I Got Up Early For This?

It’s 8:00 on Saturday morning. A morning breaking too soon after a night of playing online poker with Ville, drinking too much boxed wine and eating too many Flaming Hot Cheetos.

Lynette is gently waking me, telling me my coffee is already made. She then gives me the bad news: “Don’t forget we’re going to the Plasma Center today with Ville, Liebchen.”

We’ve never donated plasma before, but with two short paychecks we need money if our family of six wants to eat this weekend. Plus, rent is due. My stomach aching, I stumble out of bed and take a shower. Then the Cheetos hit me.

Note to Self: Never, ever, under any circumstance, eat those again. Especially with boxed wine...

No Direction Home

I just watched the first half of Scorsese’s feature-length biography on Bob Dylan. I’ve always been a Dylan fan. From my first hearing of his first album to present day, my admiration for this poet has only increased, and looking at his legacy in retrospect has helped me put him into historical perspective. Being of the same generation, it’s easy for me to agree that he certainly had his finger on the pulse of young Americans in the 1960s. If you missed tonight’s broadcast, at least don’t miss the second half tomorrow night.

Enforced Empty Nest Syndrome

Sometimes you just have to laugh and say “fuck it.” Yesterday I was grumpy and pissy and just generally agoraphobic. Those are the days that I shut myself in the bedroom and keep myself out of everyone else’s misery. Then last night Nettl and Heather (our 15 year-old) had a “disagreement” (to be expected, of course, at that age). Our bedroom door had been open all evening (except when I was watching “No Direction Home” on PBS), so I just got up from my computer and closed it again. When that was over, Nettl came upstairs and we of course discussed the issue and set some rules for the future. The argument was about going to college vs. moving to Vienna with us. Nettl and I agreed, no damned way that’s going to happen.

A little before 1:00 this afternoon, as I sat here working, Nettl called and said she’d be by to pick me up and take us to Taco Bell for lunch. We discussed the issue some more while munching our tacos. Here’s my take on it: I’ve been a parent since I was 18. That’s 35 years, folks. By the time Nathan (our youngest) goes to college I will have been parenting for 40 years. Forty. Freakin’. Years. And I’m not talking about just being a parent, I’m talking about kids living at home. I’m talking about cooking, cleaning, settling disputes, drying tears, catching the blame for a myriad of woes, etc. Hell, I’m talking about 40 years of not getting to go out to dinner, or buying new socks when I need them. When we move to Vienna in 2010 I will be 59 years old. I think I’ve done my time. I used to say, because I became a parent at 18, I was young enough that when the kids were grown I’d still be young enough to enjoy my life as a reasonably young person. That was when I thought I’d be going through Empty Nest Syndrome at the age of 36. Well, life didn’t turn out that way with a special needs child, and later when the kids came to live with us. That’s all good. I have no regrets. But when we go to Vienna, that’s for us. That’s my retirement, kids. Come and visit for the summer. Come for Christmas. Come whenever you want, but move in with us? No damned way.

Anyway, the reason I say that you just have to laugh is that, as I sat down and turned on my webcam, it took a really bad, but hilarious, picture of me as I adjusted the focus. Suddenly, for some reason, all the anger and frustration melted off of me and I busted up. Life is great that way.

I have no pride.