tell them they’re an abomination is not the way to change the world. Lead by example. On the flip side though, will we become the best of friends? Probably not, but it’s going to be because I don’t see them on a regular basis. It’s going to be because I spend most of my time outside of work at home with my family. In other words, it’s going to be because of the same reason I’m not best friends with millions of other people in the world, and not because of what an individual believes in.

But throw the same story at someone day in and day out, and even the most temperamental soul has a breaking point. All I’ve seen in my daily search for news the past few days on Yahoo has been Bruce/Caitlyn this and Bruce/Caitlyn that. When I turn on the television, I see it there. When I go to the grocery store, I see the name on various magazines. Anytime there’s an image, it’s the cover of that magazine—you know, the one I don’t have to explain to you because you’ve seen it a million times too. Now I hear there’s going to be a  reality show about the transformation. Two days ago on Google, I wanted to find the deets on Cam Newton’s ridiculous, astronomical contract with the Carolina Panthers.  So I begin to type “CA” into the search engine, and guess what’s third on the list? You got it, Caitlyn Jenner. That was the breaking point, folks. I never “kept up” with the Kardashians, and I don’t care to now. That’s when I decided I had to blog about my displeasure with this whole situation, and you know what? It has absolutely nothing to do with the choice he made and everything to do with the media blasting it out of proportion.

Deep down, I’d like to believe that the media’s suffocating coverage of this event has to do with letting the Transgender community feel like they have a voice. But we all know this is about money, right?

Case in point, the ESPY’S—annual awards doled out by ESPN for excellence in sports. This year’s Arthur Ashe Award for Courage recipient? You guessed it, Caitlyn Jenner. This of course angered many people—why Jenner? Why not Lauren Hill, the teen basketball player who was playing the game even while fighting cancer, a battle she eventually lost but still managed to raise money for the cause? Or Noah Galloway, the soldier who continues his fight to this day even while losing an arm and a leg, and just finished competing on Dancing With the Stars? As one outraged tweet so accurately described the situation, “Questioning ever watching the @ESPYS after picking Jenner over @Noah_Galloway. he fought to make those choices possible for Jenner to make” (Maria Jordan, @MariaJordan23). Both were worthy competitors, arguably more so than Jenner, but sadly they weren’t selected.

One unfortunate sentence in a recent Washington Post article by Des Bieler described the situation perfectly: “That July ceremony is set to be the stage for Jenner’s first major public appearance since unveiling her new identity, which is likely to result in record ratings for the telecast.”

It turns out the ESPY’s choosing Jenner is not about equality and it’s not about support. It’s about ratings.

Right now, Jenner is the proverbial cash cow, and every media outlet is raking it in. Unfortunately, this doesn’t give publicity to the people who truly deserve it, nor does it help the transgender community. In fact, I’d argue that we’re moving in the wrong direction. The repeated coverage of a story that is starting to get on the nerves of even the most tolerant does not help create change. It hinders it. How do we fix it? Here are two ways to help “get the word out” that does not involve gawdy, annoying repetition:

1. I mentioned the Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner Reality show. Sure, promote the show, tell people when it starts and what channel it’s on. Then for those curious, they can turn in. And for those who aren’t, they don’t have to.
2. During the commercials at my recent trip to the movies (commercials at a movie now, gotta love it), ABC Family advertised a “reality” show about this same situation, except it involves families who are not named Jenner. Even better because if you’re sick of the celebrity tie-in, this is different. Again, promote the show, but don’t hit us over the head with it.

Until this media frenzy over Jenner ends, we all must endure the consequences of being flooded with information we got tired of hearing months ago.

So here it is, one last time. Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn Jenner.

Can we all move on now?

Garden Life

This past week, my wife J and I planted our second garden. Last year’s garden was a mixed bag of success. The tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchini were a huge hit, creating an abundance of healthy snacks, including endless amounts of tasty pasta salad. The peppers, though fruitful, were too copious as we quickly fell behind on uses for them. The bell peppers only grew to the size that your kid’s dollhouse characters could eat, and the lone watermelon that tried to grow was even smaller. The onions, garlic and potatoes didn’t flourish at all, but as greenhorn gardeners, I’d say we have to take 70% of the blame for that as we just left them in the ground and hoped for the best. (Hint: that doesn’t work!)

J claims the garden was her idea, but I’ll argue to the death that it was mine. As a new homeowner who was (and still is) light years behind on the landscape of the house, I saw the garden as a project that was a)easy to implant and b)quick to produce results. And let me tell you—when you’re overwhelmed with the amount of work that your new house needs, seeing quick results to the toils of your labor is a very pleasant aphrodisiac.

In any event—her idea or mine—it was I who dug out the garden, spending sweaty hours pulling out weeds and leveling the soil. Together, we dug the holes and inserted the plants and together, we put up the fence to keep out the “critters.” Unfortunately, last year the bunnies still managed to get inside the fence, managed to get stuck inside the fence, clung to the side of the fence for dear life when we tried to wash them out, and eventually found their way out of the maze, only to foolishly reinsert themselves moments later to repeat the process. Suffice it to say, as a kid who grew up on cartoons, I must say that Looney Tune’s vision of presenting Bugs Bunny as a clever rabbit who was able to outsmart all his foes not only missed the bulls eye, but it missed the entire dartboard.

As we begin to watch the highs and lows of this year’s garden, predicting which plants will thrive (tomatoes, cucumbers) and which will likely succumb to the elements (cantaloupe, possibly the eggplant), I can’t help but compare the lifecycle of a garden to my own current circumstances. As one who overthinks everything, I’ve to come view it as the perfect analogy. The garden doesn’t grow immediately—it requires patience and care. Sometimes progress is plentiful, other times not. Occasionally, you have to pull the weeds out of your garden; weeds are inevitable and can’t be avoided. But with the right combination of water and sun, your garden might just provide you with a healthy amount of vegetables to last the entire summer.

What happens next?

Right now, my Life Garden is mostly weeds. Weeds are the obstacles in my path, the negative bits of information that come to light. The more I pull out, the more that grow back. Weeds are inevitable and can’t be avoided. My soil isn’t getting enough nutrients and there’s been a drought the likes of the Sahara. My garden requires patience, lots of patience, endless patience, more patience than one person can stand. If I’m lucky, soon I’ll see a sprout. Sprout equals life. Sprout equals hope. Sprout is the light in the darkness. A sprout, no matter how small, pops up and reminds you, “Hey look, if I can do it, others can do it, just give it time, we’re coming. Don’t give up on yourself just yet.”

Right now, though I’m stressed and beyond frustrated, the physical sprouts in J and I’s garden will do. If they can blossom, grow from just a tiny seed, grow from almost nothing, burst forth into a tall bountiful plant in a process that is fantastic to watch play out over the course of 90 days, then maybe a metaphorical sprout can do the same. Maybe one tiny positive piece of information can turn into a blossom, can grow from nothing, can burst fourth into a bountiful plant beyond the likes of anything I can comprehend at this very moment.

Just one sprout. That’s all I want right now. No, all I need. All that I ask to continue to give me hope, to believe in myself. The power of a sprout.

Just one.

Baby, Baby, Baby

It’s probably about time I share something personal with you that will help explain my urgency about finding a job, and subsequent depression about not landing a job yet.

My wife is pregnant. That’s right—by Thanksgiving of this year, there will be a future writer cooing and (probably) screaming at our dinner table.

I guess in a way, you could say I am pregnant too—pregnant with fear. I suppose it’s a rational fear that most first-time parents have, the fear that they have absolutely no idea what to do and they’re certain they will unequivocally be the worst parent alive. There are so many intricacies regarding parenthood and dealing with newborns, it’s impossible to know everything. To some extent, I guess you’re bound to screw up—put a diaper on backwards, burp the baby inefficiently, heat the bottle to the wrong temperature.

But normal first-time-parent jitters aside, my fear actually runs much deeper than that. There’s the fear of being a bad father. You know, those inherent traits about yardwork and fixing problems in the house that kids learn from the father? I stink at that stuff. And sure, the baby isn’t going to be pulled from the womb and need to fix a leaky sink, but eventually he/she is going to obtain natural curiosity and ask questions; what happens when the day comes that the child who’s looked up to you their whole life comes to you and finally realizes that you’re a fraud and don’t have the answers they seek? What damage will it do to their psyche and future upbringing? What damage will it do to yours?

If those two layers of fear weren’t enough, dig deeper and you’ll find a third, more pressing issue for me—the fear of being an insufficient provider. So you stink at the baby stuff, and you’re mediocre at handiwork. At least you can step it up financially, right? Wrong. Strike three for me. I’ve never been a six-figure salary kind of guy, and maybe I never will. That was always ok. My hourly pay, combined with my wife’s job, was enough to make ends meet and still leave extra for the fun things. But come November—ironically, right around the time we’ll welcome the littler slugger or slugette—that meager well of funds is going to dry up for good. So for the past (roughly) 90 days, I’ve been working my rear off in the hopes of making a transition that doesn’t result in bleak, financial hardship right around the time we need it most. But unfortunately, it’s just been one giant swing and a miss so far. I’ve said it before and I’ll keep saying it ‘til the cows come home—money isn’t everything. Money won’t buy you happiness. But gosh, it sure does help, doesn’t it?

Pardon the minor tangent, but who invented the saying “Til the cows come home”? It would have to be a farmer, right? Because if it’s not a farmer, the cows are NEVER going to come home, are they? Because they don’t live there. Also, cows are as solid as a brick, and trying to get them to move, let alone “come home” could be a very trying expedition in the first place…then again, maybe the inventor of said phrase meant it to be a purposeful tongue-in-cheek response. I.E. “I’ll keep saying it ‘til the cows come home, which they never will because I don’t live near cows, so I’m just going to keep on saying it because it’s always true.” Have you ever wondered about that, or is it just me? There’s also the phrase that goes something like “Oh, the chickens will come to roost.” How will chickens come to roost IF YOU DON’T OWN ANY CHICKENS?! And why do farmers always get the best sayings? Anyhow, thanks for listening. I’m so confused about the origins of some of these oft-said phrases.

This may not be obvious to those who know me (and even less obvious to those who don’t know me at all), but I can be a very prideful person. To a fault, I often find myself comparing my occupation status to those of my close friends and family. It leads to envy because I know that my compensation runs near the bottom and that bothers me. I don’t know why it does, but it does—I can’t help it. And it’s silly, right? Just because someone makes more money than you doesn’t mean their job is better, or easier. In fact, it might even be more stressful than yours. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side (and don’t even get me started on that phrase, because we have one of the browner yards in the whole neighborhood). Still, I compare and I see myself as someone who has fallen short, and it embarrasses me, and to some extent, it probably affects some of my familial relationships/friendships more than I know. I look back on choices I made as far as back as 15 years of age and wonder where I could have done things differently. Maybe studied harder in high school, majored in something different in college that had a brighter future. But I went with my gut. I wanted to be a writer, still want to be a writer. I crave it every damn day, guys. Still, in situations like this, I wonder if I took a wrong turn, because my gut’s just getting fatter and uglier every year – maybe my gut was wrong.

We have ~5 months until our beautiful child is born. I know we will love it. I know being a parent to a newborn will be hard, tiresome and at times, taxing. But it will be fun and rewarding too. I’m not going to be able to learn everything about being a great parent in five months, nor will I learn how to be a fantastically skilled craftsmen. If I’m lucky, I’ll fill that job gap with something akin to where I’m at now. Five months is a long time and virtually anything, good or bad, can happen. I, of course, pray for the good. People will tell me that loving your child and being there is what matters most, not the money or the handiwork.

But I’m prideful. And hungry. I can’t help it that I want more.