It Gets Better

Sure, the title of this post could also be a message we send back in time to Dodger fans in the first half of this year: "No, we won't make the playoffs, and McCourt still won't sell the team, but trust us, it gets better. We'll win some games! Matt Kemp will be vying for the Triple Crown!"

But the title is there for an even better reason. The Dodgers have stepped up to the plate (baseball metaphor!) and created a video for the "It Gets Better" project.

I normally can't watch these videos without tearing up just a little, and this one is no exception. Way to go, Dodgers.

God Particle

Sure, I don't post over here anymore. But Watching Oprah is a hotbed of activity, so you might feel like wandering over there one day.

Baseball is starting relatively soon? Yeah, I know. Maybe I'll write about it one day. I've got a job now, people. Give me a break.

In the meantime, I give you a clip from my new favorite website, xkcd (click to enlarge):

Awesome, no? I've spent way too much time going through the strips (800+), and I'm still not even halfway through. And I only understand about 75% of them, but I don't care. I've been looking stuff up, and actually learning from a comic strip. Crazy, huh?

For instance, thanks to this site, I now (sort of) know what the Higgs Boson is.

Seriously, though, go read Watching Oprah if you miss me. And if you don't, well, why did you stop by to see if this page had been updated?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Another Year Older

Last night, I suddenly had a desire to hear "A Long December," by Counting Crows. We were driving, but Katie happened to have it on her iPhone, and she played it.

I don't know what made me want to hear the song. I could remember parts of the chorus, but definitely not all of the words. Now two specific parts of the lyrics just keep rattling around in my brain. It's not like a song that's annoyingly stuck in my head; they're words that I think I was supposed to hear, even though I didn't know it when I requested the song.

It's like how Katie and I listened to "Jagged Little Pill" (the album, not just the song) recently, and realized that we are finally old enough to at least partially understand the angst and anger that went in to those songs. When we were teenagers, we only thought we got it. But now we've lived some (albeit only 30 years), and we've been hurt and hurt others, so some of that anger Alanis exhibited in those songs is a little more credible for us these days.

The lyrics from "A Long December" that I keep coming back to wouldn't have meant a damn thing to me years ago when the song first came out, or even earlier this year. But events in the last six or eight months have made it so that I hear the song a little bit differently than I once did. These lines have been playing in my head in a different order than they appear in the song, but I guess there's a reason for that.

It's December 13. I spent most of my day doing a little work and then researching different ways I might be able to better my life through education. Not too long ago, I'm sure I would have had different plans for this day. But things change. And the person who needs to hear these words that I can't get out of my head probably won't even read them. No matter. I'll just put the vibe out there anyway.

I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower,

Makes you talk a little lower

About the things you could not show her.

And it's one more day up in the canyons.

And it's one more night in Hollywood.

If you think that I could be forgiven,

I wish you would.

Getting By

Today is not my favorite anniversary. On this day one year ago, I lost a member of my family. And today, in order to honor Lindsay Weiss, her parents suggested we make this a day to remember Lindsay. Family and friends from all across the country (and even the world) are spending today doing things that honor Lindsay in some way. Right now, her parents are probably sitting in their backyard, welcoming local friends and family who flocked there to remember Lindsay. Earlier, Jon, her father, did a workout at a place where Lindsay used to run cross country. Her brother Matt swam, to celebrate how Lindsay used to love triathlons. And her mother Alicia created, making a diorama and some soup.

Lindsay loved projects. One of her last was to make a nursery for my nephew, Wilson. "Make" isn't even the proper word there. This was a project the way building the Hoover Dam was a project. Lindsay created an amazing room, complete with everything a baby would need, including books and furniture and toys and enough clothing to get him through his third birthday. And though Lindsay passed away three months before Wilson's birth, I'd like to think he at least feels her presence in that room every time he's in there. He'll never meet her, but she will always be a part of his life.

On November 2, 2009, I got the news that Lindsay had left us the night before. I spent that day crying more than I ever have in my life. And I haven't gotten through today (or this post) without my fair share of tears. But I am trying to make this day about celebrating the life Lindsay had, instead of the one she'll never know. 

My contribution to this day of celebrating Lindsay is minimal. I couldn't come up with any plan. I don't think I'm quite the lover of projects that Lindsay was, though I do believe that she would think Watching Oprah is a pretty funny--and demanding--project. So maybe I would get her approval on that one. I guess all I have to offer are words. They're not much, but they'll have to do for now. When Wilson gets old enough to understand, I'll tell him about his Aunt Lindsay. And though Merritt never had any connection to Lindsay (other than me), I'll tell him about her, too.

She was taken from us far too soon; she should be reading those books in Wilson's room to him, and she should be meeting Merritt and deciding what cute outfit she wants to buy or make for him next. But since she can't do those things, I'll have to do my best. It won't be easy. She was tiny--I had at least six inches on that girl--but I still don't know if I'm a big enough person to fill the shoes she left behind.

Suck It, Yankees

You know what baseball does to me, even in a season in which my two teams sucked it up and didn't reach the playoffs?

I'm sitting here choking back tears. Over the damn Rangers, for god's sake. The Rangers. As in the team previously owned--and still supported--by George W. Bush. The team that features Josh Hamilton, whose comeback story is sort of marred by the whole "born-again" aspect, not to mention the fact that it's hard to believe he would have gotten a second chance if he were a black or Hispanic player.

But they were underdogs.  And they beat the Yankees. I certainly thought they were done in game one, after they blew a five-run lead in the eighth inning. But they did it. And thank god, because I seriously would not have been able to handle another season in which the Yankees ended up in the World Series. And can you imagine how the media would wet themselves over a Giants/Yankees matchup? That would have been devastating.

In the National League, it's been hard for me to know who to root for, since the Giants are the Dodgers' natural rival, but the Phillies have been the ones to end the Dodgers' playoff run twice in the last three seasons. If it had been the Yankees versus either one of those teams, I doubt I would have watched a second of the World Series. But now that the Rangers are in it, the baseball season will continue for me for just a little bit longer.

Crap. Except Josh Hamilton just started his ALCS MVP acceptance speech by saying, "First of all, all the glory goes to god and Jesus Christ." And the crowd went wild.

Yep. Jesus loves baseball, dudes. I hear he was the MVP in the inaugural All-Star game between the Jews and the Romans, way back in 33 A.D.

Which means Josh Hamilton had better be careful, because you know how well Pontius Pilate took it when his team lost that game.

UPDATE: Something was messed up on this one when it was first posted, so some readers might not have seen the above picture. I swear it was part of the original post, though.

Dear Merritt,

I'm taking a page from your momma's book. She's been writing these letters to you, and they're always so heartfelt and funny and amazing, and one day you're going to learn how to read and you'll realize how much she's loved you from the very beginning.

Of course, you can only learn how to read if we can figure out how to keep you interested in the book learnin' for longer than ten seconds at a time. You don't exactly love having stories read to you, so mostly what happens is that your momma and I read the stories aloud to one another, while you expend your energy destroying the room. We all have our gifts, Merritt. Destruction is clearly yours. Teaching is clearly not mine, but I have faith that someday you'll progress past the point of just yelling because you like the sound of your voice. We're looking for words, dude. Yes, I know you have "Momma" down, but we're gonna need a little bit more one of these days.

This is not the letter in which I will tell you exactly how it is that I came to be in your life, but we can give the short story. I "met" you when you were about six months old, though I only saw you on a computer screen for a while there. Just before you hit the nine-month mark, I saw you in person for the first time. You were adorable. And considerably less mobile than you are now. I should really have counted my blessings. But you sleep through the night now, which you certainly didn't then, so you take what you can get. And I'd much rather chase you around the house during waking hours than deal with you screaming every hour during the night. So, thanks for choosing mobility.

I'll need you to remind me that I said that when you figure out how to put more than a step or two together at a time, and you're into even more than you are now. I keep getting proud every time you take one of your little steps, and then I remember what a walking baby will mean for this house.

The good news is, I'll always be a part of your life. You won't remember a time when I wasn't there, so you will never need to adjust to me. You've already done your adjusting. I can tell because you can't wait to see me in the morning, just so you can lean one of your cheeks against mine, or even go for the full head-on-the-shoulder hug, which you seem to have mastered just this week.

You need to know that I never wanted a boy. I thought if I ever decided to have a child, I would do whatever possible to ensure that I would birth a girl. I just didn't know what I would do with a boy. I still don't, I guess, but you're not as scary as I had always assumed you would be. I'm still certain that I'm not going to love it when you officially discover what's between your legs, but I've got your momma by my side, so I think I'll be okay.

I don't know yet what you'll call me. Your momma refers to me as "Mom" when she talks to you, and sometimes it really seems like you take the second syllable off of her name when you're looking at me. You'll go with whatever is comfortable once you get old enough to decide, so we'll just have to wait and see.

Your momma asked me once if I would love you like you were my own. I don't have one of my own, so I can't answer that question officially. But there are those nights when you're sick and crying, and my heart is breaking for you; or those days when you smile and thrash your hands about just because I walk into a room, and then you do your patented alligator crawl to get to me; or those moments where I see you give your momma a slobbery kiss on her cheek, and I know what my family looks like.

In those moments, I'm certain that I know what it's like to be a mom. I've already thanked your momma for making me one, but the real credit goes to you, buddy. Falling in love with your momma and moving in with the two of you didn't make me a mom. You did that all on your own, since you somehow knew immediately that I will do anything for you, and that I'm so excited to be your mom. I only hope I can live up to the task.

I might need you to cut me a little slack.

Happy birthday, munchkin.


Love,

TBD


P.S. If I decide to write you another letter in the future, I promise it will be better than this. This was only my first try.

This New Life

It wasn't supposed to be this hard.

Sure, I knew leaving my life in Los Angeles, then moving to Portland without any hint of a job, or even a place to live, was a risk. And I knew it would probably present its challenges. But this is getting ridiculous.

Last week, I applied to be a part-time custodian, because the job was located within walking distance of my apartment. But I guess I don't know enough about sawdust to fill that position, so mark another one off the list. And I have responded to dozens of different "office assistant needed" ads, all to no avail. Typing ~100 wpm is of no value to anyone? Really?

The real problem is likely my résumé. I suppose when one receives a million different responses to one open position, there's a weeding process that must occur right away. And I would imagine that if one is looking to fill a management position at, say, Target, one doesn't look at a résumé, see a job history of "Costume Production Assistant on The Last Samurai" and immediately assume the applicant is Target material.

So I write cover letters. Lots and lots of cover letters. Heartfelt, poignant, desperate (but not too desperate) cover letters. I explain myself and my situation. I list myriad reasons I'd be perfectly suited for the position.

And still nothing. I was not joking when I said that the only response I'd gotten so far was for a position at Home Depot, for part-time work at $8.80/hour. That was about a month ago. I suppose I should have taken it, huh? At least it would have been something.

This is a far cry from hanging out for six weeks in Venice. My life is so incredibly different than it was this time last year, or even six months ago. I have never been this stressed for this long. It is absolute torture.

But don't be confused -- I know I made the right decision. I didn't do everything the way I should have, and that part I regret. But despite all the crap that's raining down on me at the moment, I know this is where I'm supposed to be. I just need to get an employer to agree with me on that one, and start paying me to be here.

*********************

And just to add to the stress and make this all the more fun, the boy decided to get sick last week. Really sick. Like, Friday afternoon I took his temperature and the thermometer read 106. Katie and I haven't slept through the night since in almost a week. At urgent care last Thursday, the doctor said it was just some sort of virus, and the good news was that Merritt's ears looked fine. No antibiotics necessary. Just a regimen of Tylenol to keep the fever down. He said 100 mg every four hours, and I wrote it down; he also wrote it down on a card for us to take with us. 

Later, after purchasing the Tylenol, I was a little confused, since a liquid medication is not measured in milligrams (now I know that there are 80 mg for ever ml of children's Tylenol). So I pulled out the card to see if the doctor had written down the same thing I had.

Katie looked over and said, "Oh, no. You were wrong. The dosage is '100 years every Thursday.'"

*********************

I miss my dog. It is a painful, awful feeling, because it's like she's dead, but I know she's not. I just don't get to see her ever again. So at some point I'm bound to forget what her belly feels like, or how it sounded when she really got going on the wood floor. But for now, even almost three months after I last saw her, I still expect to hear her following me every time I stand up to walk from one room to the other. When there is a loud noise, I brace myself for her bark. But it's not coming. She's well taken care of, but I'm just not the one doing it. And it sucks. This is not a face one gets over easily:

Oh well. I guess the depressed and the unemployed make up a large part of Oprah's audience, right? So it works out perfectly.