Too Swamped to Post Again

... Busy flying out for last minute interview.

Theraputic Coffee

The lady is in Minneapolis because I was supposed to play poker last night. I use the word poker loosely; We also play baseball, screw your neighbor, and have even played war for money. I also use the word money loosely. Last time I ended the night up over twenty dollars which, considering we play for nickels and dimes, means I had a stellar night. It's hard to get my six music industry guy friends on the same to organize a game, so when I had four on board I wrote the date in my calendar. Mere hours before I was to steal their money with my mad skills, I received three cancellations.

The lady sits in her room whenever I host poker night and is generally a good sport about not disrupting the guy talk with frequent visits. Needless to say it's boring for her so I always let her know as soon as we've settled on a date. This way she can make plans of her own. Hence the trip to Minny. Sometimes we all need time alone. While chilling with my lady has all the appropriate ingredients to provide a pleasant evening, the scarce "me" time is always a welcome occurrence. With no poker, I was going to get all the "me" time I needed.

For numerous reasons these last few weeks have been a mentally dizzying affair and the anxious, agitated state my brain resides reeks of nervous break down. It's brought on from too much and (strangely) too little going on. The list is long: Wedding plans, honeymoon plans, too much to do at work, no word on Seattle, family deaths, and now a financial blunder of sorts: Due to the poor responses for our wedding (Over forty percent of those invited have sent regrets) we are faced with coming in shy of our contractually defined food and beverage minimum to the tune of over two grand. While we were going to spend this money either way, this two grand is now just going to be handed over to the hotel in return for nothing. This hurts my frugal planning heart. My response to pressure varies. I'll rise to the occasion normally but this weekend I crumbled under the weight of it all. Crumbled as in sat in front of the TV, ate too much, and moped around sans lady. Needing a pick me up, I went to breakfast.

One of my greatest pleasures is this first meal of the day. The delicious food is partly the reason but it's also because breakfast is usually a mellow, un-rushed occurrence where I can regroup and unwind. For this reason even having breakfast alone is a pleasure. Parking at the counter, reading, and sipping coffee for an hour or two settles my soul. The dish washing station was directly in front of me. When my waitress would clean a few plates, the German gentleman next to me would exclaim "Herr Kaffee!" and answer any English to German translations asked of him. A chatty, coffee guzzling lady was to my left. Without my book, I would have suffered accounts of her grandchildren and perhaps worse.

I loose track of how much coffee I've consumed when the refills / top offs occur constantly. Even so, I'm positive I was working on a fifth cup when I gazed into the rising steam for what seemed like minutes. An answer to my anxious melancholy rose with the steam from the coffee and I broke this beverage stare down with a vision of the lady's smiling face.

Death Had a Busy Summer

I'm so swamped I'm mentally tired. Few loose ends remain with the wedding but there are those few. The honeymoon is slightly planned; Loose clippings are strewn about our living room begging to be scoured and edited down to a casual itinerary. 4th quarter releases have kept the large format printers at work buzzing, my interns busy, and my blogging hat ignored. I've applied for the job four weeks ago now, with only one response from HR and no interviews scheduled. Add to the mix a dead aunt and cousin, and it's not hard to imagine my clouded psyche.

My younger cousin Elizabeth lost her battle with health issues derived from years of anorexia and heroin abuse. She was an energetic, always polite girl who possessed stunning beauty even if she never thought so. Anorexia brought on by body-image induced teenage confusion provided me with an awkward moment where I introduced myself as if a stranger. I knew she was coming to lunch. In fact she was the reason for the lunch. But as I said hello to the various relatives numbering in the double digits, I saved her for last, extended my hand and said "Hi, I'm Tom." Eventually she rebounded, filled out, but still looked to the magazine covers for who she should be and what she should look like. This led to breast implants at eighteen, submissions to Playboy, and five year heroin habit that riddled her with health problems such as seizures, the likes of such ultimately ended her time on Earth.

Sue never forgot to tell me about the time I came to her house, was asked how dinner was, and responded "This beef tastes like rubber." I'm sure it did, she wasn't known for her cooking. Her husband Ken is a despicable sort that never missed an opportunity to belittle even a budding teenage psyche. It's unfortunately a popular club, but I belong to (along with many of my relatives) the "I Don't Really Care for Ken Club." He's a self made millionaire from peddling copy machines coupled with a victorious lawsuit against Xerox that netted him some ungodly amount of dough. His offspring was not invited to the wedding as they are a cackling, self-absorbed duo. Heather, the oldest, shares a profession with yours truly. On the rare occasion she visits you'll be subjected to hour long stories about her trials as a design genius and yet not once has she even acknowledged we share a similar traits. Somehow, amidst all this ugly, Sue was a good egg. Maybe not a bright, shiny light of good egg, but certainly one of the good ones.

Sue had smoked almost her entire life. Watching her mom and dad perish from cigarette induced cancer wasn't enough incentive to quit. For two years now she has been bed ridden and required to sit up in bed so her lungs wouldn't fill with liquid. I haven't spoken to her in quite a while, and it was no surprise to receive a regret to our wedding invite. I sent seventy-five dollars of white daisies and yellow roses to her memorial and can't shake the image of her face or the fact that I never said goodbye.

I've had second thoughts about moving away. While I haven't been offered the job, I still consider it wise to mentally prepare and accept such a huge change as a possibility. If I move away it might not be forever but what's going to bring me back? The need to be around my loved ones, or my attendance at their funeral?

Off the Meat

My friend Greg makes the best chili I've ever had. His graduation from culinary school provided him with a bag of tricks, but he also has a discerning tongue. Food is more than a meal with Greg. When dining together we often talk about the subtleties of a certain plate, and are generally on the same page. Somehow eating with him reminds me to slow down and taste my food. I mean really taste it, savor it.

Sadly Greg doesn't own a restaurant I can frequent. Not sure if his dreams involve such an idea, but I'd design his logo and menu for free. Receiving an invitation to a meal at his house is a welcome treat. Besides having a kick-ass wife, an adorable string bean daughter, and a remarkably verdant back yard, the seemingly effortlessly prepared meal always satisfies. And there isn't a scrap of meat in his house.

For a long time now, I've been contemplating going veggie. The reasons are obvious and somewhat endless. At the core of the reasons are that I don't enjoy the idea of killing something and then benefiting from it. I'm not a spiritual man but I subscribe to the idea that everything affects everything. A calf restricted from sitting or turning in their cage that also can't avoid standing in their own fecal matter doesn't scream yummy to me. Or humane. The rancher that deals with this sort of thing has to become desensitized to it or suffer mentally. In their desensitization they bury simple / basic traits of kindness which eventually will be expressed to other humans on or off the ranch. And so on.

There is no way I'm swearing off fish however. Which makes me a Pescetarian. How was this line determined? Not sure, but with Tokyo around the corner, I'd be foolish to go hardcore. I've had dreams about Japanese sushi. I will be skipping the chicken and horse shashimi.

It's only been a week and I can't say I'll never have meat again. I feel better, am sleeping better, and haven't really missed it all that much. Next thing you know I'll be protesting naked outside a fur store. Don't worry, I won't share photos of that.

Velvet Murphy

I've had only a few moments of self enlightenment in life. One was inspired by a Velvet Underground song in my teens. "And everything was all right" might seem like a throw away lyric spewed forth by a hippie laying in the middle of a field, but taken to heart and applied generously, you'd be surprised at how comforting those five words are. Everything is all right turned into everything will go on. Letting one small thing ruin your day is setting you up for a big tumble when something big actually happens. How you react to life's daily trials affects your mood, the moods of those you encounter, and can / should ultimately set a mellow, relaxed pace for your entire life.

Murphy's Law provided me with the other moment. In it's original dismal verse, it paints a picture of an unlucky soul that the world is set on destroying. Take from that the basic message, with none of the depressed self loathing, and you get: Anything that can happen will. A phrase that, in it's preparatory sense, allows someone to consider every possible outcome in any situation. Coupled with the Velvet lyrics, I'm provided caution and comfort simultaneously.

Driving down the highway I am both worried about getting cut off and all right with it. When a loved one passes, I'm never surprised because sometimes people die. When they're gone, Lou's words level me out and push fond memories of the deceased into consciousness. I'm often one of the few at a funeral with a smile.

A few days ago the job was posted. I've waitied over two months for the post and have been trying to get to Seattle for nearly six. I've always known that things might not go my way. In prep, I've attempted to think of every possibility so, if confronted by bad news, I would be only mildly depressed as opposed to homicidal. For all the attention and thought I've given this job quest, I neglected considering one possibility.

The Seattle company had lay-offs just prior to the job being posted. Instead of walking papers, open positions were offered to the newly jobless. I hadn't considered this as a possibility, which is fine because I can't think of everything. But had the position been handed to someone with one foot out the door, my fragile kitten self would have been sent spiraling. Or maybe I would have been happy for them to get the position. After all, I still have a job. Even if I hate it.

Too Swamped to Post ...

... Busy applying for job.

Gift Guilt

Our third wedding shower was this weekend, which is good because we desperately needed a new ice cream scooper. Some of our household items are comprised of a mismatched, hand me down mess. Not wanting my divorce to linger, I succumbed to material requests in an attempt to get the ex out of my hair quickly. Mom provided me with spare cookware and plates that met my low maintenance needs for nearly a decade. Getting new stuff, especially since I asked for new stuff from some of you the first time, upsets what little etiquette I have. No matter, because all of this if for the lady.

At first the lady wanted to elope. The idea of a fairytale wedding never appealed to her. As preliminary plans were laid for our secret nuptials, the lady decided she wanted her sisters there. Once they were added, she couldn't get married without having a few of her close friends there. Inviting a few friends and sisters would upset the uninvited mom, and if mom was coming dad would surely be upset if not asked.

Even though our invite list expanded to include close to two-hundred people, remnants of that initial plan remained. Making our wedding bigger, we had only one rule we never comprised: Make sure everyone had a good time. Beyond that, every tradition we could break has been tossed aside. We will not be lighting a unity candle, I won't be fishing out a garter with my teeth, and having desert and wedding cake seemed redundant, so we opted for a cheese cake ending to your meal.

Both the Minneapolis and Chicago showers were well attended, featured our favorite drinks / snacks, and were lovingly planned by our friends and family. Thinking about this planning, we are overwhelmed. When thanked for all this attention, our families and friends respond similarly with earnest sincerity about how much they love both of us. Friends have said that an evening dealing with my ex was not offset by the pleasure of my company, resulting in sparse invitations to social engagements. In contrast, everyone likes the lady. So much so that everyone, no matter how much they like us on an individual basis, like the combination of us even better.

I'm at a loss as to why the lady went thirty-two years without getting hitched. I'd like to take this moment to thank all those less than perfect practice dudes for leaving her alone. I've never been happier. I've never been more myself, with no filters, and I've never smiled as much as when I see her face after a long day. The gifts you give are an expression of how you feel about the lady and I. They are given freely because you are happy for us. Every time I guiltily think about getting gifts from you, I'm reminded of the lady's smile; The only gift I really want.

My Life On Hold

Summer is typically a tough time to make plans. Mostly because so many plans hit the table, without enough empty slots to accommodate them. While most of these plans are social and welcome, it's the downtime that gives pause for my mind to wander and obsess about the Seattle gig. I've been lying to myself. Tricking myself to believe this is not taking so long. Once I realized the self inflicted denial, I started to feel exhausted from the anxious, excited feelings. There's nothing I think about more.

You should see my closets. Considering a possible move, I've been boxing up non-essentials for months. I love organizing, so even if I don't get the gig, I'll be happy to have things tidy. Five garbage bags later, I can see the back of several cabinets, have consolidated plastic tubs, and have separated myself from so many "One day" items. Cleaning and organizing is a welcome side effect to having anxious feelings.

I should be painting the molding, fixing the closet door, putting some wood putty where the dog chewed the cabinet, and caulking the tub. These were the first chores I considered when first applying for the job, since selling the place would go smoother after tended to. When was that first interview? April? Let me check ... March 18th was my first phone interview. That's over four months ago. Or eighteen weeks, or one-hundred-twenty-six days, or three-thousand-twenty-four hours, or one-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-four-hundred-forty minutes, or ten-million-eight-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-four-hundred seconds.

Considering this, it's excusable that I've found premature preparatory chores to keep my brain busy. Especially since I haven't even applied for the job yet.

You're Not Helping

We sent your wedding invite this week. The lady and I had a nice moment taking turns throwing clumps of invites into that big blue box before going out to breakfast. I'll never be able to forget the smile on the lady's face as the last of the marital mailing slipped from her fingers.

We're both in our mid thirties and have some money saved for the wedding. Having it completely paid for by the parents is tempting, but it makes us feel icky. The parents are helping and it's understood any money received is our wedding gift as well to help pay for it all; Whatever we need it for: Wedding bills, honeymoon, or a new iPhone, it's our gift. Grandma's friend Karen, visiting from Germany this October, wants to know what special German flavored gift we'd like for our wedding. A fancy, German born gift is not going to mollify our planning hearts into forgetting that Grandma invited a woman we've never met without asking.

We've been forced to make a few tough decisions about who to invite. There are a few friends we would love to invite, but space does not allow. The capacity of the room is so tight that a single person over one-hundred-sixty will require tables to spill onto the dance floor in a connecting room. That awkward moment when the bus boys come to take your table really makes you feel wanted.

Asked if Karen from Germany could attend, room might have been made but we've decided to put our foot down in an attempt to squash any further discourteous maneuvers from grandma. With my backing and assurances, the lady made an awkward, uncharacteristic, and lengthy phone call to a woman who has manipulated, lied, and belittled her for thirty-seven years. Not going to say the lady and I feel good about buttin' heads with grandma, but it is an accomplishment of sorts for the lady.

The lady and I have wedding plans under control. The invites we lovingly dumped into the mail box had been stamped and ready for months. Almost everything is done and the level of stress is minimal. Sure a move across the country might escalate the stress, but my money is on grandma being responsible for at least some of the escalation.

My Four-Hundred Dollar Haircut

Keeping my water glass full will warrant more than a twenty percent tip. Cutting me off at a singular glass, while not provoking me to leave nothing, will certainly affect the girth of your food service wallet. I've always wanted to be a waiter. The lady's sister thinks I'd be good at it because I'm chatty. Engaging in conversations with strangers is easy, I go out for gossip riddled dinners with girlfriends regularly, and look forward to chatting with my hairdresser Sarah.

Years ago, I had my locks lifted at Marshal Field's hair salon by a girl named Vita. Vita is a fortyish, stick thin, Italian girl with impeccable morals, and questionable taste in men. Not wanting to leave me high and dry after she quit, she offered to trim my doo out of her home. Washing my hair in the laundry room utility sink was tolerable. Sitting in a dank, decaying basement in front of a television that always seemed to have Soul Train on was tolerable. Being joined by her father or sister, who also lived there, taking calls while working on me, and having random visitors stop by and conversing with her while she was tending to my mop was tolerable. When she started forgetting how to cut my hair...

I have my grandfather's hair. A thick wavy, cowlicky mop that's hard to tame. Beyond sharing hair attributes, all the Dietz men share a similar helmet like cut. Considering my potential follicle fate, I make every effort to avoid it. Changing hair dressers is tough. The quest to secure a replacement is never a straight path. Thinking I might have been paying too much for my haircuts, I went to a five dollar Quick Cuts and was provided with a horrible mess that made me look like I was five, so I called Heidi's in the mall.

I had been to Heidi's before, seeing a punk skateboarding kid named Charlie. While I enjoyed his company and cut, his prices had originally sent me to Vita. The manager told me Charlie had moved on but that he could squeeze me in that same night. I don't recall his name, but I do remember his Cavaricci pants and the helmet cut I received that day.

Wandering aimlessly around the mall I stumbled upon Regis Hair Salon where I randomly selected Sarah as my new mop muse. Sarah is a cute, bubbly sort, who is guarded and sassy without losing site of her manners. She worked quick, cut hair well, and I got out the door for a reasonable price. It had taken four months to find a suitable replacement for pre-laundry basin Vita, but the wait was worth it; Six years later Sarah is still tending to my mop. In fact, Sarah is such a good cut that I found myself reconsidering how I tip.

Gratuity should not be a standard, set percentage for every service. Everyone knows what to tip at a restaurant, but what should you tip for take-out, valet, buffet, or hair cuts? After careful consideration I've come up with my own tipping scale:

Valet and bag handling: Two or three dollars
Take-out: Five to ten percent (on a semi regular basis and only if it's a place I frequent)
Buffet: Ten percent
Wait staff: Ten to twenty percent
Hair stylists: Thirty percent

Sarah spends nearly an hour on my hair, talking with me the whole time and deserves more than a server. Since my haircuts with Sarah are thirty dollars, she gets a ten dollar tip, which means I surrender over four-hundred dollars to her every year. Maybe I should just shave my head from now on and put that four-hundred toward an iPhone.

If I move I'll have to find a new Sarah. This would also mean that I wouldn't have her capable hands cutting my hair for the big day. If you see me at the wedding with a shaggy, soppy doo, please be kind.