At 3am

Writing is part of my life now. Every time I say I’m going to stay away, I’m back before two weeks has passed. Maybe it has become another addiction for me like Facebook or crack. Maybe I need help, but probably not. I’m not giving up my paycheck to write a post, or stealing from you so I can open up a Word doc. Or am I?

I’ve been up since 3am. There were so many things that kept me from getting a good night’s sleep that I almost don’t have enough room to write about them all. First: my legs. For me, R.L.S. is all inclusive. By that I mean it not only distresses my legs, but my arms. Right about the time I fall asleep, my knees and elbows become spring-loaded and I am shocked awake by my own vicious movements. The sensation that causes the involuntary movements while sleeping continues while I’m awake only now I can control my limbs and I try to hyperextend them and shake them at the same time but Mirapex is the only real solution for me so I just take another pill and then it was midnight.

At precisely 3am there is a strident distress signal coming from the bedroom down the hall. It’s fire, carbon-monoxide, or a three-year-old waking up from a bad dream. It’s the latter-most of those and I can hear it stomping toward our room which means there will be no more sleep for the weary.

The other kid has a stomach ache now and needs to sleep closer to the toilet just in case stuff starts to flow freely from either end. It’s 3:15am. For the next hour we play musical beds (and couches) with the only song being the caterwauling of a frightened three-year-old and the grumpy groans of a tired 39-year-old.

The last time I see is 4:09. I know when I have to be up for work, but somehow I clear my mind and get in a few minutes of sleep before my alarm goes off at 4:20am. I swipe the alarm off and verbally accost my phone. I’ve gotten roughly six hours of sleep since I went to the bedroom sometime before 8pm, but I feel exhausted because I had to get up so many times.

Thirteen hours later I feel fine. Perhaps I could use a nap, but that will never happen. It’s 4:12 pm and as soon as I write the last words of this post, Willie and I will walk down a few blocks to pick up the girls and the accountability supervenes. There is no longer time to be tired in my life. There is only time to be an adult.

I am the most productive I have been at any point in my life and I feel as if I have more duty than I’ve ever been charged with, and I think I’m handling it well. I wish I had more money and more free time, but I do not. I have what I have because I wanted it and earned it, and now I must maintain it and keep it.

The people that prevent me from getting more sleep are the same people that make me happy. There’s plenty of time to sleep when I’m retired. There are only so many years that these kids will be kids, and I must be in the moment, with a clear mind—sober. I have to be present for all of these little moments that make up life. I want to remember now as the good old days when I look back and wonder how time has flown by and I’m using a walker and pooping in a diaper and Amanda has to clean it up. That’s right, Amanda. You’ll be cleaning up my poops someday, too.

That is all.

 

 

Vote Rod Taco

This post will flow through my fingers from a sprinkled muddle of thoughts and opinions that have been twirling around my brain for a few days. A lot goes on in my life and in the world around me and all of us, and sometimes I feel like writing when I’m at work or on the road and I have great ideas for posts and then I forget them entirely and I end up typing a run-on sentence that doesn’t stop when it should have but it will now.

The first thing I want to do is show you a picture.

 

Now, that’s just a picture of a taco to you, but to me it’s a picture of love and acceptance, and the reason I love immigrants and immigration. Every once in a while, we have a few minutes of spare time at work and can make a small breakfast. This morning, it was chorizo tacos. My coworker brought in fresh chorizo from the Mexican market near his home, and he sautéed up some veggies and eggs and scooped a generous helping of avocado on top. We ate quickly as we were setting up the line because we have no time to waste in the morning. Even while he was cooking breakfast, he was doing a dozen other things on his station and in his mind, getting ready for the day. My coworker is an immigrant, and he’s my friend. He is from Mexico and his Spanish is way better than mine.

Every day I try to learn a little more Spanish, and a little more about his culture. He learned English the same way I am learning Spanish: at work. His English is great, and it’s how we communicate, but I try to slip in as much Spanish as I can because I want us to be equals, and I like learning the subtle nuances between his Spanish and that from Colombia or Peru where two of my other coworkers are from. They are a big reason I love my job. They, and people like them, are a big reason I love my country. And they have noticed a big change over the last couple years, specifically the last one year, 208 days, seven hours, thirteen minutes, and nineteen seconds as of the beginning of this sentence. It’s even longer by now. All I will say is that immigrants, whether legal or not, have a huge impact on everything we do and see, even if you don’t see them. Please, support them, say hi to them. Ask them questions. They love that shit. I love that shit. It’s because we are people. All of us are people.

 

Rod Stewart is kind of a bitch. I mean, I don’t know that for sure, but he ruined my plans this week. My plans were to see him and Cindy Lauper in concert at the Xcel Center with my friends from down in southeastern MN. He cancelled his show about 24 hours before it was supposed to start because he has strep throat. I’m not the only one who observed that he already kind of sounds like he has strep throat, so maybe he should stop being a baby and sing. He did reschedule for October 14^th, so we will go then.

 

And finally, for the first time in my life, this week I voted in the primary election. I went into the city auditorium at about 3:30pm and when I inserted my ballot, the counter went to 40. It’s a small town, but I really do feel like every vote means something. I listened to MPR the following morning and heard that of the 902,000 voters, over 600,000 were Democrats. This is a good sign, I think, that maybe younger voters are getting out and showing the current administration that they are done with this insanity. I’m grouping myself in with the younger voters because I’m in my thirties. And I am sick of living in a country run by a Twittiot. I just devised that term.

 

That’s all I have time to write about. I will be taking a break for a while to work on a project involving this blog, actually, my former blog which was a co-blog. I have a lot of new followers, so if you haven’t done so before, take some time and check out the beginning of this story. You can access the original posts here and read through an incredible journey. I will be back I’m sure in two weeks or less, and I will let you know what I’m up to.

 

One last thought. Some day we will all die. Your first death will be when your body expires. The next when you are buried or cremated or whatever. And then some day, way, way, way, down the line, somebody somewhere will say your name for the last time. That will be the last of you. What will they say?  

 

 

Shit

I want to share pictures of my most recent triumph, but for so many reasons I cannot. You see, I recently survived a traumatic incident for which I am dedicating this entire post. Maybe I will share one picture with you: the conclusion of my ordeal.

It all started when I asked the three-year-old if she needed to go potty before we ate dinner. She replied animatedly, “I go poop!” As always, when she says that, I cheer her on as she runs toward the duck-potty chair in the bathroom. “Go, go, go!” I say devotedly. Stomp, stomp, stomp she goes as I stir the butter into the noodles and add just a little parmesan cheese and salt. You have to stir the butter constantly until it’s melted or it breaks and you have noodles with goop.

A minute passes and I hear from the bathroom, “I pooped!” This is exciting news as we have mainly had success with pee over the past month or so. I dropped what I was doing and ran to the bathroom to praise her and clean up the potty. I stopped dead in the entryway when I saw poop. It was everywhere. Some in her pull-up diaper which was tangled up with her underwear on the floor. Some was on the front of the seat. A good helping was in the potty itself, and the leftovers were spread equally amongst her four limbs. Sorry, I keep thinking about the meal I should be eating now so I may have used a few gastronomic terms.

I’m still just in my first year of being the household’s male role-model. I’ve not yet had a fecal incident; I’ve only heard tales. Other terms I tried to coin for that sentence were: feca-dent; poop-stravaganza; and inci-poo.

I stood still and we locked eyes. There was fear coursing through her veins because at some rudimentary level, she knew something was wrong. Correspondingly, terror was surging through my arteries because at some fundamental level, I knew I had to clean up shit. She was as confused as I was as to how it all happened. There was only silence as I gathered in the scene and pondered my options. I knew that since I was the only adult at home that I would have to either clean it up myself, or pay some cleaning service to come take care of it for me. No cleaning services in my area clean up these sorts of messes according to a quick Google search, so I was on my own. (A side note, yes, I did quickly Google that and there were some fascinating search results, one of which is in this link and is worth reading.)

After some reflection, I turned on the shower head and began the fecal removal process, or, FecRemPro. You start with the kid and move to the plastic if you didn’t know that. I figured, the plastic can’t run around and get more shit on stuff while you clean the kid, but the opposite is untrue. In the end, I spent six latex gloves, half of a roll of paper towels, several wipes, and probably thirty gallons of water. Oh, also I threw away a loofah because somehow it got poop on it. It was probably from when I used it to clean the poop off of the kid.

Today’s lesson: never trust a kid.

No, really, this has been a process and it’s a lot harder for her to figure it all out than it is for me to clean up an occasional mess. I exaggerate certain points because I am the writer of this blog, but I am so proud of this little girl and all of her accomplishments. Each day there are successes and failures in all of our lives. When we make mistakes, we have to clean up after them and move on. In a few months we won’t have these issues and we can focus on more exciting ventures. For now, it’s shit.

 

I have enabled comments on this blog again, and I invite you all to share your stories of poo with the world.

Familiar Friend

Many many years ago in a land of spandex, there was a festival similar to Pola-Czesky Days during which I was not able to contain my alcoholism as I did this past weekend. Now, I should say that I was not in recovery back then as I am now, but there were many similarities, and many triggers throughout the weekend that brought up memories of my “good old days.”

Buffalo Bill Days falls on the same weekend as our current town festival. It happens in the otherwise quiet town of Lanesboro, MN where 788 citizens are swarmed by thousands of tourists for a weekend of imbibing, events, and a parade. I was always responsible for working long shifts during that weekend, but I would start drinking before the end of work, and I would get lost in the crowd as the night moved into darkness and I progressed into blackout. Many times I would wake up in a stranger’s tent or on a bench in the park, wondering what I would have to explain to somebody, or if I still owned any of my paycheck or even a wallet. Many times, I did not. Generally my mind and my wallet would turn up at one of the local bars where I would hear stories of the aforementioned night, where I was a highlight even amongst the throng of visitors. I would sit in reflection, wondering how I could not recall a thing, order a Jager Bomb, and go back to work without having taken a shower or having breakfast. Repeat.

Pola-Czesky days was full of challenges. Many of you are normal drinkers, maybe even casual drug users. Probably most of you can order a beer and walk around with it for a while, sipping and enjoying a casual spirit. In fact, I saw many of you walking around drinking too slowly. And I could never comprehend why or how you would only get one beer at a time when they allowed you to have two.

As always, I monitor how much people around me are drinking, and judge them because all of them drink much slower than I would be. I suppose it’s a way to constantly remind myself that I am different: that I cannot and will not drink slowly. I will not stop drinking until I cannot physically ingest more, and often I will throw up copious amounts of frothy bile until I have room to do so. I drink quickly, I drink much, and I don’t stop until everything is gone.

A beer still looks good sometimes. When I have those thoughts sometimes I have to process why for a few days and writing this out is part of that procedure. I have built up a great defense for the first drink over the past few years, which is why that beer that looked so good didn’t get purchased or consumed. It was a fleeting thought, and gone as quickly as it had appeared, but it was there. It’s not dangerous for me to have those thoughts, it’s pretty natural. It wasn’t a craving, it was just a thought. A thought followed by many brief periods of reliving my past in my mind, knowing what happens if I have a drink.

The first drink tastes good. I take my time, and enjoy the old familiar friend I haven’t had for a while. It goes well, and I decide I can try some controlled drinking. The next day, I decide to go to a bar because I don’t want to drink alone at home, and I don’t want any evidence of me drinking in my apartment. Again, the first beer goes down so smooth. Look at me; I can drink like a normal person!  I decide I can have two tonight, and maybe a shot of tequila. Yeah, that sounds refreshing. I take a shot and chase it down with another beer and that’s when the magic happens. That’s when the alcohol hits my brain and says that more will make me feel better. It feels warm, especially on my face and in my gut. It spreads across my body and I begin to smile. I can talk to the strangers next to me. They don’t know I’m supposed to be sober. Hell, let’s do shots. They like me!

 

This is me in blackout condition. I may have been combative. I may have been friendly. You just never knew what you were going to get.

I wake up. How did I get home? My fucking head. My head hurts. I don’t want to move. I just want to die. I remember having fun last night. I remember. I remember nothing. Zero days sober. Again.

That’s how my relapse went back in 2006. It lasted nine years and I ended up in prison. That is the chain of events that will happen again if I stop going to meetings and working with other alcoholics and addicts. I AM NOT LIKE YOU. I am hazardous to you if I am suffering from my addiction.

Today, I am safe to be around. I remember what I did yesterday. I almost always remember where my wallet is. I always have money. I have a beautiful girlfriend who trusts me with her two beautiful girls. And I have sanity, serenity, and sobriety. This is the life.

Pola-Czesky Parade

The culmination of the 49^th Pola-Czesky Days occurred today on Main St. at 1pm. The Silver Lake town festival is always on the first weekend in August, but this is the first year I’ve been able to go because, well, I’ve never heard of it before I moved to this small town.

It all started off with a bang. Literally. The honor guard marched by and halted just past our position and stood at attention until ordered to raise their weapons and fire into the crowd. People screamed and yelled and ran in opposing ways in a cacophony of misdirected chaos , but only twelve people were shot and only nine of those died. I knew I was going to go somewhere dark when I started this paragraph, and I hope I followed through to your satisfaction. My girlfriend argues that we should honor those who served our country and I stated that people only die in my fictional recount of today’s events. So, keep that in mind.

 

Really though, it was fascinating. The honor guard discharged their M1903A3’s with integrity and marched on as the rest of the parade followed. For just under an hour we watched in amazement as fire trucks, ambulances, sheriffs and whatever the girls wearing crowns are called, passed by single file to their own tunes. The rest of this post will be a parade of pictures with captions that—hopefully—represent their subjects accurately.

 

The honor guard was followed closely by the Disabled American Veterans who received more applause-rightfully so-than any other float thereafter.

 

Silver Lake is a town of just over 800 people, and by the looks of this parade, there was a fire truck for each citizen.

 

 

 

These are called tractors.

This is some sort of train engine with wheels.

A hush came over the crowd as the Republican Party float cruised by. My mom noted that it was neither a bad or a good sign. Naturally, I prefer the color blue when it comes to politics because I have friends and family that are women, gay, Mexican, African American, Asian, legal, illegal, Somalian,  and possibly a mix of all of those.

My favorite float of the day.


 

So, a weekend that started on Thursday night with Polka in the Park, just ended about twenty minutes ago with the finale of the toilet bowl races that were rained out on Friday night. There was a lot of fun to be had by people of all ages. Yesterday included a kiddie carnival where the girls and their friends ran around and spent a bunch of my money on games that are normally impossible to win, but were made easier for the kids. Also, it's worth noting that the overall prices for food, beverage, and entertainment was quite reasonable. My mom got a 16oz can of fancy beer for $5 and a large portion of ridiculously perfect cheese curds were the same. I think next year could be a good time for a lot of friends and family to come by for the weekend and enjoy what our small town has to offer.

The weekend is done. The house is quiet. I'm ready for bed and it's 6:23pm. It's time for us all to wind down and get some rest. You should do the same. Have a great week!

A well placed sign on the side of a water tanker informing the town that the popular race had not been forgotten.