Don't waste your time on me; you're already a voice inside my head (I miss you)...

Dear Dad,
Is it any wonder that I can't sleep? It's that time again. It's time for me to sit up in my bed with my tiny lamp burning next to me and my loving family (feline AND human) blissfully in the land of nod, and pretend that by acknowledging the tremendous pain in my chest from the metaphorical thumb on my lungs that it doesn't hurt the three hundred and sixty-goddamned-four other days in the year. It's kind of like a plea with that giant thumb that, "please, please, please, I'll suffer visibly and audibly and physically aloud and in technicolor if you'll just please, please, please leave me be when I'm done".

This, of course, doesn't work. I am an absolute shit negotiator.

So, another year since the cancer took you, and I wanted to pretend that you are still here, so instead of talking to you like I do every day, I thought I'd write to you and "catch up". There is so much to tell--some of it good, some of it not so good, but all of it vivid.

I am still teaching. I moved to a new school. Did I tell you that? It's a change, for sure; all the classrooms are sparkling and new, and this energy seems to trickle its way into the students. They are amazing, and every day, they made me look forward to getting there if only because I wanted to see what their open minds and curiosity allowed me to learn as we worked together. They filled their informal contractual obligations and took their high-stakes tests and did so well that it took my breath away. If you had lived long enough, you were planning on going into teaching medicine, and I wish we had had the chance to sit down and trade stories about our favorite students (because you know we have them). This is what I was born to do, and, in some ways, you were, too.

...but this is not about that.

James got married this year. After being very cautious and pragmatic as he is wont to do, he realized that he found "the one", and how often does that happen, really? You should have seen him when he saw Kelly come down the aisle. I no longer wonder what the poets talk about; it was written all over his face. They made a tribute to you. Did you hear it?

Charles and Mary, David and Jen, and their respective families continue to bloom and spread joy and love and beauty around them everywhere they go. Lauren? She reminds me a lot of you, actually. She's funny and sharp and articulate, but most of all, she is kind, but you knew that, didn't you?

And then there's Mom. She packed up her life and the 30-plus years she accumulated in the home that you both created and made what was probably the scariest journey of her life. I used to refer to her as Joan of Arc, but these days, she is less a fighter and more an intrepid adventurer. The compass that is family guided her back to Canada, and, though she gets nervous about the decision, she is allowing the needle of the compass to settle. She is home. Her family are all there. Even you are there, in a manner of speaking, and once her journey is over, you'll find each other and rest. You'll both have earned it.

I'm fine, really. I have a good life. My family loves me. Daniel takes better care of me than I sometimes feel I deserve. You'd like him. Remember how you fancied yourself a "tech guy"? Remember how you used to try and "talk shop" with the computer salesmen? You and he would have much to discuss. He would, no doubt, be intimidated by you, but I know that you would secretly love that. You could see for yourself just how patient, generous, gentle, and kind he is. I know you want that for me.

So what do I tell you? I could go on and on and fill bags and boxes and trunks and bureaus with sadness and hollowness and longing and anger that it just isn't fair, but like this letter suggests, you are not gone. I'll see you again at a place where love and warmth cross paths with justness and happiness, and we'll talk about the "big stuff" we only got to broach before you... We'll share stories. We'll compare music. I'll let you meet my cats, for I know they'll get there before me. I'll tell you all about my teaching, and you can describe your medical victories. We'll swap complaints about running. The best part? The best part is that I'll be able to give you the hug I've been keeping to myself for 18 years...

...18 years and counting.

Good night, Dad. I love you...

Dodge the bullets or carry the gun; the choice is yours...

With apologies to Mr. Neil Diamond, I amusedly shake my head and say, "oh, what a night". So, there are people in this world who seem to have the need to make others miserable, usually by not following simple protocols or not respecting simple rules. Daniel came up with the perfect term for them--weasels. For example, "that guy is smuggling full-sized luggage on as carry-on. What an overhead bin weasel!" or, "THAT is not a compact car. What a parking weasel!" You get the idea. Now, anyone who has ever lived in an apartment complex with an on-site laundry room has probably had a run in with the dreaded washer/dryer weasel. You know the ones...people who wait until every, last shred of their clothing is absolutely unwearable, then they pack up their u-haul o' clothes (no, that is NOT a comment on hillbillies, though there are plenty in my complex) and set up camp in the laundry room. Subsequently, we have an episode of literary physics. In short, we have Brobdinagian laundry piles in contention with Lilliputian facilities. It's not good, especially for those of us who just want our g*dd*mned Snoopy pajamas clean! 

But I digress.

Today, on a day that could only be described as "apocalyptically hot", I figured fewer people would be doing their laundry. Most of my fellow tenants were splashing (and, most likely, peeing) enthusiastically in the complex pool, so I went on a cleaning bender. Gathering up my ONE load of laundry, I was dismayed to find all the machines chugging away. Not to worry, though. Each machine had about five minutes left. Forgoing the comfort of my Lilliputian window air conditioning unit, I sat on the bench outside to wait for a machine to open up...

...and the machines ceased their chugging

...and the room fell silent

...and the wet clothes waited.

NEARLY TWENTY MINUTES AFTER THE CYCLE FINISHED a woman in an ill-fitting (and definitely not age-appropriate) swimsuit sauntered her way past me (now red-faced, sweaty, and visibly perturbed). Because I have respect for the rules and protocols of the complex, I heeded the sign that said not to touch anyone else's laundry. I was half hoping for an apology, or even a noncommittal mea culpa. I would have settled for a shrug and a "my bad". Nope. Lady Maillot smirked at me, loaded her laundry into all the dryers, and proceeded to bitch about how much it would cost.  I clenched my teeth, choked back my bile, and verrrrrrrry politely explained that the dryers have twice the capacity of the washers, so she could double up each dryer load and cut her cost in half. Did I get gratitude? Did I get an amazed look of respect for my quick thinking? Nope. Here is a transcript of what followed:

Lady Maillot: WhatEVER! It's MY money!

me: (clenched-tooth smiling) I am aware of that. I thought I'd try to help.

LM: What...EVER. Pfft!

me: silence (but on my face are my "Oh, HAY-ell, NO!!" eyebrows)

LM: Why are YOU so grumpy? People like you need to cheer up.

me: And people like YOU need to understand simple math when it comes to calculating the capacity of a dryer. TWICE the capacity means you need HALF the number of dryers. Of course, even with half the dryers, you would still be twice as irritating.

...and a verbal...exchange ensues, punctuated by her informing me that she, "is a CHRISTian (her inflection on the first syllable), and this is not how God wants {me} to be".  Now, I'm not the most religious person in the world, but I'm pretty sure the answer to those "What Would Jesus Do?" t-shirts is  NOT "monopolize all the washers and dryers for hours". Cut to her husband hustling over to the laundry room in his MANdals, "Tap-Out" t-shirt, and "Monster Energy Drink" hat. You know, the epitome of pseudo-masculine rage coupled with an insouciant hint of job-marriage-life frustration and a white-knuckle death grip on his ever-fading youth..and hairline.

Now...

since I know some of my students read this, I'll clean up HIS language. He said, "you need to learn some (fish)ing respect. Nobody talks to my (fish)ing wife like that! Just watch what the (fish) you say, you (bleach)!" When I told him I neither raised my voice nor swore at his wife, but asked him if he knew what the word "hypocrisy" meant, he furrowed (maybe he DIDN'T know), glared, harrumphed, and stomped down the walkway (a very impressive act considering the mandals). 

This town...I tell ya.