The flight to Paris went well. How could it not? I had built up such a sting of worse case scenarios, lost luggage, thrown out backs, missing kitties, that it was almost anti-climatic. The paperwork we sweated about for Ponette, as well as the chip we had inserted in the back of her neck, was never even requested. The only memorable flight issues regarded flying out of our little corner of the Midwest. One dentally challenged security guard told us to make sure “them French don’t eat yer cat.” He was also the guy in charge of the ‘puffer.’ The puffer blows air on you and detects bomb-making ingredients. It should be mentioned that the puffer is a machine and not a person. The guard in charge of ‘puffer’ looked at Ponette and explained that he kills cats when they come on to his property to “crap.” Why he felt the need to give us this little glimpse of his off hours world is beyond me, but it has apparently not hurt his career, as he is in-charge of the ‘puffer’ machine. It must be his home version of Homeland Security Game. He did, without any segue, explain that Mexicans are hard workers….so there you have it.

Our landlady is Madam Denise, she doesn’t speak English, we don’t speak French, although Kelly did an admiral job on zero sleep, and yet we managed to spend several hours together walking through the neighborhood and learning the ins and outs of the French apartment. It was time well spent as smoke began spewing from the new JBL iPod speakers I bought after I plugged it in… and now none of the outlets work. Madam Denise kept referring to her good friend that lives in the apartment below us Madam Chemel, who is apparently either very, very sick or a Doctor, either way we are to meet her, her daughter, or her doctor in the coming weeks. It should be fun, hopefully he/ she/ they will bring fuses.

It is quiet. What little noise exists echoes in our empty house. The bags are packed, three each, and they are bulging. The cat is hiding somewhere, which is impressive given there nothing to hide under…her world as been completely de-forested.

K and I are sitting on our luggage waiting for our ride to the airport. This morning we fly to Paris to live. We are quiet, both of us wondering to ourselves if this isn’t a huge mistake, neither of us daring to say it out loud.

I was joking that we were taking a vacation before vacation, but in truth, K- and I both needed some down time away from packing and the house that will not sell.

We met my cousins and my immediate family in Saugatuck/ Douglas Michigan. These are the same cousins that we took trips to Cape cod with back in the day. Eight people in my family and 5 cousins have somehow grown to 25 kids and 29 adults.

Walking on the beach last night as the sun began to set I watched the silhouette of 15 young kids running on the beach. It looked like “Lord of the Flies” and trust me no one over the age of 18 has the conch.

Think back, way back, to high school. That feeling of the last day of school before summer break. The piles of notes, books, notebooks and old moldy lunches that filled your locker. There was a feeling of freedom from all of this paper which could way so heavily during the year. Suddenly, it was no longer needed. It was a tradition in my high school to dump everything in the halls of the school. Hundreds and hundreds of students throwing a years worth of paper in the halls. You would kick through the piles of paper, ankle deep, like leaves in autumn.

Today is my last day at work before we begin our little experiment. It feels like that last day of school before summer vacation- except I don't recall feeling the fear of uncertainty back then- I also suspect it would be frowned upon to dump my files in the halls.

"Can't pretend the growing older never hurts"- Pete Townsend
(Have I mentioned that I met Pete Townsend...I have? OK, I'll shut up then.)

Wow, how crap have I been on writing?

I can only blame this on the summer, the stress of trying to move to Paris (2 weeks) and most importantly the confusion I feel over my role models.

First Paris Hilton- I didn't write about it because I'm a guy,(despite what you might have thought when reading my stuff) I kept the emotions bottled up as well as the embarrassment of pondering the possibility of the Paris Hilton: Caged Heat video. Secondly, Linsay Lohan was not, as it turned out, sober. Well, there goes my date for the AA Summer Dance. And lastly, Britney Spears meltdown at her OK! photoshoot.

What have I learned from all of this? I need to stop reading internet celebrity trash and pack!!!!

Earlier this week K- had her yoga class and I went to a Thai restaurant by myself. I pretended to read my book, The World Is Flat, while I listened in on the conversation next to me. A woman of a certain age, that age being 49, I know because she wants to spend her 50th birthday at the Grand Canyon but on the Northern Basin because her husband can't take the altitude of the southern basin, or maybe its the other way around- I'm from Ohio how should I know? Anyway, this lady was all pissed off because she was getting on a plane and the security person took away her toothpaste.

"No liquids, unless under 4ounces." Said the security guard

"But the entire tube of tooth paste is 4 ounces and half of it is gone leaving only 2 ounces" complained the woman on the business end of 50.

The young security guard apologized but held firm. As the woman relayed this story of injustice to her dinner partner she described the security woman as being "this young girl, maybe 22, with an I.Q. of sassy!"

I shot soda out of my mouth onto my book. Obviously, The World Is Flat is not that funny. They looked at me, the jig was up. I have yet to use this bon mot but rest assured I will and when I do it will be accompanied by a "Z" snap.

Tonight I should go to my weekly meeting but I made the mistake of picking up the second season of Arrested Development from the library. That's right, I'll watch one show after another until my mind melts. I will also be eating entirely too much pizza and I may get some ice cream also. I'll wash it all down with diet coke so I don't gain any weight.

Please refrain from calling me tonight as your calls will be screened.

As you can probably guess, it’s getting more and more difficult to focus on work. My last day is next Friday so other than closing our a few of my projects I’ve become pretty worthless. Add copious amounts of free time to unlimited Internet access and you have a recipe for perusing convicted sex offenders in my zip code.

I believe this is one of those occasions that the old adage ‘ignorance is bliss’ might be appropriate. I was surprised to learn that many of the waiters at my neighborhood restaurants have been up to no good. One of the strangest things to see when perusing the photographs of sex offenders is that some of them are smiling! I think that if you smile for your mug shot they should keep you in jail.

Earlier this week K- and I got our carry out from a guy who did time for corrupting a minor and sexual battery. Either one or the other would be enough, but to have both counts against him shows he's a real go-getter, which is probably why he is working the register.

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted and I apologize for that. The stress has got me all stopped up.

This past month I have been spending. Suddenly I’m all about buying things. Usually I can do without the designer items but the stress of the move and aging clumsily has me buying all manner of items- new glasses (Prada), new sunglasses (Ray Ban …natch), 4 new pairs of jeans with different washes, lovely new linen shirts and a very nice new man- bag from Banana Republic.

The bag came today from UPS- and yes its very sharp. After work I’m going to put on my cool shades, and cool clothes I’ll slip the messenger bag over my shoulder and take it out for a little walk around the neighborhood, perhaps to the library or the coffee shop. I’ll introduce it to the neighbors and if they ask about the house I’ll ignore them, hiding behind my new shades, I'll saunter off into the sunset- just a guy and his man-bag

We are moving to Paris in exactly 1 month. The house hasn't sold yet, I can't speak French and I'm questioning whether or not we have enough money. I'm also questioning what I'll be doing for a year. All that aside I'm mostly concerned for my cat, Ponette. Mostly I'm worried about the flight over- should we drug her? I've heard compelling arguments for and against- the biggest one against is that they can die. The other thing is how does she go to the bathroom? Its an 8 hour flight which she will be flipping out and another couple hours getting to the new apartment. I'm not sure how long a cat can go without going to the bathroom, but we shall see.

Actually, the more I think about it I'm worried about everything.

I’m ok with aging. I really am. I like the fact that I don’t get filled with jealousy, that I’ve learned to trust, that I’ve learned to put things in the proper perspective and there are fewer NRB’s (no reason boners)

Physically the aging process has been gradual- so gradual that when I look at pictures from a few years ago I’m amazed by the differences. Some gray has crept in the beard, a slight double chin has developed and its considerable harder to lose weight. Since I’ve quite drinking and smoking and I work out I’m probably much healthier and stronger than I used to be but physically it doesn’t seem to show this.

Yesterday I went to get my eyes examined because I want cool sunglasses for Paris (this, in my mind, will make up for the doubled chin and love handles). I was informed that I need bifocals. "BIFOCALS!- Are you stoned Doctor!!" She said that after the age of 40 that’s what usually happens. (Note she did not answer the stoned question) So I’ve been prescribed bifocals for when I read- can viagra* be far off?

*A lot of erection talk today- sorry but I'm feeling very sensative.

Here’s how arguments begin in my house, at least this particular one.

We wake up at 7:00 am. As you know, we are trying to sell our house and today, while we both are working, a realtor will walk a prospective buyer through the house.

We both make the bed- K adds a few extravagant folds for additional flair. I go downstairs and make oatmeal. K- doesn’t eat breakfast and usually gets herself ready for work upstairs while I eat and play backgammon on my little black Mac also know as Sexual Chocolate. I don't realize that all the conditions are right for a storm. It’s 7:30 AM, I’m still a little sleepy and I’m not paying attention. I hear Kelly moving around upstairs, but I pay her no mind- we are both in our morning rituals. Had I been paying attention I would realize that usually I cannot hear her in the morning- suggesting that she might be making loud banging noises for a reason. Hmmmmm. I notice nothing amiss other than I wonder if the backgammon game is somehow rigged- I seem to roll double six’s every time I’m unable to use them. Kelly comes downstairs.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“What ’s this?” I think to myself, she knows perfectly well what I’m doing. I think quickly…. there is a situation here…something… not… right. I quickly review all the answers I can possibly give to this question.

“Nothing” I respond. Mayday, Mayday, man down.

“Nothing?” She asks eyes wide, a shocked look upon her face

“Yea, nothing just eating a little oatmeal and playing backgammon.”

“You mean to tell me that for the past 40 minutes while I’ve been cleaning you’ve been playing video games?”


“Well…I don't think you can consider backgammon a video game and I think we made the bed 20 minutes ago- there’s no way it been 40 minutes.” (NOTE TO SELF: no need to correct her when she’s at this place). Besides, I didn’t realize you were cleaning?"

“You didn’t realize I was cleaning?” She asks, totally ignoring the facts I've laid out for her.

I begin to notice that she is repeating everything I say but puts a question mark at the end. At this point the morning can be salvaged. An apology on my part, a quick wiping of a counter and we can kiss and go to work. That would be the smart response. Obviously that isn’t going to happen.

“If you wanted help all you had to do was ask…don’t be such a victim” (I believe in getting right to the name calling) “how should I know you were cleaning, I thought you were getting dressed”

“FOR 45 MINUTES!? She screamed- (hence the all caps)

“NO, FOR 20 MINUTES BUT 45 MINUTES ISN’T OUT OF THE QUESTION NOW IS IT?”

We yell some more- at some point someone, (usually her) says …"I don’t know how this Paris thing is going to work if you act like a 12 year old."

As if to prove her 12 year old comment I say something like, "Well maybe if you didn’t search so hard for things to complain about we would have these arguments.”

“Well maybe if someone helped around the house.”

“Well maybe if someone didn’t keep score as to who cleans what and if you are going to keep score try to score it correctly….”

I go to work pissed off, she goes to work pissed off and the day begins.

How could I make this situation worse? By blogging about it to complete strangers.

I went to a meeting a few days ago and was struck by the discussions people were having.

One guy, in his mid twenties, came in late and spoke as soon as the last person finished. At first I thought he was drugged, he was speaking in a slow, monotone voice and complaining about how hard his life was. He was talking about being at work and lying to his boss so that he could leave a few hours early that day and how hard it is to stay sober etc. “It’s important that I don’t beat myself up over it.” He said. The rest of the meeting he put his head on the table and appeared to sleep. Being toxic is very tiring work.

I disagree. I think he should beat himself over his behavior. Not for the rest of his life but certainly for the day. It should feel bad to lie. You can be fired for lying to get out of work - so that seems like a pretty legitimate fear. It probably is difficult to stay sober if you focus on how hard life is and continue to do the same shit you’ve always done.

For some people life is a dull grind, filled with negativity and complaints. They have to share their negative thoughts and complaints with others- negative needs to breed more negativity. They complain as a way of explaining to others, and more importantly themselves, why their row is more difficult to hoe. It must be that their lives our more difficult, otherwise they would be to blame for their own misery. Negativity begets negativity.

I have had a few toxic people in my life but I have, over time, weeded them out. I no longer feel the need to extend conversations with these types of people in the name of civility or politeness. Life is too short to spend time with the nay-sayers, whiners and complainers. I avoid toxic people like the plague.

After the meeting this guy’s energy was restored when he saw an attractive girl and bolted over to meet her. Hopefully she had the sense to run.

This is our apartment in Paris. We will be here for 2 months while we look for permanent lodgings.

This place looks pretty nice, it's on the 5th floor of an elevator building with a balcony that runs the length of the apartment. I wanted to be in the 6th Arrondisment, but I'm not going to complain, it is close to Kelly's school in the 7th. There is no internet access, but the owner agreed to let us have a cat so that pretty much decided it.

Kelly asked him to send an exterior picture of the building so we could get a feel for the building and he sent a satellite picture of the roof- he may be a little left of center- that works.

I went up to my brothers house to drop some stuff off and my 9 year old nephew and 7 year old niece came running out of the house. Basically they were laughing at me. "Tell the story about the Tonka Trucks" they screamed in unison- "Oh Christ not this one again." I thought.

Most kids hate getting ready for bed, bath, brushing the teeth, going to the bathroom etc. But I l didn't mind it because after my nightly ritual was complete I could fly- truly.

The bathroom was at the end of a very long hallway. After I finished brushing my teeth I would run, as quickly as my footed pj's would allow me, down the long hallway. I would build up incredible speeds, becoming no more than a blur of blue woolly pajamas. My tongue sticking out the side of my mouth with determination; my arm movement propelling me forward even faster. I would run into my bedroom and leap into the air -my arms outstretched like Superman's I would fly across the room and into my bed.

The story my niece and nephew want me to tell is the time their father filled my bed with large, rusted metal Tonka Toy trucks. Tonka Toys are my Kryptonite.

Tacoma Girl and Aralena- Thanks for the great advice- you guys are rockstars!!!!

We move to Paris August 8th- If anyone has any suggestions or advice for moving to or living in Paris please pass it along.


I was late for my meeting last night. I ambled slowly up and down streets, taking the longest route possible, wishing I had worn shorts, listening to my Ipod. I saw Marty out watering his lawn. A few months ago I had placed an ad to sell chairs on Craig's list, all part of the great trimming down of possessions. I received a call for the chairs and recognized the southern accent.

"Marty?"
"Misplaced, I wondered if that was you- I saw your name and the neighborhood and figured it might be"

I didn't sell the chairs but we got to talking and I , having nothing else to show for my life, mentioned Paris.

"Well, you aren't going to believe this" Marty said, "but next June we are traveling around the globe for one year"

All the writing I've done about the mental dilemna of quitting a job, selling everything and moving suddenly I seemed like a whiney little bitch. Marty with his wife were leaving their jobs, his two young daughters were leaving there middle school (or is it high school I can no longer tell) and traveling around the world. Different visas for different countries, different currencies, just the paperwork required for Laos made my head spin.

Marty asked, "What is it, you suppose, that makes people like us do this? Not everyone can make this move and I'm not talking in a financial way. We are wired different than some of the others." Marty grinned. "You got time to talk more, I wanna keep watering the plants? It's funny my wife hates to water the plants, I love it. Most guys I know are sitting at a bar drinking an $8 martini and I get to water my plants and everyonce in a while a neighbor comes by and we get to talkin'."

I told him I was late for a meeting and we made tentative plans to resume our conversation. I moved on to my meeting where I'll be surrounded by people who have been given a second chance in this world. Marty's right, we are wired differently than others, for whatever reason. I walked slowly, still in no particular hurry.

Life is pretty spectacular.

READERS FROM FRANCE----HELP ME!!!!

The move to Paris is in 1 1/2 months and there are a few things I need to help on.

1. Cell Phones- which do you recommend, approximately how much is it?
2. Gym- I hear Club Med is the way to go (aprrox. 1,000Euros per year). Any other recommendations? How different is the equipment?
3. There is an English library that I'll become a member to- do you know anything about it- is it worthwhile.
4. Should we bring our own measuring cups or is it best to jump right into metric (we are bringing an american cookbook)
5. Does it make more financial sense to buy clothes in the States and bring them to Paris?
6. English speaking doctors for myself and my wife- any recommendations?
7. How feasible is it to work under the table (teaching English or whatever) not that I would ever do that.

Could you email me at mgmullaney@mac.com with any suggestions. Actually anyone can email me with suggestions about anything- I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

“MAN’S NIGHT OUT!!!!!”

Kelly rolls her eyes “ok…you do that”

Man’s Night Out, the idea feels me with glee. Back in the day Man’s Night Out was dangerous. Friends and I would meet up after work with in downtown Chicago and walk home, north to Wrigleyville. We would stop in every dive bar we passed and have a couple. By the time we got home it was 3:00 in the morning and we could barely stand but it had been worth it. I have been called a “rat fucker” by Middle Eastern shopkeepers long before it was fashionable to be hated by them. One woman told me that she would “rip off my head and shit down my neck” it was unclear why she was going to do that but it was all part of Man’s Night Out. So when my friend Demetrius called last night and said “MAN’S NIGHT OUT!!!”

I responded with a hardy “HELL YA!!! I’LL CHECK WITH MY WIFE!!”

Now that drinking is out of the question, smoking cigarettes and anything else for that matter is over, along with anything else that is remotely fun Man’s Night Out has changed. For instance we can have a man’s night out in the middle of the week and not worry too much about missing work. It’s a lot like double dating but without any dates and we get to see a manly movie but even those are in short supply. Oceans 13- that’s what’s left to us.

“I’M LEAVING FOR MAN’S NIGHT OUT!!!!” I scream from front door.

“Ok- you have fun with gay night out…I mean man’s night out.” Kelly says from the second floor.

GAY NIGHT MY ASS!!!! I yell upstairs as I throw my man-bag over my shoulder, checking to make sure there is a diet coke in it and a sweater. It gets so chilly at the movies.

This is a picture of the French Consulate in Chicago. I'm not claiming to be some arbiter of current fashion but I half expected Mary Tyler Moore and Rhoda to come walking through complaining about Ted Baxter.

I was tagged by Aralena (highly recommended reading) to write about my favorite subject, which is, of course, me. The topic is 10 Things About Me. Since I just did one of those last May I thought I would steal her idea and use childhood memories. So the following is a list of ten things (in no particular order) involving candy, toys and muggings from my childhood in the Midwest.

1. SSP’s were racecars. I loved them. They had a plastic ripcord shaped like a T with ratchets in it. Slide the ripcord in the gears by the wheel; pull with all your might and the center wheel spun madly with a great ZZZZZZ sound. Someone told me that a case of SSP’s had fallen off a train that ran through our neighborhood. I was unable to run to the tracks to pillage- my mind simply melted with the possibilities of owning a case of SSP’s, the thought of the collective ZZZZZZZ sound and my central nervous system shut down. I stood there, helpless and drooling.

2. Vanilla French Chew candies were my favorite. The white powder would cover my face after I ate a French Chew. I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface after he plants his face in the mountain of cocaine. Vanilla French Chews are better than cocaine.

3. I tripped caring two bottles of Mountain Dew and I got glass in my hand. My Aunt told me she would give me a quarter if I could get the glass out. The glass was removed in short order because a quarter was the cost of a French Chew (see #2 and the effects of cocaine). As I walked (probably skipping with excitement) two toughs mugged me and they stole my quarter.

4. The “toughs” were two 12-year-old girls; I generally leave that part of the story out.

5. I was mugged again by a guy who become a big NBA star- he bought Doritos with the dollar he stole from me. Stealing money for Doritos is just plain wrong.

6. I would spend hours playing with plastic toy soldiers; I would rip the grass out of our backyard to make the scenes more realistic. By the time I was through our backyard resembled a mangy dog.

7. I had a puppet that at one point had been a tap dancer- but his strings became tangled and I lost his coat and his tap shoes so I made a super hero out of him. He is the first gay super hero. I, for some reason, named him Sid. “Sid The Gay Superhero”. (Photo to come)

8. Hippity Hop: Ok, it wasn’t a great toy, and I’m not certain I really liked it but when Connie Castleberry hopped and then popped my hippidy hop it became my most prized possession. I was done wrong by the purposeful vandalism of my bouncy toy. She had accidentally hopped on a piece of glass but I didn’t mention that to anyone- let them think her weight was a factor.

9. Mud ball fights: The idea of this now is insane but we would make mud balls and throw them at each other. It hurt like hell to get hit, but that’s the nature of the beast. They weren’t soft, sloppy mud balls but hard, balled up with a rock or two placed in the center for added ‘shock’ value.

10. There was a ravine behind our houses, which was a great place to get away from parents and run amok. My childhood was spent in this wooded hollow making clubhouses reading playboys and learning to smoke- you know all the things kids like to do. I found out as an adult that the ravine was actually an open sewer stream. That might explain a few of the nervous ticks.

I'd be curious to hear what Simon Chase has to say on this topic. Simon consider yourself tagged.

Chicago was wonderful. As I mentioned it had been over 10 years since I had been back. I spent my 20’s there- Studio apartments and dive bars are fun in your 20’s at thirties its a little tired, at 40 it’s downright shameful so I was fortunate to move on. I was amazed at how much the city had changed and how many of my ‘old haunts’ had disappeared- O’Rourke’s Pub- which was a great dive had disappeared, the building where I worked at 444 Wabash was still there but the office was now an empty space. Life can move pretty quick, although in not having been there in 10 years it could move l slowly and still make quite a few changes. There was a corporate park that was built while I was there- I used to eat my lunch on the benches when it was new- now bums lay sprawled out – each bench occupied- garbage on the once highly maintained lawn. I even saw a building being demoed that I watched being built.

I called my two cousins that still live there. When I first moved to Chicago I stayed with Chris- and later, when his sister moved to Chicago she lived with me. They both have stayed. We were close before Chicago but became very close living in the same city. After I left we all went through our own things and grew distant- I hadn’t seen either on of them for many years. I was glad to reconnect with my cousins and for Kelly to meet these two people that were so important in my life. We have a family vacation in Michigan at the end of July and they will all be there. I think it was good to see each other before all of that.

Kelly and I had only one little spat. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but I’m a singer. Actually every one in my family are singers. Why would that cause a spat? I sing when I’m in a good mood- and as I walked down Michigan Avenue late in the evening with the street full of people I sang a little song. This, it turns out, annoys Kelly to no end. I think its endearing, she thinks I look crazy- and when one is tired it’s difficult to suffer the songs of crazy. In my defense…

Chicago is my kind of town. Chicago is- my kind of town. Chicago is -the Wrigley building, Chicago is -the Union stockyard Chicago is-one town that wont let you down, it’s my kind of town.

Haven’t I been the bad blogger this week? That’s ok- just feeling the stress of the things that need to get done and hoping that if I don’t acknowledge them they will go away. This doesn’t work as well as it used to.

K and I are going to Chicago today. We have an appointment with the French Consulate Friday morning where we will give all our documents for the visa. Since the visa process takes 2 months and it will be June 15th and we are leaving August 9 I suspect, although I’ve never been good at math, that I might be screwed. But we shall see what we shall see. Anyway- Chicago will be fun. We are staying at the Marriot on Michigan Avenue and I am plotting a massage for each of us. I am justifying this with the fact that it was my birthday yesterday. 43 years old! How in the hell did that happen? Here is the only good thing about being a recovering alcoholic. I’m in better shape and healthier physically and mentally at 43 than I was at 33 or 23…ok that’s actually kind of depressing.

It will be strange to be in Chicago. I lived there after college up until age 30 and I haven’t been back. Most of my drinking was done there and so it will be odd to walk around- it might make me sad in a nostalgic way but I’m treating it like a vacation.- you know- the vacation before I go on vacation to Michigan in July before I quit my job and move to Paris in August…yea I have a reason to complain. My life is golden…I’m completely aware of that. I’ll shut up now

It was a busy weekend.

We got up early on Saturday and began loading the truck to put things in storage- we have too many books. I never thought it would be possible to utter these words, but we have too many books. I ran a load of garbage to the company dumpster- it is so nice having one of those. The rest of the day was spent cleaning up for the open house on Sunday.

The one issue with the open house on Sunday (our first with the realtor) is it is the same day as the Gay Pride Parade, which closes off all the streets to my house. That was a concern for the realtor, not us. We went to our friends/ neighbors at the bottom of the street for a cook-out and to make noise for the parade. Delta Airlines was represented, they said they loved us, but I don’t think they really do. If they loved us so much they would make cashing in miles easier and they would treat us the same as they treat their “preferred customers” although I liked the mini coup they rigged up. After the parade we went up the street to my brothers to celebrate my nieces and nephews birthday- my birthday is this Wednesday so get your shopping done early. We took a quick nap and went downtown for dinner with my parents and Kelly’s mom and sister. It was fun but it was a lot.

…and then the panic set in. What if we don’t sell our house…shit.

I've been kicking around some new ideas for the blog- first thing -I need to update my favorite blogs. I have several that I've been perusing lately that need to be added and a few that I don't connect to anymore and should be deleted. I also need to implement some of the suggestions that Self Taught Artist suggested and the final thing I need to do is decide if I want to change the name or format of the blog for Paris.

So much to think about.

Ok the results are in. Actually they were in a long time ago but I, like you, completely forgot about the 4000th visitor to this sad little corner in the midwest.
And the 4000th visitor to Misplaced in the Midwest is …(drum roll) (envelope opening) (I'm so nervous)…
Someone from Gifu, Japan looking for Bukkake Girls!!!!!!
Congratulations you win some lotion and paper towels.

I am one visitor away from 4000. How very exciting. Who will be the 4000th visitor?
I think it will be some pervert who googled "teenage & making out."

Continuing in the same vane regarding the shredding of all the evidence. I also found notebook after notebook of journals that somehow survived the great drunken disposal of all known records, I am too tired to link to that particlar post, you'll have take my word for it.

Anyway I found my journals from high school, which detailed my many sexual exploits as a young teen. My sexual exploits consisted of making out with a lot of girls, which is lame in one way but very cool in others. I was the king of the make out session and it was not unheard of for me to make out with more than one girl at a party and, in one case two girls at once(that's right, you read that correctly). I was a bit of a make out whore. But what made all these girls want to make out with me? Granted I was good looking, witty and had phenomenal hair but more importantly I don’t think I ever pushed the envelope, as it were, during the make out session. In other words, I just really liked to make out and I was completely fine with it not going anywhere else. This made me, I believe quite the hot property when it came to drunken making out….oh yea, I forgot to mention we were all drunk which probably helped me considerably.

So I read these little journals, relived my glory days as a make-out king and I shredded them, anything that could come back to harm me in my run for the presidency was destroyed. I would think having a president that is known for being a good kisser and a make out king might be a good thing but you just never know. I sent my wife an email looking for a testimonial on my make out skills- she never responded- she probably does actual work at her job- what a sucker.

A note on the picture: I wanted an appropriate image for this post so I googled the words -teenage & making out- That was interesting. I settled for the picture above.

Workmate: So when are you going to Gay Paree?

Misplaced: August 8th we fly out.

Workmate: You looking forward to GAY Paree?

Misplaced: I get it , Paris is Gay right?

Workmate: Heeheee GAY Paree

Misplaced: (walking away, shaking head) What a numb-nut

I’ve continued to shred documents. This is part of the great purge- getting rid of the shit. It’s been an eye opening experience to go through the old boxes and really decide what is needed and what isn’t. I have every cancelled check I’ve written, in numeric order, since 1991. I can track where I lived and what I ate for the past 16 years. The question I have to ask myself is “Is that really necessary?”

During the dark years (heaviest drinking time until 1997) I can say for certainty that I ate a lot of Dominos Pizza and bounced a lot of checks. There are large checks to individuals and I have no idea what they’re for. Since I didn’t have a lot of money you’d think they would stand out. $2,500 hundred to some guy named Tim? Since I don’t have breast implants (or enlargements of any kind) I can rule that out. Tim apparently did something for me that cost some cash.

So hours were spent in front of a shredding machine dropping each check in so some meth mouth teenagers doesn’t rifle through my garbage. Did you know that one of the ingredients in making meth is the same chemical that erases pen off old checks so they can be forged- how convenient is that! It’s almost as though God wants meth addicts to forge checks to pay for their habit. In recovery we call this a “a God thing” and would follow it up with a quick “It’s God doing for us what we couldn’t do for ourselves.”

It’s all about simplifying and getting rid of the excess baggage (not the emotion excess baggage- I’m keeping that forever and ever). I have bags and bags of that baggage in the truck ready for the dump.

Make Cakes Not War

I’ve never liked the cheap shots that are taken at lawyers, car salesmen, and contractors, but real-estate agents have really got me thinking. It’s like a little mafia.

If you are selling a $250,000 house the real-estate agent gets 6% or $15,000. Now I’m not naive- I realize that there is some work involved in selling a house but is there $15,000 worth? That’s a lot of money for putting a sign in the yard and unlocking a door. But really what you are paying for is to have other realtors show your place and getting on the MLS- if you try to sell yourself they generally wont show your house.

As you probably suspected we hired a realtor, Sandra, to sell our house. K and I both really like Sandra and have worked with her before. On Tuesday she wants to have an open house for other realtors in the area-, which is a good idea. “Will you have refreshments?” She asked me. Since we will be paying them a great deal of money I think they should be stocking our fridge but neither here nor there I said “probably not.”

Sandra: More realtors will show up if you have free food.

Me: That’s pathetic.

Sandra: That’s how it is.

We managed to talk Sandra into taking a lower percentage but were hoping that she could pass that lower cost to the other agents if they sell it.

“No” she explained. “The other agents wont show your house if they only make 2 1/2 % instead of the standard 3%."

Me: They wont open the door to the house if they make $6,250 as opposed to $7,500?

Sandra: No.

Me: That’s pathetic.

Sandra: That’s how it is.

So tonight after my French class I’ll be making a Spice Bunt cake for the little piglets but Kelly and I will cut off 6% of the cake to share between the two of us. It’s sad and passive aggressive that we would do this but it’s better then ending up in a bell tower with a high-powered rifle.

This must be a guy thing.

The Vice-President of the company that we have been in depositions with left a message for me. He is one of those guys that attempts to bully others through intimidation but, unless you work for him, it fails miserably. He has enough employees stroking his ego that his level of self importance is staggering. Anyway, he had his secretary call me to tell me to call him.

Hi Mr. Misplaced this is Linda calling for Mr X.
Mr X would like you to call him.

How big of a tool do you have to be to do this?

There's a blockbuster down the street from us, I'd like them to make the following call for me.

Hi Linda, this is Blockbuster calling for Mr. Misplaced. Linda could you have Mr. X call us back so we can schedule a time for Mr. X to call Mr. Misplaced? By the way let Mr X know that he has a copy of Power Tool which is overdue- Thank you.

It's kind of a crappy day which would explain the bitchy post.

My friend and I are thinking of starting a law blog. I believe we have established that I’m not a lawyer and I have shown time and time again that I am, in fact, just barely educated. Nonetheless, I feel that this endeavor will be of service to someone, somewhere. Essentially this new blog will give legal advice to people who are too cheap or apathetic about doing time to hire a real attorney. I think it is safe to say that neither of us are qualified to give legal advice nor, for that matter, advise on relationships, grooming or even basic hygiene but I think it could be a valuable service and who knows, we may even learn a little something about ourselves.

My "law partner" and I discussed this at length over a burrito and the only flaw we could come up with is that we may be held responsible for the god-awful advise we give. To protect ourselves we have decided to refer to ourselves as "lawyers" with the quotation marks. This will clearly protect us from any liability. Of course, we could be mistaken as we are “lawyers” and not lawyers. When discussing your case we will have to use the finger quotes every time we say, “as your quote/ unquote lawyer I would recommend…” This will become tiring to us and annoying to you but we feel that as “attorneys” it is our obligation to remind you that our “legal advice” should not be construed as something that we actually are qualified to answer or have bothered to even look up.

We will keep our overhead low, passing those savings on to you. For instance, instead of owning volumes of case studies and leather bound legal books we will google everything. All a real “attorney” needs is google, a passion for the truth, and focus to keep from downloading internet porn while getting to that truth.

Our mission statement: We are excited by this new endeavor and hope that we don’t devastate too many lives with our “legal expertise”.

Please feel free to send questions regarding divorce, wills, corporate mergers and/or age of consent to me and our team of experts (Read: me an another guy) will begin work immediately (Read: when we get around to it)

I realize I haven’t done an update on the move for a while. The house is not moving. We have many people walk through and are very complimentary but no solid offers. I was shocked to find how many parents are in the market to buy a house for their children; some of these kids are college age- what’s up with that. K- and I are actually kind of calm about it- that’s what happens when two recovered alcoholics/ addicts get brainwashed in AA they become all spiritual n’ shit. Of course, once the date of departure gets closer we will turn on each other like two mice caught in the same glue trap (I just made that expression up, it’s going to be big). But we have decided to turn our will, our lives and our house over to the care of a realtor as we understand her and at 6% some shit better move (squeak, squeak)

K- found a place in Paris to live for the first 2 months while we look for permanent lodgings- it occurred to her that she got this place in the state of panic and we pulled our offer- nothing good can come from a decision based on fear. I’ve seen a new hombre in the blog world called Parisian Cowboy. I sent him a note explaining our situation and seeking advice. Based on his response we are calm, relaxed and in search of another apartment. As The Last Parisian Cowboy saunters into the sunset all we can say is “Who was that masked man? Thanks Parisian Cowboy!”

I sent out a list of 15 places we are interested in and gave the apartment agency 2 days to get back to me. This being a French company I have no doubt that that demand will, in fact, slow down the process and that they might not respond at all. I don’t care it felt good- I felt like captain Kirk barking out orders.

Misplaced: “You have two days to pull this together!!!”
Response: "Damn it Jim, I’m a doctor not an apartment agenct!”
Misplaced: “Oops wrong email address”

The first sign of being one of two mice caught in the same glue trap is citing Star Trek even if you never cared for the show.

It’s odd to have quit our jobs, sold our car, been accepted to graduate school (K- not me) but still not have sold our house which will, for the most part, be financing this fiscal irresponsibility- but I do believe that everything will work out the way it should- but it may not work out the way I want it to (another AA bumper sticker)

Last night I was bored and turned on the TV and happened upon the news. This morning as I drove the big truck into work, not being accustomed to the radio channels I listened to the news on NPR. It occurred to me that I don’t listen to the news any more.

Years ago I was a news junkie- world news on TV, political commentary on the internet, NPR was constantly on- hell, I had a crush on Teri Gross for Christ sake. Somewhere along the line I lost interest in what was going on in the world. Let me rephrase that, I care what’s going on but I’m tired of hearing about the terrible things we do to each other.

Last night and again this morning I realized I know longer bother with hardcore news. I get the New York Times delivered each Sunday but I peruse the front page and The Week in Review but mostly I read The Book Review, the Travel and Arts Sections. I didn’t write about the Virginia Tech shooting because I don’t know anything about it. I heard it was an Asian guy, which is odd because mass murderers are usually white but other than that nothing.

I pondered this for awhile- have I become apathetic? The sad truth is that a part of me has- mass killings are par for the course – aren’t they? Is anyone truly surprised when this happens these days? Shocked. Yes. Surprised. No. I used to watch everything and anything when an ‘event’ went down but it wasn’t out of concern it was more out of fascination- how many people stayed glued to the TV coverage of Virginia Tech because they thought they could effect some change and how many watched out of morbid entertainment. It got less play than the death of Anna Nicole Smith. I’m willing to bet that the majority of people watched it to be entertained. That is not to say they enjoyed it or thought it was funny but that they were consumed with it in the same sense we are entertained by a car crash.

I’m tired of the evil shit that others do from Virginia Tech to Howard K. Stern to George Bush. I find their actions to be an infringement on my life and I have decided to not give them the attention they long for. So I will continue my moratorium on giving the evil of the world my attention.

I started to draft a little post regarding simplicity for the Sunday Scribble people and the more I worked on it the more complicated it became so I decided to just write in a stream of consciousness style about the word Simple. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?

Attempting to live a simplified life seems to be the next step in attaining peace and a certain spirituality. There are shelves of books about ‘keeping it simple’, some of them quite complex. Of course picking up these books would add to the clutter and chaos.

“Real Simple” is a magazine we get – I saw a copy of it at my chiropractors and in weak moment, thinking I could reach Nirvana, (the state not the band) by subscribing to this magazine, I ordered it. Now the back issues lay scattered through out the house - the subscription has run its course and every other day I get a not so simple notice that I must renew my subscription or my simple life will implode with complexity. I’m not so certain that making window cleaner out of dog urine is such a simple thing anyway so I will let the subscription lapse.

As a young boy I read the Little House series…yes boys read the book too- you want to read something "peculiar" in that? Anyway, I thought to myself “Oh to live in a simpler time just like the Ingal’s family” I said this in my best Scarlet O’Hara accent, which might be a little "peculiar". Remember how simple their Christmas’ were? - A shiny red apple was one of their presents. Laura got a little doll that Pa made out of an ear of corn and Mary got the bladder of a pig blown up like a balloon. What a simple and lovely life…yea that sounds like a crap Christmas to me. If anyone gave me a doll made out of corn I’d give them some frozen pea “diamonds” or an empty cigarette box "iPod" so they could listen to Alabama (The band not the state). They were so happy in these simpler times that is until Little Mary got struck blind by a some disease like brain fever something you might catch from the bladder of a pig…..

Ok I’m trailing off here. This stream of consciousness business is way too complicated for me.

Whenever I tell people that we are quitting our jobs, moving to Paris and pursuing our own agenda for 1 year they all say the same thing, “Man I wish I could do that”. Actually the first thing they say is “What will you do with your time?” If you have to ask what you will do with you time in a city like Paris you lack imagination. For as many people who have dreamt of doing this it’s amazing how few feel they can or, more importantly, how few actually try. I thought when I began researching the nuts and bolts that there would be a plethora of information to tell me exactly what to do. There wasn’t. I’m starting a new topic section called How to Move to Paris, although it could more aptly be called How Not to Move to Paris because I have screwed up every little item I’m supposed to do and will probably not get a visa before we move.

This topic will bore my small group of regular readers but I figure the people who read this blog are all about pursuing the dream they wont mind a little advice to someone else that wants to runaway and join the circus.

Insurance

Everyone will tell you that France has excellent health coverage. Their healthcare itself, I’ve been told, is one of the best in the world and their healthcare coverage runs circles around the United States, which isn’t hard to do. They have this peculiar notion that healthcare ought to be affordable to everyone. This is ‘crazy talk’ I know but some European countries have strange ideas like this. When you are moving to France- this will be the first thing that excites you. Here’s the catch- you aren’t entitled to it. This, of course makes sense, why should you get great healthcare coverage when you don’t actually pay 40- 50% taxes to finance it. You can’t get a visa to live in Paris unless you buy healthcare insurance for the duration of your stay. It should be noted that even if you didn’t have insurance, you could probably afford the cost of an emergency, it is that reasonable.

K- is attending the American University of Paris, included in her tuition is healthcare insurance. The American University uses AXA Insurance for their coverage. I did a little shopping around but it was by no means an exhaustive search (which is, of course, why this should be titled how not to move to Paris). It was my thinking that the AUP probably did a fair job in researching the insurance and AXA Insurance is the preferred insurance of AARA- Tired of initials yet? (Association of Americans Residing Abroad) I figure that this is probably a reputable insurance company. There are several catches. You need to become a member of the AARA to get the AXA rate of insurance- this, of course sounds like a scam but I think that that is something I’m going to have to get used to. I became a member for 1-½ years at a cost of $111 USD. When you sign up for a membership with the Association of Americans Residing Abroad they will send your name to AXA Insurance. At the same time you can go to the AXA website, www.europeanbenefits.com, print out the forms and fill them out -this includes a medical questionnaire which you are probably used to. You need to mail the original to AXA. Keep in mind that this all takes time and that you will have to email AXA repeatedly to make sure they received the information and that they’ve done something with it. You may think that the amount of money your spending for something you will probably never use would cause the company to be chomping at the bit to sell you this, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Here’s the kicker. The questionnaire you fill out for the insurance company is valid for only 2 months. The visa you are applying for, which requires insurance in place before you can get the Visa should be sent in 4 months before you move- essentially you will need to have your insurance begin well before you are actually in France. You also need to become a member of the AARO before you are actually there, which is why I have a 1 ½ year membership.

I got the most basic coverage one can get. It is for only me and this costs 312 Euros for a 3-month period. You cannot pay the entire year in one shot; you need to pay each 3 months. I’d prefer to pay the year and be done with it but they explained that the rate could go up after the New Year.

Complete costs for the year are:
Membership AALA $111 USD
Insurance for the year $1,694 USD (1 EUR- 1.357 USD)

Total $1,805 USD



After all this mess is sorted out the AXA will email you your insurance card and the paperwork that you need to submit to the French consulate for your Visa.

Man…that was one boring ass post.

It will be strange to leave my job.

I started working here June 1 1998- I was 6 months sober and felt like an exposed, raw nerve. Between the panic attacks, agoraphobia, and fear of people and situations I was a mess. As I’ve mentioned in this blog I’ve always fallen into good jobs with good companies. I was in advertising for years and then worked for a well-known fashion designer but after my little internal collapse my self-confidence as well as my general mental and physical were destroyed. I had hit that rock bottom place- although I now realize that rock bottom is death.

Nine years ago I received a call about some manual labor work- just scraping wallpaper and cleaning up some walls at a house. The only job I was able to handle at that time was for my brother who was paying me to mow the lawns of his rental properties. I’d push the lawn mower and think to myself- ‘this how I made spending money at 14 years old- look at me, 33 and doing the same thing. I hoped no one would see me. How’d I get from advertising and fashion to mowing lawns?’ I, of course knew the answer but that didn’t keep me from asking the question. Someone referred to it a lesson in humility but to me it was humiliating and nothing more.

After 2 weeks of scraping the walls of this house the owner of the house asked if I’d like to work part time in his office- filing papers etc. I accepted but was full of fear the night before my first day. A week later they had me as assistant project manger on renovating a school. 2 years later I was managing a 10 million dollar new school construction. 5 years after I was hired I was made Vice President. 9 years after I was hired I’m quitting to move to Paris. Weird, Huh.

I am a blessed individual- and while I have many character flaws lack of gratitude is not one of them.

My niece picked out the book she wanted for her bedtime story. It was a small, handmade book that her class had given to her for her 6th birthday. It was bound together with yarn, each page had a drawing and happy birthday greetings by her classmates (written by the teacher). I began reading but was stumped by what a boy named Carl wrote.

Dear M-
Happy birthday you smell like a yummy
Carl

“What does smell like a yummy mean?” I asked.
She looked at her dimwitted uncle with a furrowed brow.
“ You know like cake.”
“He thinks you smell like cake?”
“Yes,” she said proudly

Two converstions before 9:00 AM on Tuesday

1.I told Penny that I was getting tired of the blog and was thinking of hanging it up and she responded “Your goal was to write every day, not write until you lost steam” Don’t you hate know-it-all teenagers...especially when they’re right.

2.Since I sold my cool car I’ve been driving a big old truck to work. As I pulled in today and climbed out of the truck, wearing a flannel shirt I said to my work buddy Ray
“Well, look at me driving a truck and wearing a flannel shirt, after 9 years you all have finally made me a man."

He responded. "You were always a man, we just turned you into a redneck”

There was an old man at my job when I first started, 9 years ago. He was, appropriately enough, named Dick and he was mean old man.

He had one of those cancer voice boxes, you know the kind where they put this little mechanism up against their throat and speak through it- I've also heard them referred to as cancer kazoos- although I suspect that this is less than politically correct. The sound of that drone would make me cringe. His main complaint was that he couldn't express emotions with the kazoo although the only emotion I could ever get from him was annoyance. He once explained to me that "you don't know your ass from a hole in the ground" I would, of course, beg to differ. Dick would slam his open hand on my desk and proceed to insult me- I usually ended the converstion by telling him to "get the f* out of my office". He stopped speaking to me after I refused to call him anything but Little Mary Sunshine.

He went into a coma and was put on life support- two days after that his family made the decision to pull the plug. I always thought it was interesting that they only took two days to make that call. I think you are supposed to re-evaluate your opinion of people out of respect after they die- I didn't- Dick was a mean old man.

I grew up Catholic but I'm not a religious person. It's very rare that I go to church- only when I have to such as weddings. This weekend my nephew had his first communion and so off to church I went. K- stayed home to man (woman?) the open house.

I was amazed at how many college students were at the service. Aren't college students supposed to pull away from organized religion and then come groveling back with their tail between their legs when they have kids? Apparently that isn't how it works these days because the church was lousy with them.

The other shocking thing is that I've apparently become my mother. As I said, I don't go to church but I am quick to judge people who do go to church dressed in jeans and flip flops. I remember arguing with my mom when I was a teenager about this. "It doesn't matter how people dress- that just shows what bullshit* it is" You know what 'know-it-alls' idiotic teenagers can be. I have become old, stoggy and judgemental- Sweet!

*If I ever actually said 'bullshit'to my mom she would smack the BS right out of me

I was getting my daily reading fix from the writers on the right when I came upon an odd comment in one of the blogs. The blogger is a 17 year old girl who is writing about her struggles with being that age as well as some very heavy shit that went down recently. I'm sure most of you read her and have been following her saga. Its an excellent blog.

One commenter has been leaving messages that could be construed as suspect. The last comment he(or so I assume) left is down right creepy. What is the responsibility of a reader to a writer? Is it inappropriate to send an email or leave a public comment suggesting that a line is being crossed? We read each others daily life entries and soon enough we feel apart of each others lives- but are we really? Do we have the same rights and responsibilities to watch each others backs? Add to this confusion the fact that I'm an adult male- is it inappropriate for me to send a note suggesting she use caution with this person?

It's probably too late to bring this up because I sent a note suggesting intuition is something to be followed. Although I wonder if I was out of line in doing so.

It is not only eerily quiet in the world of blogs (at least mine) but also in my house. No one arrived to our open house today. It was like a Mary Tyler Moore party, except we couldn't even get a drunk Lou Grant to visit. I suppose its important to keep good thoughts but the house needs to sell for us to move to Paris and we are hitting the T minus 2 months mark (I don't even know what that means but we are leaving in August if that helps).

The nice thing about an open house is that you have to stay home and you can't make a mess- that leaves me with nothing to do but study french. I have a very bad feeling about grasping this language and part of me doesn't care. I've come to the point that if I can't ask for it in french then I will probably need to do without it. This includes clothes, food (other than that to which I can point) and any personal hygiene products. I will be very skinny, smell bad and wearing last years fashion. Good thing I'm already married and can let myself go.

I always enjoyed the metaphor of the mask. The mask we wear to hide our true selves, the mask we are afraid to let down.

As I've grown older it seems less of a metaphor. The many "masks" I have to wear and choose to wear are all me- they aren't masks at all- just different aspects of one more complex individual, as we all are.

It may be easier to accept the many, often contradictory personas of who I am with the metaphor of a mask, but in truth I am all these things. Maybe the frightening thing isn't that the mask hides our true selves, maybe the unsettling thing is that we are the mask. It is just another aspect of our true selves.

My foray into public transportation ended as soon as it had begun. The thing about a Midwestern city that doesn't have a really good public transportation is that the people who actually take it generally are poor and don't smell very good. (This isn't actually true but in my mind I want it to be)

My brother called me last night and said, "I hear you're taking the bus- you can use my truck until it sells, if you want"

I thought about the friends I made on the bus (that one day I actually took it), the laughter, the tears, the little pieces of ourselves that we shared and said, "Hell to the yea!- I'll catch you suckas on the flip side!"


Update: 5 minutes later
My boss walked in, saw the truck and bought it.- damn, I'm back to mixing with the unwashed masses. What's up with people buying vehicles all willy nilly?

Ahhhh the car is gone. I had it washed, filled it with gas and dropped it off to the young Spanish couple that bought it. It feels as though a little weight has been taken off. I am a public transportation guy. Just me and 50 screaming, annoying, acne scarred high schoolers. It will take all of two days before I long for the little weight of my car to be put back on my shoulder

...and if those kids read this blog here's a translation of what I wrote.

Ahhhh tha ride is gone bitch ass nigga. I had it washed, filled it wit gas n dropped it off ta tha young Spanish couple that bought it. It be like a shawty weight done been taken off paper'd up. I am a public transportizzles guy. Jizzust me n 50 pimpin' annoy'n, acne scarred hizzigh bitch. It W-to-tha-izzill takes all of two days before I long fo` tha shawty weight of mah ride ta be put bizzay on mah shoulda now pass the glock Anotha dogg house production..

OK that will be the last time I do that

A Day In The Life

You sit around a long oval table, there are 8 lawyers looking at you. One lawyer has been asking you questions for 5 hours, the others look bored but still they just stare because there is nothing else to do and you are the only game in town. You have been sworn in, the lawyer asking the questions hands you page after page of "evidence" and asks you about each one. The stenographer silently takes notes- you are amazed at how quickly she can type- 5 hours straight and she hasn't missed a beat. You realize that in about a week you will get a copy of your deposition. How many "ummmms" have been caught, how many "Ya know"s ? After five hours of everyone looking at you and asking you questions about something that happened 8 years ago you start to drift. You look out the window, over an expanse of land which no longer shows any evidence of the farms that were there 10 years ago- just corporate park after corporate park after corporate park. Another piece of evidence (#67) is handed to you. "Do you recognize this letter?" As your eyes come back into the room and leave the the vista beyond you think to yourself, "I really need to learn how to buy vegitables by metric weight- that will be important in Paris"

I feel as thought my blog doesn't reach out and talk to the kids. This ought to take care of it.

I do it for the kids.

We had a little gathering for K’s birthday this weekend- along with showing the house it was a busy time but very pleasurable. I bought balloons for both occasions and a little helium tank. What a joy balloons are! I think they, like flowers in vases, should be scattered around the house for splashes of color.

One of my helium balloons got away from me a floated up to the sky- where it is now I have no idea. The adult in me knows that it has deflated and has landed softly, a few blocks away, but the child in me is certain it is still flying; floating at its own pace toward some foreign land.

When I was a child, while on vacation with my family at the Gulf of Mexico, I put a note with my name and address in a bottle and threw it in the gulf. I was filled with excitement at the possibilities of the bottles journey. Perhaps I would receive a letter 50 years later from someone in China who had just retrieved my aged note. I imagined it bumping against a pirate ship- floating, unconcerned, along side a whale. The possibilities were endless.

An hour later I saw some lady walking down the street with my bottle and the note still jammed in it- she couldn’t get it out. That is the problem with endless possibilities the end result might be rather dull.

Could I be more remiss in posting on my little blog? My heart isn't in it. I thought that Sunday Scribbles might jolt me out of the lethargy but the topic was second chances so I, like a slacker that I am, gave an old post a second chance and resubmitted it. I even tried to play it off as an homage to mother's day when in fact I forgot mother's day was coming up and it was a complete coincidence. How lame is that?

K- had the laser surgery done on her eyes today- actually it was done about a month ago and had to be redone because it didn't take.

I'm being deposed by a bunch of a attorneys on Monday regarding a project we did 7 or 8 years ago and I'm feeling a little intimidated (but I'll get over it).

I have been on a low carb diet for a week and I've been dreaming about ice cream and oatmeal raisin cookies (I love me some oatmeal raisin cookies). I have also been very cranky.

Should it be this hot in May?

I've been tagged to mention 7 random things about myself. That's easy- in fact everything I write is random stuff about me. Harder will be sending this tag to 7 bloggers. I don't think I know 7 bloggers to "tag" so I thought I might send it to 7 completely random blogs. I will have to consider who to send this to but here are 7 compleyely random things about me.


1. When I was a child my sister, little brother and I always had a contest called "Who can make the sharpest pointy” A pointy is made by using the end of your pillowcase, preferably very well starched, and folding a section, about 2 inches into a point like a paper airplane. It felt really good to run this ‘pointy’ along your arm or your upper lip- it tickled. I’m 43, I still do this in my sleep (to be truthful I also do it when I'm awake.

2. I stopped drinking at 33 and have never had an alcoholic drink since – except once, when a Thai restaurant put hard lemonade in my ice tea.- I don’t know what hard lemonade is.

3. My parents, to punish me for bad grades, wouldn’t let me get my license at 16. By 18 they were begging me to take the test.

4. Everyone seems to love the “Mona Lisa” -it’s considered a masterpiece. I don’t know what makes the “Mona Lisa” any better than the painting of the dogs playing poker.

5. I fell in love (from afar) with a girl named Jackie LeBlanc in the 7th grade- she had a crooked nose.

6. I took 5 years of Latin in High School- I can’t speak Latin.

7. When I was in grade school I saw a boy in my class get hit by a car as he walked home. His mom came running down the street screaming and crying. Even though his legs were turned around backwards he said “Don’t cry, mom” I’ll never forget that.

It was a good weekend. I organized a street sale on Saturday which was good fun. K- and I cleared almost $400 but, more importantly, we got rid of some crap. Our buddies down the street sold $1,200 and $300 more on sunday. We had several people express interest in the cars we were selling. One couple, just moved from Spain took the Saab for a test ride. I wasn't interested in going with them but they didn't know how to drive an automatic- I'd never heard of such a thing. If you can't drive an automatic doesn't that mean you just can't drive? I didn't care I need to sell the cars. We began our journey in a stop and go manner. He kept his left foot on the break and his right on the gas. "ewwww the breaks are very touchy" He said after nearly sending me through thre windshield. "Only when you slam on them" I responded- I gave him a quick lesson in the automatic and we hit the highway without incident or accident. They expressed an interest in purchasing the car which is good and bad. Good, because we have to sell it and bad because we don't move until August. There was some interest in K's car, a '98 Jetta - I even tried to pawn it off on the Spaniards but he said, after our highway drive, "Once you've driven a Saab, it's hard to drive a Jetta" My thinking exactly.

Sunday- an absolutly beautiful day- we had an open house. K- went to brunch and I studied french on the deck while complete strangers wanderered through our house, poking, prodding and silently judging us. Ponette, the tri-colored bitch cat from Hell, did very well and didn't even vomit ...at least not yet. There weren't many people at the open house, maybe five couples, which makes me nervous- the house needs to sell to make this trip work. We still have plenty of time but there should be more interest in the house then that. It's a tough market but I was hoping our great location would offset that- we shall see.

My great grandfather boarded a ship in the late 1800’s and crossed the ocean. He sailed from Europe to America in search of a better life.

Several generations later a number of his descendents have boarded planes and moved back to Europe, also in search of a better life.

What lies beyond the ocean has always fascinated us. We expect a better life than the one we leave- it will be better “over-there” and while this may be true in some cases I suspect that in the majority of instances there is little to no change other than geography. The old saying still holds true- wherever you go there you are.

I don’t know how much my great grandfather’s life really changed- certainly his children and his children’s children have found what he sought, but I don’t know that he did.

If I truly want change when I move to France I will need to not only change the landscape but I will also need to reassess what is happening within me. Complacency is the kiss of death to meaningful change.

My sister used to have a philosophy that she lived by. I don't know if she still does or not, I hope she does.

A long time ago she told me that she tries to break the law at least once a day. These aren't big, good idea laws she was talking about but rather little laws that don't always make sense- like not jaywalking if you can make it, not running a red light when no one is around or ripping that tag off your mattress. I don't know why, but that seems like a good philosophy- keeps us fresh.

The last two days I have been feeling "The Panic".

The dollar plummets overseas- our spending power decreases daily.

The housing market is terrible- what if we can't sell the house?

Usually K- is the worrier and I comfort her with "everything is going to be fine- it will work out the way it's supposed to" Being of service to others is an old recovery trick- if you comfort another you don't have time to think about yourself. Apparently I've made time to do both.

In 1986 I flew to Ireland with my family. It was my first time in Europe and I was hooked. My world grew with that first trip. A year later I was in Spain, driving cross-country. I wanted to absorb everything. I wanted to be a part of the culture although I knew that was impossible. There was a dry spell in my travels for about 10 years when my life fell apart and slowly was rebuilt. I came back with a vengeance, six times to Europe in the past 6 years. We scrimp, save and do without for the sake of travel. As regular readers of this blog know, France holds a special place in our hearts; we’ve been there three times and will move to Paris in August.

When I first visited France it was the beginning of the war. French- American relations were at an all time low. A woman and I were watching the movie stars drive up for their big walk up the red carpet at Cannes Film Festival- She asked where I was from and how I enjoyed France. I was overwhelmed with her country and all it had to offer but that I was a little nervous about the perception of the French to me as an American. “No one blames the American people for the war- it’s the politicians, it’s always the politicians” I’ll always remember that brief, kind exchange. In Paris, two years later, I was treated to a different kind of person, one that hated Americans. It’s hard to argue with someone who feels all Americans are fat, rich, war mongers etc- I don’t even bother to argue with this kind of ignorance when I’m a guest in another country. In my own country I do discuss it I have not found that many people who hate the French, but I know they are out there. The few that have questioned why I would want to live in France general will cite every old stereotype and cliché they can think of to explain why they don’t like the French. Invariably the people that rely on these stereotypes of hatred have, generally, never been out of their own little world. They have no interest in leaving the safety of their own counties, their own little worlds and their own comfort zone. These people, and I find them very annoying, are always the loudest and speak the most but know the least.

What I have learned throughout my travels is that there are ignorant assholes in every country, but that there are many more kind and interesting people in these same countries. I, too, fell into the stereotype of the rude Parisian. When we first visited Paris, the bathroom in a café perplexed my wife. It was just a hole in the floor with two places for her feet. Having never seen this set up she asked a woman, in broken French, how this all worked. The woman explained in French and in pantomime. My wife looked dubiously at the hole and her ability to balance. The French woman held my wife’s hands so she could keep her balance while she used the bathroom. Anytime someone suggests the French are rude I tell them that story and then I suggest they visit New York City*.

*The woman, for all I know, could have been Canadian but the story wouldn’t be as much fun. Canadians are awfully nice people.

I called him Dr. Tom because he once said to me, "I ain't no Doctor but I know when I'm losing my patience" How can you not like a grown man who quotes Popeye? He worked at the Club House and was several years sober. He and I always got along- he looked like a hippy with his long hair and grey beard- he resembled an aged Zonker from the Doonesbury cartoon. Dr. Tom told me this story several years ago which you might have heard- it was new to me.

A guy finds a snake on the side of the road. It's injured and close to death. He takes it home and nurses it back to health, keeps it warm, feeds it. The snake quickly recovers. One day, the snake, out of nowhere, bits the man in the face. The man is surprised, "What did you do that for? After I nursed you back to health- why would you bite me?" The snake responded "Because I'm a snake, you knew I was a snake when you took me in"

I would have forgotten this story except that Dr. Tom, about a week later -fucked up and enraged- beatup of his girlfriend- raped and tortured her. He went to jail for 2 years. It was strange that he told me that story so close to doing that to his girlfriend- it made me feel connected to his actions. I don't want to have any connection to that kind of evil. I started to pull away from the Club House- I was losing interest in being in the front lines of recovery.

It's odd as I re-read this story and a few others they almost sound made up. They fit too nicely or end too cleanly- they are 100% true. This entry is creepy, sorry about that

Talking about Wheelchair Jerry got me thinking about The Clubhouse. I got sober there, my brother took me to my first meeting there in 1997. I had been holed up for 6 months before that unable to leave the house except to get booze- paranoid, drunk, panicky I don't remember much of that time but things had gotten progressively worse for the previous 10 years and then the final year was a spirally downward plummet. Like a plane falling out of the sky.

Fast forward 2 years. I'm still sober and I'm selling raffle tickets at the Club House- the tickets are $50 each- more than most people here can afford. I sell to groups of 5- "share a ticket for $10". I sell my tickets quickly but I'm also in quite a few of those groups of 5. If I can only get 4 people together I would throw in the other $10 myself. It was a $10,000 cash prize- nothing to sneeze at. The other $10,000 will go to fix the roof- 6 years later that roof still isn't fixed- go figure where the money went. Anyway, one of the many tickets I was in on was with Bones and three others. The night they drew the ticket, they had a dance(there's always a dance in recovery) Our ticket won. We split the pot- $2,000 each. None of the other ticket holder were at the dance that night. At around 11:00 pm the manager lead to the back room. the opened the safe and started to count out $2,000 in 20 dollar bills.

"You're going to give me 100 20 dollar bills?" I asked somewhat surprised.

"Well, yea, how else would you propose we do it?" Was the response.

I was wearing a green army pants and as I left the back room that Saturday night my loose pockets were full of money. I stepped out into the main room of our dark, beat up smokey recovery club house and 200 plus people looked at me with envy. With my pockets bulging from the 20 dollar bills every ne'er-do-well, thief, drunk, drug addict, prostitute, delinquent, punk, pedophile, rapist parolee staring at me and my new found wealth.

"I'll tell you what" Bobby V said surveying the situation-
"you walk slowly to your car and I'll make sure no one follows you."

I walked, as casually as I could, to my car with all eyes on me. As I drove home I kept watch in the rear view mirror to make sure no beat up car with whiskey dings was behind me.

Why the paranoia if these people are trying to quit drinking and drugging? There is a saying that many people have in recovery. You don't have to get good to get better

Which reminds me of another story...

He wheeled up to the main entrance, pulled himself out of the wheelchair and sitting on the lowest step he lifted himself up each step, backward.

Could you get that for me?” he said nodding to the chair.

I struggled to carry it up the stairs

“Damn, it’s heavier than I would have thought.”

“It’s even heavier when you have to sit in it”- he laughed in a mean spirited way, which I didn’t much care for.

He climbed back into the chair once we were inside and only then did he look at his surroundings. A smokey, beaten down building, once a large, private residence, then a cooking school now a smokey, beat up, recovery center. We called it ‘the clubhouse’.

Despite his initial gruffness Jerry became a favorite at the clubhouse. His drunk stories were entertaining and they always ended with the police trying to arrest him and he fighting several of them either in his wheelchair or sprawled on the floor swinging his arms. He had a huge laugh that would ring out when he told his stories of drunken debauchery.

He had become paralyzed in a car accident and was expecting a big payday after his lawsuit finished out. He was suing his former friend that was driving the car the night they were in the accident. Jerry and his friend had been drinking and drugging all night. His friend was driving the car when they ran into something, I never knew what. Jerry became paralyzed but his friend escaped any major injury. Jerry decided to sue this guy for the loss of his legs. It always seemed peculiar that Jerry blamed his friend, as they had both been drinking and Jerry could have just as easily been driving the car, but I didn’t say anything, because, despite his huge laugh, Jerry was an angry man capable of great violence, even if he was in a wheelchair.

Jerry was one of those who came in and out. He got a significant amount of time at first, maybe 9 months and went out one day when he was feeling sorry for himself, that’s usually how that happens. After his initial relapse he could never stay sober. He would always come back with stories of his exploits- each worse than the last. He was still getting into fights with the police and getting arrested but the stories were no longer funny. He asked me one day, after recounting the tales of yet another weekend of binge drinking, why the people at the clubhouse didn’t respond to his stories anymore. I decided to just answer with the truth, at least how I saw the truth.

“The problem with your stories, Jerry, is that they are happening now. Those kinds of stories are funny only after they are over, when they are happening they are heartbreaking. - That shit going on in your life now isn’t funny ...it’s just sad.”

I don’t think he spoke to me after that. That was about 8 years ago and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Someone told me that he was in prison for selling crack and that the big court payoff never happened- but who knows- He may be fine. He could be telling the stories about fighting cops that happened a long, long time ago and how he's grateful that he doesn't have to live that way anymore...or not.