Tag: habits

List of Grievances

I presented my Festivus list of grievances to my beer buddies the other night. Although the grievances are supposed to be personal and about the people present, I had a general list, and I took a humorous, provocative approach.

One of my items that generated much discussion was the hacked butt plug. I know that I’m not part of the demographics of people that use butt plugs, so I don’t know much about them. I also didn’t know that they could be hacked, or why others would want to do that. Still, it’s part of a larger world that I don’t get, not because I’m over sixty, but because the shit people do is alien to what I think of as fun. Besides hacking butt plugs and other smart sex toys, a term called screwdriving (hah!), I don’t get people doxxing others, or eating Tide pods, or catfishing. Yes, I understand the intellectual reasons behind people doing things, just like people doing weird shit when I was a kid, but those things didn’t appeal to me then, either. Being a writer, though, is about trying to understand, looking into people, thinking about their motivation and the impact of what they do has on them and their lives. So, I explore…

While mentioning the butt plugs the other night, over half present reacted, “Why would you want to know more about butt plugs?” But others were like me, saying, “How can you not want to know more?”

You see there the sprawl of human differences. Some invent butt plugs. Others use them. Another group hacks them. Someone else shies away from knowing about them. Someone else writes about them, and others read and talk about them.

It’s a wild, wild life that’s teeming with diversity. It makes it a much more interesting world.

At least, to me.

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Power On

Hey writers, hope you’re all doing well as this calendar year slides to the final days. Hope you remember that no matter what happened this year, you can go on and on and on, even when the days drag you down, people bury you for dead, and the routines become too much to endure. Have a mug of coffee, a cup of tea, a sip of wine, a quaff of beer, a piece of chocolate, meditate, read, exercise, walk, take deep breaths, do whatever you’ve found that helps you pick your ass up and put it down in a chair or bed or wherever you write, so you can stare down the blank space one more time, and let the words out. However you do it, you must do it, you must find the way to keep going, to keep trying, to write like crazy at least one more day. But whatever you do, and however you do it, always remember, if you’re using a computer, ensure you back up your work.

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Dipping

I love dipping. Not snuff. No. Tried it once, didn’t like it. I like dipping cookies, doughnuts, and toast into tea, hot chocolate, or chocolate milk, and coffee. I also dip buffalo wings into sauces, and chips and crackers into dips. I’ve dipped things in beer, like pretzels, but I’ve not been impressed with the results. That’s life. And of course, I’ve skinny-dipped. I really liked doing that, especially the time I did it in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Sicily.

Some materials are better for dipping into coffee or tea than others. Doughnuts make for damn fine dipping, IMO. Today’s cookie, a gluten-free, vegan, GMO-free, locally baked chocolate ship affair, is a little dry. Not ideal, because that dryness contributes to the dipping drawback. Dipping a cookie into my coffee, I’m aware that some is crumbling into the coffee. This produces a bottom situation called dipping dredge. That’s the soaked stuff that remains when the beverage is almost gone.

I’m not a fan of the dipping dredge. However, I’m not one to leave coffee behind. Thus, all I can do is suck it up.

Literally.

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Okay

I’ve noticed people doing this.

I’ve notice that I do it.

After completely something, say reading a few pages of a book, people take a deep breath, let it out, and say, “Okay.” Based on observations and personal experience, it’s a psychological preparatory step. They and I have been putting something off that we planned to do, something we’re not really happy about doing, I think. We keep telling ourselves that we’re going to do it. We’ve have the conversation with ourselves that we can’t put it off any longer, that we’ve stalled long enough, that we are going to do it, and we’re going to do it now. 

“Okay.”

I don’t know where this comes from, but I suspect that I’m mimicking someone in the past, or maybe my wife. I’ve heard bosses say it in this same way. I hear myself say it, and I hear my spouse. I hear people in stores say it to themselves while they’re stocking shelves, and I hear it from baristas in coffee shops as they turn away from the counter.

Deep breath. Release. (Sometimes a sigh.) “Okay,” so soft, it’s like they’re talking to themselves.

I’ve heard it from all age groups, including a young girl. She seemed like a six-year old by size and expression. She was standing about six feet from a car. I saw her take the breath. I heard her say, “Okay.” Then she turned and walked back to the car.

“Okay.”

Okay seems like a uniquely American expression, even if some claims to its origins begin in Germany, Greek, Scotland, and Haiti, along with Puerto Rico and French Louisiana. I have heard it used in foreign television shows made in exotic places like Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the U.K. I don’t know if the residents of those lands use okay in this context, as a final acknowledgement to oneself, it is time.

Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Okay.

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Bless You

Where does everyone stand on blessing people when they sneeze? I mean, I say, “Excuse me,” when I sneeze. I notice many people don’t. I tell others, “Bless you,” when I’m near someone who sneezes, even though I’m agnostic, with tendencies that slide toward being an atheist. It’s something mom taught me to do. It was considered polite. That training, though, was almost sixty years ago. She could have been conning me, for all that I know. I was young and just learning the language.

Also, if someone is wearing headphones and can’t hear you, should you still say, “Bless you?”

Should I just drop the whole thing because it’s an outdated custom?

4

Good-bye

Saying good-bye on the phone has become interesting in America. I know some that say nothing when the call is due to end. They’re done, and, saying nothing, they hang up.

It’s weird when it’s experienced. “Hello?” I say. “Are you there?”

Then I listen.

No; they’re not there.

I hang up with the assumption, I guess the call was done, but they didn’t say good-bye. Maybe they were disconnected. Maybe they were nuked, or dropped their phone in the commode. Whichever and whatever it is, the lack of a formal good-bye, farewell, or so-long leaves me feeling that closure is missing.

Others are like me, saying, “Bye-bye.”

Bye-bye, like a child. Yeech. I don’t like saying that, but it seems my rote response. I don’t know where the hell I picked it up, but I even often used it in the military. “Yes, sir,” I’d say to the wing commander. “I’ll call you back when I have an update on the bomb threat.”

“Good. Thank you, sergeant.”

“You’re welcome, sir. Bye-bye.”

Very professional.

This came to mind today because of an early morning call. The stranger, who called to confirm a service, ended with, “Okay, thank you, see you later, bye.”

I guess they were trying to cover all the bases.

4

Velvet Rain

A velvet rain is falling. It’s a rain that makes the world feel cozier and more intimate, inviting deeper thoughts.

I’d planned to walk ten minutes but the rain soothed me, inviting me to keep going. I did, until two miles and an hour had passed.

The rain didn’t appear to soothe all. Some drivers took the rain as a sign to go, “Faster! Faster!”

The walking time allowed for solitude and writing time. I’d dropped into my personal trough the other day in the cycles of buoyancy and depression. Oh, lord, that darkness. Daunting, it drinks me up and swallows me down. The sighs are heavy, the thoughts are bitter, and the world looks grim. Even the cats’ attentions are infuriating irritations.

Perspective helps me survive. Writing, walking, and solitude help me grind out perspective. Alas, Schedules and events kept me from consistently achieving two of the three. But yeah, I survived.

Our new microwave and range were delivered and installed yesterday. They look so modern, I was surprised to realize how ancient the replaced ten-year-old units looked, and the difference it makes to the kitchen. To celebrate, we went out to lunch, and then to a movie.

The movie is part of our annual Oscar Quest. Friends throw a party, and we like to be able to think and talk intelligently about the movies and performances. We’ve only seen a few noms, so we’re behind. We saw “The Post” yesterday. That increases our total to four. We have work to do in our entertainment. None of the previews (“Love, Simon,” “Red Sparrow,” “7 Days in Entebbe,” and “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool”) didn’t inflame deep interest. Each struck me as something to stream and watch at home when it’s available through one of our subscriptions. Of the four, “Love, Simon,” sparked the most intrigue. I suppose I’m too picky and cynical.

As the lights dropped and the previews played, and then the movie opened, my writers emerged with scene ideas. When we returned home, I quietly sat down (quietly, so as to not attract the cats, who seemed determined to stop me from writing at home) at the laptop, opened the required doc, and wrote the scene and changes. Not interested in tempting fate (the cats! the cats!), I saved and closed the doc, but later, while eating, more writing visited me. I stole back into the document and added a few more pages. Best, it left me knowing exactly where to begin today.

It’s a fine feeling, to know what to write, to write it, and to look forward to writing more.

Liquid dripped onto the coffee shop table as I unpacked and set up. Rain or sweat? I don’t know; either were plausible. I suppose I could taste it, but it’s not a critical difference.

Tonight, Wednesday, is when I meet with my friends for conversation and beer. It’s a standing invitation. My attendance record is lackluster but the rain is whispering, “You should go.” I’m ambivalent, but contemplating it.

Meanwhile, the first gulps of hot, black coffee have scalded my lips and tongue. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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The Halves Don’t Have It

I’m excited about Winter Solstice. It’s the shortest day and longest night. I’m ready for more sunshine and light.

So says one side of me. Another side of me corrects me. “Ahem. The day and night are not longer or shorter. You’re speaking of periods of sunlight.”

Yeah, whatever. You understand what I mean. Do you need to be such a meaning Nazi?

To which that half replies, “Nazi? Really? Do you really believe that’s an apt expression? You read what Thomas Weaver wrote on North of Andover, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” several halves say, while another half of me says, “Oh, give us a break. Must you be so damn literal all the feckin’ time?”

Meanwhile, another half of me is still on the original topic. They say with a sigh, “Don’t you love these long, dark nights? Doesn’t it feel cozy under the winter stars, quieter, and stiller?”

“Yes, I agree,” says my second half. “I can hear myself think then.”

I began recognizing that, once again, all my halves – I have at least three, or maybe four (they can hide in plain sight without warning) – are not in complete alignment. I like longer days of sunshine because they provide me more light to do things. I can make lists of things of what’s to be accomplished without factoring in bad driving conditions associated with the short winter days, and the early darkness. I dislike saying, “Well, it’s three forty-five. The sun will be setting in less than an hour.” And I dislike getting up, looking out the window, and saying, “Seven thirty. The sun should be rising soon.”

And, I feel the lack of sunshine in my soul and body during these short days. I do walk in the winter, and soak in whatever sunshine comes available. It frequently doesn’t feel like enough.

I like getting up at six in the morning and having sunshine streaming in the windows. I like going out at nine in the evening in time to catch the sunset’s beginning.

But winter and its long days do have a soothing effect on me. The holidays are the exception, but they’re human creations. Without the holidays, I feel like winter and the long hours of darkness provide me with an environment that helps me recuperate from the rest of the year. Like the earth, I’m resting, and preparing to grow again.

Of course, weather and the circumstances accompanying seasons are the chunky ingredients that throw tastes into different directions. The heat of the summer can be endured, but then a drought becomes extended, wildfires begin, and smoke pollutes the air. Winter’s cold is refreshing, but then the wind blows, and the ground freezes, and you walk carefully, lest a fall claims you.

I recognize the problem. There’s just no satisfying me and all of my halves. I suffer this same dichotomy with other life facets. It’s probably because I have too many halves. Like, I want to eat healthier, but damn, some of that food is just too damn tasty to turn down. Yes, I’ll have another piece of pie, please. Yes, make it al a carte! Pizza? Don’t mind if I do. Yes, let’s have a beer with that!

Then, one of the other halves speak up. “Ahem. Need I remind you that you had to loosen your belt today? Have you seen your profile? You look like Alfred Hitchcock.”

That half is strict, principled, and patient — and critical. It’s the frugal, intelligent half. It’s the half that says, “A car is transportation. It does not need to go two hundred miles an hour. Even one hundred miles per hour is more than sufficient. There are far more important qualities to a car than its top speed.”

It’s the half that reads labels and eschews food choices based on fat, sugar, and salt levels, or the principles of the company selling the food. This is the half of me that always returns shopping carts to the cart corral, and doesn’t even complain about others who didn’t put their cart away.

They don’t hesitate to complain to me, however. “Moderation, Michael. Mindful eating, Michael. Patience, Michael. Think of your health, Michael.”

Another half of me often rises to my first half’s defense when the third half is chiding me for my choices. “Leave him alone,” he’ll say. “Michael’s worked hard all of his life, and listened to you most of the time. He deserves to relax, cut loose, and over-indulge.”

“Yeah,” the first half says. “Thank you.”

That’s when it goes well. Other days, it’s like a clowder of cats fighting over the same patch of catnip. We aim for detente. All the halves are quiet now. I think they’re napping, except for this half, which is drinking coffee and writing, and another half, who is singing “Clocks.”

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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His Dark Secret

His dark secret wasn’t that he disliked coffee. Nor was his dark secret the revelation about how broke he was, or how he collected cans and bottles from the streets and did odd jobs to have the money to buy a four-shot mocha at the coffee shop every day.

His dark secret wasn’t that how he worked for the money and spent it on coffee every day because he liked flirting with the young women who worked behind the counter. Neither was his dark secret his admission that his coffee shop visit was his day’s only highlight, and he looked forward to it each morning. No, his dark secret, that he didn’t share even with himself, was that they were the only friends he had.

2

The Talisman

He never spoke of it to anyone, and had only written of it once, in his private notebook that nobody ever read, but he had a talisman. It was always carried with him when he was leaving the house; he’d often also pick it up, holding and playing with it, keeping it close to him, even when in the house. He felt it gave him something. He loathed to describe it as confidence or power, but the talisman’s presence reassured him.

He was particular about keeping it in a safe place, where only he would go. Panic flooded him whenever he couldn’t find it. Searching, he would retrace steps, urging himself, “Think. When did you have it last?” Room from room, he’d prowl. Maybe he’d absently – foolishly – set it down in the bathroom. Or in the kitchen, or the living room, or the bedroom, the garage, the dining room – perhaps he’d dropped it. He had to find it.

When he did find it, he heaved a relieved sigh and held it against his chest, refraining with only a huge application of strength from whispering, “My precious.”

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