Category: Life

The Man I Once Called "Dad"

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I’ve been pondering something for a bit. A story? An essay? Another “Dr. McDreamy Unappreciation Thread?” Sorry, friends. Nothing that humorous or concrete. Fact is, I’m not really feeling like myself at the moment, and haven’t felt like myself for the last couple of weeks. I’ve been distracted… confused… I’ve been trying to decide how to handle something and have had little too no luck. That said, it’s time to throw it out to the group (whatever group is reading this, right now), and gauge their… YOUR reactions. Maybe you can help me figure out this little conundrum that has descended over my life and psyche these last few, waning weeks of winter (ah, alliteration: one of the many annoying literary tools of the once-English Major).

DISCLAIMER: There is little room for humor in my current state of mind, so if you DON’T want to read something serious, cease and desist before reading further. Re-navigate your web browsers to Funny or Die, College Humor, Texts from Last Night, Fox News or some other comedy website and enjoy. END DISCLAIMER.

A few weeks back, I received a letter from my father. There you go: blunt and to the point. Those of you that are unaware of my familial situation, a brief history before I continue: My father and my mother were separated when I was nine, divorced when I was in my teens. My father remarried and moved to Arizona sometime around my 18th Birthday, leaving behind him two children, one ex-wife, and the sum total of a Third World Nation’s debt in child support arrears owed to said ex-wife. The last time I saw my father was his wedding. The last time I spoke with my father was 1997. We’ve corresponded via snail mail and electronic mail on a few occasions. I’ll get in to them in a bit.

Flash-forward to a few weeks ago. In the space of a few hours, not only did I receive a letter via snail mail from him, but so did my sister, and even more shockingly, my mother. The correspondence ranged from excessive—a five page letter to my sister—to borderline laughable—a “Thank You” card to my mother. It was the first my sister and mother have heard from him in almost as long as he’s lived in Arizona. We shared our respective letters, as well as our respective thoughts on them (again, ranging from indifference to anger). Admittedly, the whole incident left a bit of a sour taste in my mouth for multiple reasons that I wish to explicate herein, not the least of which is the overwhelming need that I feel to protect my mother and my not-so-little sister every time my father rears his head.

All my life, I’ve prided myself on regretting nothing. Not my choice of career throughout my 20’s, not my current choice of career in my 30’s. I’ve never regretted a failed relationship. I’ve never regretted my choice to take Badminton and Walking For Fitness in college rather than Algebra and Biology. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for a reason. Even my greatest failures-choosing a woman over a friend; choosing to leave CVStress in 1999 for a job as a glorified telemarketer, only to return less than two years later at a lower pay grade and have to work myself BACK up the corporate ladder-have had their benefits, and have helped evolve me in to the man I am this unseasonably warm March 19th in the Year Of Our Lord, 2010.

But…

My wonderful wife Nicole, AKA the mother of my equally wonderful and cherubic daughter Cara, made an interesting point the other night. It was shortly after I read her the letter. I’m not sure how it came up in conversation, but she asked me, “Honey, if you got a call tomorrow telling you that your father had passed away, how would you feel?” This question invariably led to another, “would you regret not letting him have the opportunity to see his granddaughter?”

There are many things I can say about my wife of almost five years, the former Nicole Michelle Gentile-turned Nicole Michelle Gentile-Marsh (or just “Marsh” depending on the mood you catch her in). I can talk about how kind and gentle she is; I can talk about her fun-loving attitude and her rarely-viewed but definitely existent sick sense of humor. I can talk about how she keeps me young despite the five year difference in age between us. I can talk about her love of baseball and the way she’s made me remember mine, but the ONE THING I can say about her above all else?

She knows my soul. Better than anyone that has ever existed in my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Somewhere between Jenkintown, State College and Hatboro-Horsham, PA… somewhere between Indianpolis, IN and a little plot of prison ground in Abington, PA endearingly referred to by my brethren and I as “Oz”… Somewhere between Morrisville, North East Philadelphia, Drexel Hill, Broomall, Royersford and York, PA (with a side jaunt to LOVELY Lavonia, GA for good measure), there was her. There was ALWAYS her. The one person who knows me almost as well as I know myself. Homage, baby. Respect and love. And with that one statement, she quite literally called my “punk” card and sent my mind spiraling to the point where it currently resides.

How WOULD I feel? WOULD I regret not letting him have the opportunity to meet his granddaughter?

I’m of multiple minds on the subject. You could call me schizophrenic, or just confused. I leave that up to you, and I will bear you no ill will if you choose to believe me one crazy motherf*cker (but don’t be surprised if you wake up with something undesirable at the foot of your bed. “A man in my position can not afford to be made to look ridiculous!”). There’s the jaded part of me… the part that has been repeatedly Rochambeau’d by the man that spawned my existence. Said part of me embodies anywhere from 80-90% of my mindset about the man I once called “dad” on a daily basis. So much of my history with him falls in to this category.

Case in point: my last “conversation” with him in 1997. By “conversation,” I am of course referring to the traditional meaning of “conversation,” i.e. talking to a person and not texting, emailing, IM’ing, Facebooking or Tweeting them. I was living someplace between Jenkintown and State College, PA, and though I’d graduated from Penn State in the spring and was working full-time as a Shift Supervisor for CVStress in Horsham, PA, I was still the equivalent of a homeless vagabond, traveling between “State Pen” and my apartment in Jenkintown on a bi-weekly basis (whenever I had a weekend off).

One autumn night in 1997, I received a phone call from my father. He was completely unapologetic. He claimed to have done the things he’d done for good reasons. “I needed a fresh start”; “I needed to seek my fortunes elsewhere.” Anyone who’s had or has deadbeat parent has heard the litany of excuses, and I see no reason to include them all herein. But the kicker was highly UN-common: “I regret nothing I’ve done.” Said conversation ended rather abruptly with me hanging up in tears and my roommates comforting me. Less than an hour later, I was sitting at the bar at the now-defunct Houlihan’s in Jenkintown, PA drinking myself in to oblivion. Somewhere between drink five and six, I vowed to never let the man back in again. I woke up the next morning and went to work as normal, albeit with quite a nasty hangover and the unpleasant aftertaste one acquires after multiple shots of tequila.

But…

Flash-forward a few years to the Year Of Our Lord, 2000. Life in my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence was MAJORLY in flux. I was on my second tour of duty at CVStress, not as a Shift Supervisor, but as an Assistant Manager. I’d been overlooked for promotion multiple times despite an exemplary service record (sounds like the f*cking military, I know, but any of you that have ever worked in Retail know how regimented it is). I was working as the Interim Manager at the now-defunct CVStress in Plymouth Meeting, PA (“Interim Manager,” simply put, meant that I had all the responsibility of a Store Manager but none of the money). I’d recently been forcibly evicted from my pseudo-girlfriend’s apartment in favor of her ex-boyfriend, AKA her baby’s daddy, and was living on the floor of the apartment my friend Tom shared with his mother and his brother. In short, I was quite literally at rock-bottom.

It was from within the depths of my despair-the worst I’ve ever known-that I hatched a plan: I would be the better man. I would contact my father and attempt to resolve the feud between us because it was the only way I’d get my life back on track. At the time, I was, and STILL AM a firm believer in the concept of “karma,” and I believed my bad karma to be the direct result of my aborted relationship with what I liked to call my “Biological,” a relationship that I believed I had caused the dissolution of.

I told you this was going to be a mind-trip. This is your last chance to turn back. DISCLAIMER (IBID). END DISCLAIMER.

So I wrote him a letter. I believe it was about seven or eight pages, written in long-hand on sheets of yellowing, college-ruled loose leaf I had left over from college. In it, I apologized to him for virtually everything that had transpired between us over the course of a decade plus. Despite my aversion to doing so at that time, I bore my soul, explaining my current life-situation and my concerns. I asked for advice on everything from relationships to work. In short, I turned to the man that I’d once called “dad” for guidance. His response arrived a few weeks later. He offered me insight in to the things that I’d inquired about. He updated me on his own life-situation, which at the time was significantly better than mine. He told me about the beauty of the low-desert in Arizona and he “waxed poetic” on the lonely sound of a coyote crying at night. But in response to my heart-felt apology? “I do not feel the need to apologize for anything that I’ve done, as everything I did, I did for a reason. I have no regrets, son. I hope you understand.”

That quote is verbatim: the only portion of his letter emblazoned in my memory forever despite said letter’s subsequent disappearance. That night in 2000 ended in virtually the same fashion as the one from three years earlier save for one difference: instead of getting drunk at Houlihan’s in Jenkintown, PA, I got stoned in the parking lot of a park in Huntington Valley, PA. Somewhere between the first drag and the moment I passed out in the driver’s seat of my 1998 Dodge Neon to the sound of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” I vowed never to let the man back in again. I woke up a short time later, thanks largely in part to the opening movement of “Egmont, Opus 84,” and drove home. Within a few weeks time, I had an apartment in North East Philadelphia, had been promoted to Store Manager of the same store I had been Interim Manager at, and was in a healthy and nondestructive relationship for the first time in almost four years. I’d stopped smoking weed, never to turn back.

Karma.

All correspondence between us ended after that. In the subsequent time between 2000 and last year, I scrubbed the 1998 Neon in favor of a 2004 Chevy Cavalier, met and married my soul mate, left CVStress for a job as an Office Manager/Inside Sales Rep, bought a house, started pursuing my Master’s and found out I was going to be a father. In February or March of 2009, my “Biological’s” wife and his father passed away within a few weeks of each other. For the first time in almost a decade, there was correspondence between us, albeit limited to me expressing my sympathies in an email, and him replying in kind simply with, “thank you.” It was the right thing to do. The courteous thing.

Flash-forward to a few weeks ago with the letters received by my mother, my sister and I and you’re current. As mentioned previously, much of my history with my “Biological” has been negative. The previous paragraphs are merely a sampling of that history. Yet I also spoke of “multiple minds” a few paragraphs ago. Along with that 80-90% of me that has been jaded by my experiences with the man I once called “dad,” there’s also the compassionate, human part of me that feels everyone deserves a chance at redemption.

How WOULD I feel? WOULD I regret not letting him have the opportunity to meet his granddaughter?

It’s a tough decision, and not one that I, obviously (if this blog post is any indication) take lightly. Despite a mindset that is 80-90% jaded toward the man I once called “dad,” I’m 50/50 on whether or not I should allow the man to meet his granddaughter. Do I feel he has earned to right to do so? No. One heartfelt apology does not make up for the decades he spent not apologizing; not accepting responsibility for his actions; ADAMANTLY not regretting his actions. One heartfelt apology does not make up for the times I was reduced to tears at being abandoned by the man I once called “dad.” Those drunken, substance-influenced nights in which I tried desperately to forget, only to return home, look in the mirror, and see the man I once called “dad’s” face staring back at me, a flush across his Irish-English-Scottish cheeks and a twinkle in his deep, blue eyes. Those times I wrote a story, a poem, a journal entry or a blog, stopped to review what I’d written and shivered at the similarities between how the man I once called “dad” writes and how I do. My laugh? The same as his… the man I once called “dad.” My sense of humor? The same as his… the man I once called “dad.”

In fairness, not all of what and who I am is inherited from the man I once called “dad.” My work ethic comes from my mother; my capacity to enjoy life comes from my sister. My personality is derived from years, piled upon years, piled upon DECADES of personal refinement. And the soul my wife knows better than anyone else on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence is mine. But often, I am reminded in some way, shape of form of who my “Biological” is. Be it in an expression on my daughter Cara’s face or in something I say or do, he is there often, despite the fact that I rarely pay him more than a passing thought. Would you believe that previous to this blog entry, the last thing that I wrote with him as the overarching topic was a poem that I wrote over 10 years ago? Probably not. Trust me: I’m not f*cking with you. It’s the truth.

But…

So much of who I am IS reflective of his lineage. I can not deny that. Were the shoe on the other foot… were it me in his position, seeking forgiveness from the people I’ve wronged and the things I’ve done while reluctantly facing the twilight of my life, how would I feel if I were denied the chance at redemption? An opportunity which per the religious catechism I so staunchly believe in, all God’s creatures have?

ANSWER: I don’t know. And writing this little exposition has in no way brought me closer to the resolution of the psychological debate raging within my “tied up and twisted” mind. I remain of multiple minds on the subject. 50/50, friends. The ole’ flip of the coin. Heads or tails… which will it be? But I needed to write this; needed to get it all on paper, regardless of how unintelligible it may seem. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I welcome any insight that you can offer. I can be reached in any number of ways for “conversation.” Whether you prefer the traditional means of “conversing” or “conversing” via text, email, IM, Facebook or Twitter. I’d throw Google Buzz in there, as well, but it kind of blows. And no “sexting” please. I find the prospect of sending naked pictures via text to random people a bit disturbing.

Frank Marsh. 3/19-3/20/10.

"God grant me the serenity…"

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

“…to accept the things I can not change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I honestly don’t know how many people are reading this blog post, right now. For those of you that are, I’d like to share a story with you. It’s a real-life story, not some fabricated, fictional reality that I came up with on a gloomy, humid day in Royersford, PA. In the not-so immortal words of a little-known tragic hero of modern literature named Roland MacNuff, “I write the following account not to heal the ills of a sick world. I write it to heal myself.” But this isn’t about him or me.

This is about a little boy whose name I will not mention to protect the anonymity of the people involved. He’s 2 1/2 years old, and he was recently diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Said boy’s parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and overall support base have been closely monitoring his situation for the last few months. This week, we were informed that the treatments utilized to heal the boy have been unsuccessful. I’m choking back tears as I write this so bear with me.

The general consensus amongst those involved is this: do not treat us any differently. If you pass us on the street and ask us how we are/how he’s doing, we’ll tell you that we’re doing/he’s doing great.

As a society, we talk every day–albeit through blogs, Tweets, IMs and text-messages–about heroism. We see it in the men and women defending out interests abroad; we see it in the vigilante actions of a group of neighbors taking it upon themselves to bring a child-rapist to justice (not all law-enforcement involves warrants and supeonas, and I applaud those people for doing what they did in West Philadelphia a week ago). We see it in the struggles of a single mother to support two, growing children through Catholic school and college by working two jobs. We see it in the movies and we read it in books, but we rarely… RARELY get to see it in our own lives.

In the space of a few months, this child and his parents have become the living, breathing embodiment of “heroism” to this oft-times strange, redundant and rambling denizen of the reality that exists on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existance. I can’t tell them that in person, presently… were I to do so, I’d be going against their wishes. Act like everything is fine, Frank. Okay, then. I will honor your wishes, but I promise you: I have been, and will continue to keep you in my prayers daily. And if perchance you’re reading this, you now know that I’m thinking about you.

The point of this post? Perhaps I should say “points,” because there are many. Yet in the interest of remaining succinct and not over-elaborating with “flowery” yet pointless language, I’ll do something I rarely do: Be brief. In a little over a month and a half (give or take a few days), I will be a father. In truth, I already am a father. Nicole is already a mother, my mother and her mother are already “mom-moms” and my father-in-law is already a “pop-pop.” Cara already has an Aunt Katie and an Uncle Carl, an Aunt Deb and an Uncle Andrew, not to mention a million other Aunts and Uncles that have little or no blood-relation to her. I know that there are many other expecting and already-parents out there, existing simultaneously IRL and in “Web 2.0,” that may or may not be reading this blog post. To you, let me simply say this:

Love your children. Teach them to love you. Live each day for your children and teach your children to live for you. Sing to them in and ex-utero. Feel free to vary your musical selections from Britney Spears to the Rolling Stones because when they arrive, they may like one or the other. Hell, they may even like both. Read to them when they’re young, even when they’re too young to understand a word that you’re saying. Your voice will become a sense of comfort to them from day one. Listen to Harvey Karp. Hell, heed Harvey Karp like he’s your own, personal savior, ’cause the possibility of having the happiest baby on the block is better than doing nothing at all and hopingfor a miracle. Remove all bumpers and blankets from your child’s crib because the possibilityof SIDS can be lessened drastically by doing so. The doctors–and Harvey Karp–have no reason to lie to you. Swaddle your child because the doctors–and Harvey Karp–tell you to. If your child wakes you up at 1, 2, 4 and 6 in the morning, remind yourself that they’re only doing it ’cause they want to be close to you. Hold them close when they awake: let them feel your heartbeat. Wait for them to go to sleep before going to sleep yourself. After all, you’ve been sleeping through the night for the better part of a couple of decades. They haven’t slept through the night for the better part of their entire lives! Were I them, I’d be cranky too.

As they grow older, remember to do the following: have birthday parties for them, even if said birthday parties are simply a gathering of immediate family. Let them stick their heads, hands, feet… whatever they want in the cake… the damn thing isn’t for you to eat, anyway. If they ask for a toy, get it for them, or ask “mom-mom,” “pop-pop,” or dear Uncle Matt or Aunt Deb to get it for them. If they ask for a pony, take a second job, buy the property behind your house, build a fence around the complete yard, lay some sod and go get the best damn pony available. If they get less than a B in either Math, Science, English or History, take the pony away until they improve their grade to an A. And when your child wakes you up at 1, 2, 4 or 6 in the morning in tears because they just had a nightmare, remember that they’re doing it because you’re their hero or heroine. The first hero or heroine that they ever had, and they want to be close to you. Hold them in your arms: let them feel your hearbeat. Wait for them to drift off to sleep before going back to sleep yourself. After all, you’ve still been sleeping through the night for a longer period of time then them, no matter how old they get. Love your children. Teach them to love you.

As I prepare to conclude this dissertation, my mind hearkens back to the child that inspired it. I think of his parents, one of whom I’ve known since I was a baby. I feel an on-rush of tears behind my eyelids every time I blink, but I need to finish. Writers recieve grief every day for their use of cliches. Many call them formulaic, but as one, I see it differently. Writers find comfort in cliches. So much of what we do borders on the experimental. Thats all we can do to compete against the celluloid media moguls and the boob-tube executives. After all, the written word to media is fast becoming the equivelent of Public Television to digital cable. But one particular cliche rings true in my mind this grey and gloomy afternoon in Royersford, PA…

“Live for today.”

My thoughts and prayers go out to not only the 2 1/2 year old child who inspired this, but to his parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and overall support base. In the immortal words of a well known tragic hero of modern literature named Jesus Christ, “there is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear.” (1 John 4:18). There is no greater indication of perfect love than that embodied by the family contending with this situation… no greater exhibition of heroism than what they have demonstrated, and continue to demonstrate.

F.M. 6/11/09

“I guess in a way, you always end up right back where you started…”

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I guess in a way, you always end up right back where you started. Take me: I’m 33 years old. I’m married; I’m a homeowner; I have two furry children named Pandora and Roxy (cats, of course, not abnormally hairy human children) and my first human child on the way. A daughter to be named Cara Angelina Marsh. Incidentally, for those of you that are wondering why Nicole and I chose that name:

Cara: Italian: “Beloved”; Irish: “Friend.” Significance? Nicole has always liked it.

Angelina: Italian derivative of Angela: “Angel”; no Irish meaning (of course not! What Irish name ends in an “a”?). Significance? Nicole’s 94 year old grandmother—“Mom-Mom”—is named Angelina.

“Beloved Angel.” You can’t go wrong with something that meaningful, can you? Of course not. But this is my daughter we’re talking about. We could name her after one of the Garbage Pail Kids and I’d still think it was the most beautiful name in the world. Incidentally, the first person that calls my daughter Virus Iris or Wacky Jackie is going to end up with my size 12 boot up their ass and my fist in their pie-hole. Capice?

Sorry, I digress. It’s been difficult to contain my excitement at mine and Nicole’s expectant arrival, and that’s not what I set out to write about this afternoon.

I guess in a way, you ALWAYS end up right back where you started…

Take the other day: I ran out of sh*t to do at work. Rather than sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs for the last hour of the day, I moseyed in to the warehouse… the empty warehouse… and swept the floor. I didn’t just sweep the damn thing, though. I spit-polished the damn thing… “shined it up real nice for ya’” I told my boss the following morning. He laughed. But deep down inside, I’d wager he was cursing my sarcasm. It probably didn’t help that I concluded our conversation with, “after a while, I was just pushing around 25 years of dirt.” Warm Regards, Frank Marsh, Office Manager/Inside Sales Rep, COMPANY NAME REMOVED FOR LIABILITY REASONS.

Warm Regards, my ass. In this economy? Maybe it would have been better if I simply reported that the warehouse was swept. No need for sarcasm, though admittedly: asking me… ME… to not be sarcastic is like asking Ashcan Andy to save the universe. Sh*t, R2D2 did it, why not him? But I digress…

I guess in a way, you ALWAYS end up right back where you started. I’m no stranger to hard work, though some might say otherwise about my “college-educated ass.” My first job was as an afterschool janitor at my grade school. I was 11 years old and working for 15 dollars a week—under the table, of course. Mom was a single, working mother; Katie (my sister) was eight; if I wanted spending money, I had to work. And I did… begrudgingly. I was an overweight, out of shape broom handler in a Catholic grade school who spent the first $2.00 of his paycheck at the candy store, the next $10.00 on cassette tapes in the bargain bin at K-Mart, and the final $2.00 at the candy store the following Thursday. That was me: that was my life at 11…

Now, at 33, everything has come full circle. Now, at 33, I find myself once again as nothing more than a glorified broom handler. At work, I clean sh*t up: that’s my modis operandi. I’m a proverbial Hydraulic and/or Pneumatic “Pooper Scooper.” Under normal circumstances, you’d probably think me one miserable motherf*cker.

Truth is? Up until I started sweeping the warehouse, I was. I hated my job. All the good sh*t that had been happening in my life lately paled in comparison to my daily grind. But something happened to me while I was pushing that splintery, aging broom across the floor. I started to feel at peace for the first time in a long time. I’d just completed my last graduate level class (EDUC 512: Cross-Curricular Geography… fun!); I was planning a weekend sojourn to Longwood Gardens with my wife on either Saturday or Sunday (it ended up being on Saturday). Save for an undergraduate Macroeconomics class that still hangs over my head for the next month and a half like a cloud of buzzing gnats (Macro blows!), my time—when not at work—is, once again, my own. Best that I enjoy it now, ‘cause once Cara gets here in July, my free-time will likely be quickly supplanted by responsibility. And I welcome that… I’ve been waiting a long time to be a dad, and finally, I’m going to get my opportunity.

I felt at peace. Not just relaxed mind you… oh no… completely and totally at peace. Anyone that’s ever experienced one of these moments knows what I’m talking about. I used to have them often: that moment when your mind, heart and soul suddenly feel as light as the air; that moment when a completely unexpected but incredibly welcome sense of euphoria rushes over you for no reason. All your aches and pains disappear and you open your eyes wide… wider than you’ve ever opened them before. It was one of those moments when everything seemed clear… crystalline. Like looking through a veil of tropical sea-water and seeing the smallest, most miniscule pebble as it waivers back and forth on the white sand below. Only the water is the goddamn, proverbial fog that you’ve existed in for… well sh*t, I can’t even begin to tell you how long. Suddenly and without warning, everything clicks in to place. I call it serendipity.

FYI: I know my friends. I know that one or more of you reading this are going to say that the feeling I’m describing is not serendipity. Some wise-ass out there is going to say that I got off on sweeping the warehouse. To that person—I’m looking at you, jerky—let me simply reiterate my statement from earlier: 12 inch boot up the ass, fist in pie-hole. Allow me a rare moment of writer’s bliss before I return to my aforementioned daily grind.

The moment didn’t last long. Maybe a few seconds, maybe less. But it happened. Since, I’ve been feeling different… a lot different. I feel more energized; I still have the same aches and pains that I’ve has for a while (they’re actually pretty bad today, but we won’t go there), but they’re minimized comparatively. And this afternoon, I suddenly got the urge to write. This little composition is simply an amuse bouche (sp? Anyone know French?): I have plans.

Don’t all scream at once.

The last time I had plans, I ended up writing a trilogy of novels which no one save for two people (I remembered to include you this time, Steve) read. I don’t think that my plans, as tentative as they are presently, are quite that ambitious. It’ll be interesting to see where they lead. For now, though? They’re simply thoughts. But my thoughts are quickly becoming a conspiracy to overthrown my rational, broom handling mind. Viva la mental revolution! I swear, if my daughter understands me even half as much as Nicole does (no one quite “gets me” on most levels like her), then I’ll be one happy, living and breathing facsimile of a smiley face.

But I digress…

I need to stop doing that.

I finished my circuit of the warehouse with little more than ten minutes left in the day (it’s not really a big warehouse). By then, the moment had passed and the familiar fog/aches and pains had already begun seeping back in to my body. But my brain was on overdrive. I started formulating my plan. A new story idea was only one aspect of it. I started formulating a life plan for me, for Nicole… for our daughter-to-be, Cara. I started thinking about where I wanted us to go, and what I wanted us to do. Who’da ‘thunk it? Manual labor, the equivalent of Little Baby Touch-and-Go from “Heroes” (not a Garbage Pail Kid)? I was pretty shocked. Never forget: I’m the guy who, between school and work, lives on his computer. In essence, I started looking ahead, something I’ve been seemingly incapable of doing for the last few months. And what did I discover in the ether beyond my daily grind?

BULLET POINT ONE: I have a steady job, albeit a sometimes frustrating one. The same can not be said of many out there in the really, really real world, right now. It pays me relatively well and allows me the time to embrace and enjoy my life again. Friends; family… over the last year plus, these things have been, sadly, supplemental to school and work. No longer. That all changed on Saturday with the first Marsh family sojourn to Longwood Gardens, Bertucci’s. Kohls, Babies ‘R Us, Champs in King of Prussia and finally, “I Love You Man,” on the big screen. Great flick, by the way. I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good laugh.

BULLET POINT TWO: I’m done with school for a while after Macro ends in May. At least until Cara’s at least a year or so old. A few of you reading this might be disappointed by this decree. To those who are, let me say this: priorities, priorities, priorities. My uncle got his MA at 35 and his PhD at 45. If I’m meant to teach one day, I will. If not? Well, I’m also meant to be a good husband and a father… a provider in whatever capacity that I can be. Call it my primal instinct or simply the grounding in reality that my mother provided me with at an early age: growing and nurturing my family is the most important thing for me to focus on right now. Don’t worry dissapointees: I will finish school one day. Just not now. I’ve got a baby’s room to paint and a pregnant wife to take care of in the interim.

BULLET POINT THREE: Life’s too short to worry about every little thing. In the immortal words of Marley, “every little thing, gonna’ BE alright.” I’ve seen more death and sickness in the last year than I can remember ever seeing before. Some have come through it, others have not. One or two are still fighting their own life battles. It disheartens me to see people that I care about suffering; my menial little issues seem irrelevant when stacked against theirs’. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that life really is short on this bright and shiny, blue and green bouncing ball that we inhabitants that exist on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence call “Earth.” We should really, and I mean really embrace what time we have. Though my desire for immortality for all the people that I care about remains, I understand better now that my mortal coil is about to turn 34 this year. “Time to start livin’… time to take a little from this world we’re given…” Can anyone name that tune? Anyone? It’s from “Pippin.” Kind of the Broadway equivalent of “I Love You Man” but with dancing dudes in tights. Yes, I was in it. No, I did not wear tights. I don’t think…

I returned to my desk after sweeping the warehouse and settled in for the last seven minutes or so of my day. I checked my email: no messages. I checked my company Intranet: no new information to process or share with my office. I even popped on Facebook for a “tic.” Save for the latest trials and tribulations of the P.P.R.B.M., there was nothing new to report on there either. Someone had thrown a water balloon at me (I can’t remember who, but I’m looking at you, jerky). Nicole had “superpoked” me. I threw a water balloon animal back at my assailant and sent my wife a bear hug, along with an extra one for little, baby Cara (who, incidentally, was mistaken for a concealed weapon once again today as Nicole boarded her flight home from Pittsburgh). I reveled in the residual effects of my moment of serendipity before logging off and heading home for the evening. My daily grind had officially ended for two days…

And there was much rejoicing: “yay.”

Is there a moral to this story? This little piece of Mental Flatulence that has helped to fill a slow afternoon at work? I could have gone back and swept the warehouse again, but admittedly? The dirt was exactly where it was last Friday, and I still haven’t been able to pry out the splinter in my palm. So I decided to write. Writing without abandon: something I haven’t done much of in the last year. Love me or hate me, hopefully you didn’t think that I had given up on my art/obsession. Writing is a part of who I am, just like teaching will be a part of who I am… one day.

Being a good husband and one day soon, a good father is also who I am.

Hard work is an indispensible part of my mentality. A college education did not, can not, and will never change that.

Sarcasm is also an indispensible part of my personality. Deal with it, jerky.

As an 11 year old child, I was not only a broom handler, but I was also an avid collector of Garbage Pail Kids. I had at least a dozen Ashcan Andy’s because he reminded me of R2D2. R2D2 is, in my opinion the true hero of the “Star Wars” movies. Luke/Anakin Skywalker be damned!

Wishing immortality on the people I love is a part of who I am.

In my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, family and friends are interchangeable. I pray for both, equally.

Serendipity is not simply a so-so “Rom-Com” starring John Cusack… it’s an actual state of mind. May each and every one of you reading this—and those not reading this—experience it at some point in your respective lifetimes if you haven’t already.

I also have a plan. Don’t all scream at once.

“Wus” and farewell, mis amis (sp? Sh*t, does anyone speak French?).