I Heart Talking to Myself

We've all seen or been that child sitting in a corner, with dolls or a bat-mobile, simultaneously pretending to be both villain and good guy. No one ever told me to stop pretending, so I talk to myself constantly. Instead of cop and robber, I rehash missed come back lines to perfection and imagine future discussions prematurely with a little self absorbed vocal pollution. I've been divorced now for seven years, but there is one conversation I still rehash often.

It was apparent my ex wasn't going to win any awards for her communication skills; Troubles would arise and my requests to verbally resolve them, along with suggestions to attend couples therapy, were ignored. I suspected she was having an affair and straightforwardly asked if she was, on several occasions. Not satisfied with her denials, I did some research.

Getting the phone records was easy. While most phone calls were made to my parents or hers, I would call unknown numbers if I couldn't find the number in my data hungry organizer. After a few days and dozens of calls, I came across Stephen's number.

Finding his number on the list was no surprise, but it wasn't until I matched the dates of these calls to my social calendar that I knew something was going on. Confronting her at this point would have solved nothing, because this wasn't proof. I decided I had to hear one of these phone conversations and with the help of a simple Radio Shack device, I did. I'd turn the recorder on whenever I was out and, upon returning from an overnight work trip to Peoria, I hit the mother load: The best and worst phone calls I could have every hoped for or feared.

The first of two calls was Stephen checking his voice mail from my house. The second was an hour long conversation with accounts of their entire relationship: Initial intimate encounters, deception tactics, and how she was going to eventually leave me. When I finished listening, I was appropriately white faced and shaking. A good friend drove me to my parents house where I retold the story, cried to my lawyer cousin while soliciting advice, and stalled my inevitable return home till I knew my ex would be asleep.

I was awake when my ex shook me on the couch, to tell me she was leaving for work. As soon as she drove away, I retrieved boxes from my car to pack up her belongings. I delivered them to the house of her confused and teary grandmother. Lastly, I left a note in her car: "I will never talk to you again, unless it is through a lawyer."

Strangely, I was happy. I had suffered our marriage (and attempts to save it) for so long that, having the end in sight was a relief. Not talking to her ever again, as the note suggested, was merely wishful thinking. We talked for hours as she sobbed and pleaded with me to reconsider. I was unreceptive to her suggestions about therapy at this point, but she had asked so many times (pleaded really,) that I reluctantly agreed to go. It was at this point that I lost the upper hand and she told me she didn't think the marriage would work out. In the frustrating, commonly rehashed version of this conversation, I never agree to counseling.

I generally use talking with myself for more constructive, future realm conversations. Like talking with a hiring manager about a job in Seattle. For a week I have been prematurely hashing together this possible 2nd interview by imagining concerns and squashing them with precise, intelligent arguments while in the shower, car, or alone in my office. I'm as prepared as I can be and I'm looking forward to talking to myself about the third interview.

God Damn it, I Love That Mother F'ing New iPod

Look at it. It's beautiful. It has map applications, email, contacts, calendar, internet, and it's a mother f'ing iPod.

Maybe I should skip the new iPod and just get the iPhone. That has a camera and, well ... a phone.

My desire for new stuff is bigger than my wallet. My wallet cries when the commercials come on for that phone. It knows it may be attacked at any moment. Ravaged and pillaged, it's plastic license protector torn and waving in the wind.

One of my favorite lines, when out and about (and in need of information) is "If only I had an iPhone..." One time, I couldn't remember my boss' finance's name, before we meet them for Christmas dinner at his mother's house, but sadly I couldn't look it up on their engagement web site before dinner. Sorry, that was just one of their commercials.

I'm busy saving for the end of my life, which is kind of sad, when put like that. But I am seriously thinking about putting it all on hold for this baby. Loosing myself from 5 hundo isn't going to push back my retirement. Wasn't I just looking at new TVs last week?

My TV is old though. Got that sucker back in the 90's, and refurbished to boot. The bottom right corner never could show that elusive red color, and it's displaying a constant wave of lines (faint as they might be) across the screen, in a top to bottom motion. It's heavy, it gets dusty, it uses electricity, and displays a strange, yet enticing, set of moving images from outer space.

Oh, and my computer is kinda slow. That bitch is three years old. I know someone, somewhere is trucking along faster than me.

My car doesn't even have a key chain remote to unlock the doors. I have a roll of (stolen) duct tape jammed in the door pocket to keep the speaker from rattling, even when the rock is playing at a mere whisper of it's potential. Plus it's kinda slow, just like my computer.

And that's why my projected retirement age is now 80.

Giving Up Green for Green

If it was up to my interviewer Stacy, I think I would already have the job; It went that well. Stacy is a bubbly sort, relating geeky stories about her older brother, catching herself sharing too much with a stranger, and openly expressing her delightful surprise at some of the questions I had prepared.

In preparation for this interview, I collected several specific situations when conflict and failure had occurred in the workplace (along with the resolutions,) accomplishments when my experience secured discretionary marketing or saved the company money, my overall qualifications, reasons I wanted to work there, and questions about the company. I separated each unique, specific example and wrote them on flash cards, while keeping the lists together on single cards. Although I didn't use most of them, they were there if needed.

The department head had provided Stacy with a list of questions, all of which I immodestly nailed. If I make the cut for the next step, the phone interview will lean toward the technical. At my job, I am the department, so the idea of talking tech makes me anxious because I don't know the lingo. Still, I know what I'm talking about and am capable. I just need to prepare similarly for this portion of the interview, while remaining modest and relaxed.

Not happy about the idea of moving away from family and friends, but I can say that I am up for this Seattle adventure. While it might rain a little more than in Chicago, everyone I know living there loves it. Seattle flowers bloom in February while I scrape frozen hail chunks off my windshield, everything is simultaneously near the ocean and mountains, and it's greener than where you live. Besides the dream job qualities, the completely web based design responsibilities, and creative team environment there is a gym, a daycare (should I need one,) and the 401K program is insanely generous.

Years ago, as my divorce approached, I slashed my 401k contributions along with other adjustable / controllable expenses, in preparation for my singular salary. Keeping the condo, more specifically paying for the condo, was going to be tough. When the divorce dust settled, I realized my ex was spending her entire paycheck and some of mine. This financial revelation allowed contributions to restart.

I've decided that I want this job, the move across the country, and the chance to start again, even though I'll be slashing my 401k contributions once more when I take a pay cut.

To All the Girls I've Played Tron with Before

I spent ten hand cramping hours stripping wall paper yesterday. It hurts to type, but I'm not complaining. I enjoy helping my friends bring their recently purchased hundred year old house into the 21st century. There is at least six layers of paint on everything, lots of fire code issues with the electrical, some front porch sinkage, and a tasteless creative approach to decoration consistent throughout. None of this taints the potential of this beauty in the rough. In two weeks, when the paint goes up and the floors are refinished, it will be an enviable, beautiful home.

I've always enjoyed long drives and I got one yesterday. The two hour long round-trip, to this house, allowed me some time to relax while driving past a considerable portion of my teenage era haunts. A rush of faces sprang into consciousness as I passed this or that landmark: That's where Bonnie lived with her purple shag carpet covered living room wall and that's the drive in movie where we drunkenly got naked. Kris worked at that Dunkin Donuts. I can still feel the sting of the thousand mosquito bites I suffered to spend a few hours kissing her, in that woodsy back yard. One landmark I passed held more memories than all combined: Galaxy World.

For the entire length of my teenage years I frequented this video arcade. Always on the prowl for girls, we'd cruise the black lit, winding path meeting eyes, pointing at parachute clad behinds in approval, and occasionally dropping a quarter into our favorite machines, for some non girl chasing fun. I enjoyed classic games like Qix and Tempest, but Tron was by far my favorite. So much so, that I purchased one a few years back.

Perhaps I'll stop and see if they still had Tron, I thought. Or at least cruise the games looking for any number of classics and drop a few quarters. When I turned the corner, clearing the similarly frequented White Castle, Galaxy World was gone. Not demolished gone, but newly inhabited by a corporate chain bowling alley gone. My eyes lingered on the site in disbelief. Hopeful visions of the previous owners sleeping amongst piles of quarters, from the sale of such a personal landmark, filled my grief stricken skull. I thought about stopping still, but knew my memories would not be satiated.

All my memories are becoming dusty and faded. Change is good, I keep telling myself. But as I consciously try to convince myself of that, I'm reminded of how I cried when my parents painted my room a different, unfamiliar color at the age of five. I think back to the feeling of loss upon finding my favorite blanket cut into dust rags. Now I can add the demise of Galaxy World to that list. We all cherish and find comfort in the familiar, but I'm starting to realize I might have a problem accepting change. While I gladly dismissed all of my high school era haircuts and acid washed jeans, I love the idea of my youth and apply landmark status to every place that holds fond memories. The memories I create today and tomorrow, will end up just as cherished one day, but they haven't gathered as much fondly dispersed, lovingly scattered dust.

I Have an Interview Next Week, Don't Tell Anyone.

Why do I feel dirty, making arrangements to take a lunch time interview? Sure my boss wouldn't be happy that I'm looking, since he just today gave me a near perfect performance review. But really I'm not looking for jobs right now, a friend gave me the heads up about this vacancy. The position is a wee bit over my head, but I can manage it with a charitable allowance of "on the job" training. The company is the antithesis of Sony BMG; It is prosperous, employees hundreds, and is growing or at least stable. Instead of becoming embarrassingly complicated and slight, the benefits are excellent and the 401k program makes retirement seem almost possible.

I tend to get down on myself, when confronted with opportunities. It is both in an attempt to ready myself for rejection and because I dislike the idea of change. I've had the same car for 7 years now, same condo for eight, and same job for 13. The lady is about the only part of my life not requiring an upgrade. When I first started at Sony BMG, I painted displays and visited Kinko's daily to produce various fliers and handbills. Now I'm doing so much more, but I'll spare you the laundry list. Suffice to say that I am capable of more now, I am worth it, and gosh darn it I like myself.

Leaving this place would have been sad a year ago, but the faces have changed so much that I no longer look forward to it. With the masses of employees and friends being let go over the years, not only has daily work life been socially sad, but also my work load has steadily increased at an unrelenting pace. That's old news (less people same work,) but this last cut has put such a strain, on my daily mental well being, that my nights have become a precious sanctuary for my sanity. I shut off when I go home and find comfort lounging away the night, cuddling with the lady in an attempt to forget. She is the only reason I survive this job. The single thing I look forward to daily.

Our wedding date is slowly coming into focus and the realization, that I'll be hitched in seven months, thrills me. Since I've already had a wedding in Illinois, we've decided to give this next one to the state of my ladies' birth: Minnesota. Organizing an out of state wedding might seem difficult, but we've already booked the hall / hotel, the reverend, the photog, and secured the DJ (with an even trade for his business web site design.) We'll be taking more than two wonderfully work free weeks off to drive up to Minneapolis early, be wed, drive back, and head off to a little city you might have heard of called Tokyo. The only difference, if I get this job, will be that we'll have to fly into Minneapolis from Seattle, to host our wedding.

The Simple Post

I'm sitting in the basement of a house with no air conditioning. Not that it needs to be on, it's all of six degrees in Minneapolis today. The fact that this house doesn't have air is no mystery, the father doesn't want it. Although he hasn't discussed his reasons with me, it has something to do with him going without as a child. Upon my return this summer, I'll be suffering, but I respect and understand a decision based on such unarguable reasoning.

I try to write thoughtful, informative emails to people whenever I get the chance. I make sure to avoid half assed notes, never send form letters, get my emotions on the page (even if I have to use a smiley face or two,) and make sure to give a little info if I'm asking for some. All in an attempt to bring communication from the email age to the heartfelt correspondence between friends that it once was. Last week I received a handwritten note from a friend, adorned with smile inducing Hello Kitty stickers and an overall charm that has made my entire week brighter. The content is straight forward and polite, something that doesn't quite give her sarcasm and wit justice, is a welcoming relic of an idea, a glimpse from the past, and a reminder of all the letters I never wrote. I've purchased stationary, and I stink eye it every time I open the cupboard. I've never had a pen pal in Russia, an out of state cousin to write to, or a brother in the military. That last one is a lie and it pains me to admit, during his four years of service, I never wrote.

Life seems too complicated at times. On occasion, I long for the good old days, the simple times when all there was to worry about was which car laden polo I was wearing to school and if all my Star Wars toys were accounted for. Simple worries such as this still exist (Where are you Boba Fett?,) but they've been added to, blanketed with bigger and more demanding worries. Even keeping up with friends takes a lot of effort. I hesitate to say it's a chore, because as much as my nap time suffers with a full social calendar, it is always better to be out with friends than slobbering on your pillow. Back in the day, making plans with a friend to go to a concert, or see Teen Wolf for the third time, was simple. The hardest part was coming up with the money and the ride. Those worries dissolved when the gang turned 16 and became employed.

My first job was making pizza. Waiting 3 months to turn 16 would not do, so I lied on my application. I started with the important, yet tedious, tasks of making dough, sauce, coleslaw, and various other sides requiring use of the 10 gallon mixer. The eventual move up to pizza maker, was a big deal. I was responsible for everything: Spread the dough into it's circular shape, distribute the sauce, apply all the requested toppings, cook the pizzas in the knuckle balding rotary oven, and then cut and box 'em. It was a lot for a 15 year old to handle on a Friday night, and also exactly enough. This first job still resonates with me; I dream about opening my own pizza joint and employing 15 year olds till I retire. I've already drawn up plans, come up with a name, secured the recipe, considered locations, gimmicks, and designed a logo.

As I get older, my life is turning into a quest for the simple things. I may surround myself with high tech gadgets and fancy hair products, but I long for the old days when worries of the day dissipated long before my head hit the pillow. If only I knew then, what I know now ... is a phrase I often ponder while daydreaming. I wish someone would invent a time machine. Although stopping Hitler, Columbine, and John Wayne Gacy would be considered as initial tasks, I'd start by going back to whisper that perfect come back line in my 11 year old ear so that Suzie would cry instead of me, I'd go back and tell college bound me to study computer animation, and I'd go back to tell my 23 year old self to write letters to my duty bound brother.

Never Loan Money to the Jewish, French, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, English, German, African, Mexican, Canadian, or Russian. The Pollocks are OK.

I am always the planner. I schedule card games, Guitar Hero parties, and nights out with friends from different colliding friend worlds. I'll be the one to get everyone going to a show, the one who buys the tickets, and the one who plans the dinner reservations before the show. All of this, I happily do. But when money is involved, you better pay.

Sure I've occasionally welshed in my 36 years, but I'm happy to say those embarrassing incidents occurred twenty years ago. I was learning, at that self centered age, and if I was slow to pay someone back, it was never malicious. I've had "friends" pay their debts by writing checks dated a full month into the future and others mail me a check the second I communicate a total, even though I would see them in a few days.

Being out $20.75 didn't make my mortgage payment late or have me washing dishes to pay for any meals. However, waiting two months for the money, was merely a rude start to the conclusion of this minor transaction. When I was finally paid, instead of the twenty and change, I received a flat twenty. As if I should pay 75 cents for the privilege of doing the delinquent a favor.

I'm not much for confrontation, but you'll know if I'm mad. It's not enough to be honest, I've been trying to be transparently honest. This requires me to say unpopular things, sometimes be harsh (in a constructive manner,) and confront anyone who is failing me as a friend.

Give everyone the same amount of trust. What they do with it dictates whether they receive more or less trust. While this tardy debt delivery isn't strictly a matter of trust, his actions tell me one of two things: 1) He doesn't care about me or 2) He was raised by a jackass.

Is he always rude? Not always. Is he annoying? A lot of the time, yes. I've had conversations with him about his annoying quirks and, to his credit, he has taken the criticism as constructive and made an effort to change. That said, I've informed him that I will no longer include him in any of my reindeer games, unless I have his money up front.

My Hair is Sad Because My Car is Broken

I met a girl named Amy on the train. She worked on the 91st floor, of the wobbly when windy Sears Tower, while I was pursuing my everything under the sun college degree. Glances lingered on first sight, but it would take months before first contact.

Catching the train at the same stop allowed us continual flirty looks, but once boarded, we would occupy separate seats. I was never good at approaching a girl and pick-up lines filled me with an urge to blow nervous, embarrassed chunks. So it was surprising when, 2 stops from our mutual destination, I switched seats to sit next to her.

Amy was a beautiful Italian girl, who at 25, lived with her sister about a mile from my parent's house. She was a music fan, prankster, thoughtfully secretive, and my Yoda in all things intimate and otherwise sexual. I won't go into details, but finding yourself miles from home, clothed only in a trench coat and shoes on a frigid January night, interacting with another similarly dressed accomplice on the hood of a car, was every nineteen year old's dream.

Amy wouldn't drive with in me in my car. She was embarrassed by it. While probably the only ugly thing about her, my car did resemble a vehicle used on the set of Sanford & Son. At least she was honest. Sneaking out of her window late one night, to avoid alarming her sleeping sister, I jumped into my car and drove away. At the first application of the brakes, almost as if they popped, the pedal succumbed to the pressure and fell fully to the floorboard. I was grinding metal on metal and had the echoy, baby waking sound to prove it. It was rough getting home, and harder still getting to the auto shop, but the truly rough part was coming in the form of an $800 bill to fix the brakes. This total wouldn't have sounded so bad if I wasn't 19 and in college. It also didn't help that, a mere two years earlier, I had paid only $200 more than the repair bill, to purchase it.

Henry the 1979, brown, Celica hatchback was a friend of sorts. The dash was coming apart, pieces of cracked vinyl and crumbly foam came off at a steady pace. Instead of disposing of these little bits of Henry, my friends and I would rearrange the parts on the dash, wedging them into cracks and ultimately creating something resembling an "outsider art" project. Henry had a stick shift, from what seemed to be, a school bus. The long lever made for easy work of many a Magnum PI spin out. Once, after leaving an under age, drink laden new years party, Henry encountered an un-welcomed delivery of vomit from a 17 year old passenger. Unable to stop the car in time, the floorboard behind the passenger's seat was enveloped in a regurgitated mix of pink champagne, beer, and Wild Turkey. Once out of the car, the drunkard fell, rolled down the snow covered 20 foot embankment, and into a ditch. Remembering that humorous tumble did not make up for the fact that Henry suffered the entire winter, as the vomit had frozen solid before cleaning could commence.

Men dream about fast cars. They long for their favorite Corvette, from their favorite era. A friend has a Trans Am that resembles the Bandit's in every detail. All of this in the name of mid-life-I'm-going-to-die-soon crisis. If I ever hit my mid-life crisis, and desire a vehicular face-lift, I'll get myself another Henry. But instead of waxing it, souping up the engine, and keeping it under wraps during the winter months, you'll find me doing donuts in empty parking lots, after a heavy snow.

My knowledge of cars, and how to keep them running, is a shallow pond. I bragged proudly to the lady last year, after successfully changing a headlight and feel helpless when confronted by any other issue of a car based, mechanical nature. Even so, the news that the transmission (in my current ride: The Civic) had failed and would require a cool $1900 to fix, was quite a shock this morning. So much of a shock that I missed several spots shaving, my hair looks slept on, and I forgot a handful of essential items I intended to bring to work.

While the Civic has never let me down, in the 6 years I've owned it, I have never named it. Besides a few with the lady, I'm hard pressed to come up with a list of memories as heart warming as those I have with Henry. Perhaps time will reveal stories, from the last six years, to be as precious as those from 20 years ago.

To an extent, treating cars like people says something about me. While I'm having trouble deciding whether to fix it or go shopping, I have decided one thing: This car deserves a name.

I've Been Reading a Lot Lately, and Now I'm Really Smart

TV is an awful, time wasting invention that we would all be better off without. And my poo sells for $100 a pound on eBay.

I have to be selective with my TV consumption. The trick is to not even start watching a show. Because, if I start, I feel obliged to finish. Not because I need to know which of the top ten female vocalists will once and for all suppress Simon's criticisms, but because I feel somehow incomplete as I lay in bed wondering. It's the same thing with any meal.

When I was smaller, I was always made to finished my dinner. I'd sit at an empty table, trying to choke down the frigidly cold steak chunks and decomposing vegetables. Without a family dog to remedy the situation, I was left to figure this one out myself.

Definitely once, but quite possibly twice each meal, I would stuff inedible food chunks into the sides of my mouth, chipmunk style, and excuse myself for a bathroom break. As soon as the door shut, I immediately filled the water cup, then I'd spit everything out while pouring a slow, steady stream of water into the bowl mimicking the sound of my ten year old urination, just in case my mother was suspicious and outside the door collecting clues.

For years I've been using the television as my main source of entertainment. Books would be asked for at Christmas and birthdays; Although started with a breath of excitement, each would end up with the others, a mere 30 pages or so read, neatly stacked on the nightstand, their bookmarks glaring at me every time I passed.

I took a few weeks off at the end of last year. I had good intentions to fall into an exercise routine, fix up the place, organize the hell out of everything, and read more. Embarrassingly, most of those things went undone. Days would pass and my schedule started to resemble that of someone working the night shift. However, I did manage to pick up one of those orphaned books and finish it, and then another. Two months later, I'm about to finish my 7th book. I can guarantee you I haven't read that much in the last decade. How did I do it? I take fake poos at work.

Sometimes it's just a chapter, other times, more. The biggest dilemma was not the obvious moral question of being on the clock, but whether or not to fake poo with my pants on, or off. The idea of sitting on the toilet pants on, seemed slightly more disgusting than the alternative. But it also seemed strange with pants off, since I did not have any deliveries. In the end, I found pants off was the way to go, but the slightest argument to the contrary could change my mind.

To get through a chapter, I've endured brown clouds that would make anyone cry. The loud talkers and the cell phone users irritated me immensely (keep it down, I'm fake pooing!) One patron of the pot found it impossible to turn off the faucet, after washing, which was so completely distracting, that I stopped mid chapter.

The writers strike was good for quelling my television consumption. Will I watch more and read less, now that the strike is over? Yes. But I will make this promise: To the books of the world, I promise to power through and finish each one of you that I start.

No more orphans. No book left behind.