Championable | Love, parenting, politics.

As my eight-year-old daughter left for a sleepover, we had this conversation.

Me: Good night, sweet pea, I’ll miss you!

Her: Trust me, Daddy, you’ll be sadder when I leave for college.

My God.

Love to all. Even you, the dude who refused to pull up 3 feet so I could park, too.

It’s 4:47pm, and I’m exhausted.  I had a U10G practice from 9:00-10:30 and a practice/game (which I reffed) from 12:45-145.

Maggie sometimes says:  “Maybe if you didn’t sprint the whole time you coached, you’d be less tired after practice!”   But I can’t help it.  I get super-amped being around all those kids.

My boys team has three kids with disabilities ranging from mild-to-heavy-moderate.  It makes for a more challenging practice.  We’re trying to focus on all the kids, not just the one who is causing the disruptions.  Urg.

Hey!  Did I ever mention that I got put on Strattera about a month ago?  60 mg.  Wednesday, they upped it to 100, although I’ve been ramping it up via an interim-80 until tomorrow, when I go to the full dose.  So far… well… nothin’.  Not a thing.  But that’s why they upped the dose, I guess.

Anyway.  It’s time for me and my oldest to run some errands, so I’m off.

Love to all.  Even you, the kid who kept grabbing me where I don’t want to be grabbed.

On Sep 27, 2007, at 4:33 PM, JANE wrote:

Hello,

I am attaching my resume which does not have any copy writing experience , but my resume is only a drop of the ocean, that is my experience. I am an idea person who is creative on almost too many levels. I believe an interview would be necessary for you to understand who I am, and how I could benefit your company.

I look forward to hearing from you,
JANE

On Sep 27, 2007, at 5:52 PM, Rich wrote:

Dear Jane,

It is with great fascination, Sun Chips, and a Fresca that I read your email.

Allow me to say that I very much feel for your resumé. My resumé has no copywriting experience, either. Additionally, my resumé cannot tap dance, yodel, or recite freestyle poetry. Securely bound by the cruel chains of its nature, my resumé would weep in quiet desperation, if only it had tear ducts. Or emotions.

My resumé is an excellent mime, but only when it’s doing “the resumé.”

This ocean. This ocean. This ocean of which you speak. I am confused about this ocean. Is your experience a drop in the ocean? Or is the experience of your resume a drop in this ocean? Is it an ocean of resumes? Is it an ocean of experience, and if so, should one check with the CDC for vaccination requirements before entering this ocean?

What, exactly, is this ocean?

To be honest, I was hesitant to even begin this letter. Not only because I’ve got an irrational fear of Keyboard Spiders, but because of this sentence:

I am an idea person who is creative on almost too many levels.

At this sentence, I was overtaken with emotion, and my eyes misted over. Or rather, I THOUGHT they were misting over, but it turned out that I was actually being maced by my coworker. My screams of agony caromed off the ceiling, down the hall, out the door, up Lafayette Street, off the cube, back down Lafayette street, back into the building, up the stairwell, off the ceiling, and back into this wretched prison of a cubicle, hitting me right in the eyes where I was JUST MACED. What’s the chance of THAT? OMG MY EYES!

Anyway, I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of being creative on almost TOO many levels, but instead, I accidentally wrapped my mind around my coworker, who promptly maced me again. OMG MY EYES!

What does this mean, to be creative on almost too many levels? Are you awash in ennui, or do you have too much fun? Is everything exciting, or can you already see all of the possibilities, all the angles, thus rendering life a tepid, colorless ocean of flavorless, two-day-old #8 pasta?

These things, I realize, are best left unanswered, because my Fresca is getting warm.

Nonetheless, I remain yours truly,

Richard
President

Love to all. Even you, “JANE.” (Name changed to protect the funny.)

Love to all.  Even you, the highly-qualified lady with utterly disjointed thought process.

If the fight to make enough money to live in this town causes Maggie and I to live in near-constant, if low-level, fear… why are we continuing to do this?

I was up 23 hours straight, slept five, and now I’m sitting at my desk, stressed again. I was feeling good, earlier… starting to chill out… but Maggie’s worry about money (sometimes it’s mine, sometimes it’s hers) threw me into a tailspin.

I know the kids don’t want to move to a different town. I know they have good friends here. But it’s so, so, so, so, so expensive.

That’s all I’ve got today. I’m sorry.

Love to all. Even you, Bank of America.

Love to all.

Even you, eavesdropper.

They say that, while drinking, the alcoholic suffers from an incredibly powerful denial. They are able to exclude from their decision-making process the effect that alcohol has on their lives. This is debatable. Others say it’s all about powerlessness. Regardless, though, it’s not the point of this post.

I’m actually writing to say: Thank you, God, for Denial.

If I thought about the fact of where I actually was:

A single person, sitting on a slab of concrete at 6am, waiting for a train that’s part of a system that shuttles millions of people to and from a city of more millions in a state of tens of millions in a country of hundreds of millions on a planet of billions… a planet with the thinnest little layer of increasingly-hot atmosphere, circling a not-particularly-special star, in a solar system that made up the teeniest little fraction of the galaxy, which itself is just a galaxy among galaxies in a space so vast it’s actually impossible to comprehend…

…I might. Just. Lose. My. Shit. And if I lose my shit, I’d get all: what the fuck is the point of ANY of this?

So, thanks there, Denial. Much appreciated.

Love to all. Even you, the dude next to me who should cover his fucking mouth.

Modern dance just doesn’t do it for me.

About five minutes into the Martha Graham Dance Company performance at The Joyce Theater in New York, my oldest leaned over to me and whispered:  “What, exactly,  IS this?”

Call me uncultured, but I was thinking pretty much the same thing.

Love to all.  Even you, the lady who countered racism with racism.

Youngest: The first day of CCD was awesome.
Me: Cool! What did you learn about?
Youngest: God.

Love to all. Even you, the Type A making fun of all the other Type As.

Po just pointed out that today is ADHD Awareness Day.

Yeah.  Like any of us are going to remember THAT.

Love to all.  Even you, the guy who called my cell 5 times in 10 minutes.