Ever Have One Of Those Days? #8

Ever Have One Of Those Days? #7

Chapter Two

Ok - this is still very rough. I'm struggling with some of the ideas for the story.

But what the heck...

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Morning.

A plastic, dark green window shade laid on the floor beneath an open window. The sun streaked through the glass and fell right upon his face. He stirred. He didn’t want to get up. He was in the middle of that dream about the beach. He was with her, walking, holding hands, talking about nothing in words that meant everything. He was determined to see how this dream would end. If he could just keep his eyes shut long enough, maybe he could go back there.

The bright light annoyed him and his mind wandered. He started thinking about that window shade. He had to go the hardware store to get this clip so that he could hang the thing up. Why do you always need to make two or three trips to the hardware store to get a simple job done? He bought a clip last week, but it was the wrong one. He needed the clip that had the round part on the end and the small hole in the middle. The other clip had a snap but the snap only worked for shades that had this little hook. Those shades were made by a different company. What a pain in the butt. Why don’t they just standardize those things? That’s like faucet valves. Every faucet uses a different kind of valve. What’s up with that? Why not have just a standard valve, or a couple of different valves? He made a mental note to buy the other kind of faucet valve when he went back to the hardware store. He hoped that he kept the receipt, so he could return the one that he bought when he picked up the mounting clip for the shade.

Damn it was hot.

It was early June. Summer came early. Must be global warming. Great, another New York style hot and sticky summer. It was late on a Saturday morning. The joggers had already taken their showers and headed out to brunch. There was little other activity on east 6^th street this morning. It was just too hot. The sane people were either at the beach or sitting in front of their air conditioners.

He could not afford the Hamptons and he sure couldn't bear the train ride to Jones Beach. It wasn't so much the train ride out there, it was the thought of the long ride back. Sitting on the train, with the sand, salt and dry sweat on your skin. The discomfort. No, that wasn't him.

How about the Sheep Meadow at Central Park? By this time, a few hundred similarly situated New Yorkers were already out there. It would be packed. Probably impossible to find a good place to lay out. It just seemed like too much effort. And he was still in bed.

After being away for three years, he returned to New York last month. He was in New York! Pizza, bagels, mortadela, stinky cheese. Maybe he could do some off, off, Broadway. There were commercials. Plenty of restaurant jobs.

He didn't know how he was going to make a living, but he knew that he would find a way to make it work. It can be tough to live in New York. When you’re under thirty, it's very hip. Do people use the word “hip” anymore? It was okay to live in the city back then. All your friends are short on cash, everyone's trying to make it, its no big deal being broke. You get a couple of part-time jobs, you do your thing. If you have to, you can share a place with a couple of buddies.

Something changes after thirty. Some of your friends get really good jobs. They have what is called disposable income. They buy useless things and go to nice restaurants. At first, they invite you and they pay for you. It doesn't take long to get uncomfortable with the fact that you don't have the money to pay for yourself. After a while, you don't get the invitations. Yup, as you get older you're more willing to admit that being broke all the time is not a great adventure. It just sucks. You get tired of paying $1500 a month for a 600 square foot apartment. You get tired of working multiple jobs – your “what you are” jobs and your “make ends meet” jobs.

It would be different this time. He was going to make New York work for him. Suzie's letter was a wake up call. After he got the letter he called Suzie and got the whole story. He knew what he had to do. He was going to get his act together and be an inspiration. He would be the man that she always wanted him to be. He would do that for her. Whether or not she was willing to admit it, she needed him now. It wouldn't be about how much money he was making or whether he was on a career path. It was only important that he loved her and that she understood that he always loved her. He had been a coward. Instead of fighting for their relationship, he left. But he felt ready to fight now, maybe because he didn't think that she would have the strength to fight back. Yeah, he was ready to stand up and be strong for the both of them. Although he wasn't sure what his role might be, it didn't really matter. He would take what he could get. One way or another, he was going to be back in her life.

She didn't know that he was back. He wasn't ready to let her know. He wanted to be settled first, so he could tell her about the positive things that he was doing. She'd like that.

But it wasn't just about her. They had a child. More than anything, he wanted to be a father. He wanted a relationship with their child. He didn't want to be a stranger. He wanted to be in her heart . . . .

The wail of a passing ambulance broke his chain of thought. He opened his eyes and winced at the morning light. He turned his head from the sun and the world came into focus. He felt a strong urge to pee. “Shit.”

He sat up and took inventory. He slid around and let his feet drop to the tile floor. He reached down to an open box laying on the floor and tore off a piece of last night’s pizza. He took a bite. “Cold.” If its so hot in here, why's the pizza cold? Chewing, he stood, shuffled his way through a week’s worth of laundry and made his way to the bathroom.

It was a tiny bathroom. It needed cleaning. He stepped up and leaned over the bowl but it took too much effort to stand. He kicked off his boxers and sat down. He let his head hang down, stared at the floor and let out a small groan. A wave of relief.

The phone rang. “Doodely-squat.” Why do they always call when you're on the can? He tried to squeeze the little muscles to cut off the stream while he sat more upright and twisted around to get the cordless phone that was on top of the water tank. Straining to get his eyes to focus, he located and pressed the “Talk” button. The phone battery was dead. “Shit.” He looked around wondering what to do.

Two more rings and silence.

He leaned forward and dropped the phone on the floor. Elbows on his thighs, his head sank down and he stared at the checkerboard on the tile floor as he finished his morning's constitutional. Wow, that was pretty cool. The longer you stared at the floor, the more it seemed like the black and white tiles were moving. His lower back felt stiff. He leaned forward even more. It felt good to stretch in this direction. Dropping his shoulders between his knees to maximize the stretch, he lost his balance and almost fell off of the seat. He managed to escape hitting his head against the wall. He chuckled at himself for being such a bonehead.

The phone started ringing again. “Man! Shit, doodley-squat!”

A quick tap, a wipe with a small piece of toilet paper to remove and excess, he got up. Without taking the time to either flush or put on his boxers, he stepped out of the bathroom and started looking around for another phone.

The small studio apartment was a mess. It was a railroad car style apartment, long and very narrow. His platform bed with the uncomfortable fouton mattress was at the far end. There were windows on the east-facing wall. The western wall wall was covered with framed posters: Edward Hopper's “Nighthawks,” Yousuf Karsh's portrait of Audrey Hepburn, Gustav Klimt's “The Kiss,” Saul Steinberg's “A View from Fifth Avenue,” Vincent Van Gough sunflowers, Joan Miro's “Dog Barking at the Moon,” Roy Lichtenstein's “Forget It, Forget Me,” a Wolf Kahn Landscape, a vintage Museum of Modern Art poster, and an Al Hirshfeld limited edition print of Mr. Spock.

There were books all over the place: books on art, food, cooking, theatre, and spirtualism. A collection of plays: “The Iceman Cometh,” “Cyrano De Begerac,” “Man and Superman,” “The Unseen Hand,” “A Streetcar Named Desire,” “Hedwig and the Angry Inch.” There was a cardboard box of movie scripts and screenplays: some famous, some by friends, a few originals. On the Ikea coffee table, a biography of Chuck Jones.

A NAD stereo system sat on the floor, framed by a pair of PSB Avente II speakers. Several stacks of CDs sat nearby. One of the stacks had been knocked over, the CDs lay across the floor: Pato Banton, The Radio Luxemburg Symphony Orchestra, The Cars, Buena Vista Socia Club, Sergio Mendez, Santana, Vladimir Horowitz, The Beatles, Elvis Costello, Joe Jackson, The London Symphony Orchestra, The Boston Pops, Mariah Carey.

The phone sat on his Ikea coffee table. The one covered in rings because he never bothered to use coasters. He picked it up.

“Josh, it's Suzie.”

“Hey Suz.”

“Josh ... oh my lord Josh. I'm so sorry." She had difficulty speaking. She was choking back tears, fighting to get the words out.

"It's Kat.... She's gone.... Oh my g-d, she's dead.”

Ever Have One Of Those Days? #6

First Chapter of My Novel

Ok -- I've shared this with Cheri@BlogThisMom. I thought it was time to share this with you. It's something that I've written and tinkered with for a long time (there is no universal law that things get better with time). I just wanted to do something with this.

I have Chapter Two drafted. I've drafted Chapter Three ten times.

Please let me know what you think. As Nick Lowe says, "You gotta be cruel to be kind."

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Morning.

The early sun filtered in through chiffon curtains and filled the room with a soft light. This was her room, where she grew up. The room was tidy, it wasn’t very different from when she left, went to college, got that first job in the city, married too soon, and then, of course, got divorced. This was the place where she dreamed, imagined, and had an occasional good cry. It was the place where she planned her life. And she was a planner. She had planned her road to perfection and thought that she had done such a good job of following that plan. How wrong she had been. Perspectives change. You get swept into the pace of life and fail to notice that your heart is moving in another direction. You start with a preconceived notion of what is important, follow it blindly and then realize that there’s something better out there.

She glanced around the room. Her bookshelf was a confused collection of interests: Mark Twain, Danielle Steele, Hunter Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Franz Kafka, Ernest Hemmingway. A purple feather boa draped over the side. A picture of the University of North Carolina Women’s Soccer team in crazy celebration after winning the National Championship. The Wealth of Nations, in hardcover, wedged between Black Beauty and Breakfast of Champions. A souvenir shot glass remembering San Francisco cable cars. A harmonica, yoyo, and Mardi Gras beads sitting on the shelf in front of "Analysis of Variance," "Advanced Linear Regression Analysis," "Differential Equations," "Option Valuation under Stochastic Volatility," and, of course, Richard Bookstaber’s "Options Valuation & Investment Strategies." A framed picture of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue.

She settled back, closed her eyes, and listened to the sounds coming from downstairs. That would be the kid. Happy sounds. Good, no issues. Grandpa was probably with her, cuddling, tickling and watching cartoons. He will entertain them. Everything was okay when Grandpa was around. Perhaps he’d take them into the city. He loved the Central Park Zoo and was always looking for an excuse to go there.

Her mom must be up. She’ll make pancakes. The kid loves pancakes. Of course, if she makes them, the kid will say that she wanted waffles. But before any cooking, she’ll first come upstairs to say good morning and ask if her daughter felt like having something to eat. But she doesn’t feel like eating. Her appetite hadn’t returned, even though she stopped the chemo several weeks ago.

She wasn’t getting thin, she was downright skinny. She thought of how she looked in the mirror. How could this happen her body? She was skin and bones. The muscle tone was gone – the muscle was gone. She had been an athlete all her life. Despite a challenging career, she maintained a good training schedule: weight training four times a week, running one day and swimming the next. People called her an “animal,” they said she was a “machine.”

Getting sick wasn’t in the plan. Josh’s bubba used to say, “Man tracht und der gott lacht.” People plan and G-d laughs. She only now started to understand what that meant. She didn’t plan on getting sick. And when she first got the news, she chose not to believe it. Lung cancer? She never smoked a day in her life. They must have confused her with somebody else. It just wasn’t possible.

Once she accepted the diagnosis, she attacked her illness like she attacked everything in her life. Head on. Thank goodness they caught it early. She went to the doctor, started treatment, and continued to juggle the kid, her training and her career. She refused to accept that she was losing her strength but she didn’t have the stamina to keep up appearances. The stress first appeared in her face. Her eyes became dark and shallow. She lost weight. Although she chose not to talk about her illness, it became clear to those around her that something was seriously wrong.

She eventually told her closest friends and asked them to keep her confidence. She had to tell her partners. Her absences became more frequent and she began to lose focus. When she started to make mistakes, some of her partners reacted in anger, they asked why. She made an appointment and met with the management committee.

She was nervous about the meeting, nauseated by the thought of facing this group of old insensitive men. But it was not what she expected. They expressed heartfelt concern for her. They promised their support. When Joe, the hard-edged managing partner who lost his wife of 30 years to breast cancer, started to sniff, she went up to give him a hug. They cried and the other six members of the management committee got out of their chairs to join in. Somebody farted, they laughed, passed around a box of tissues, and went back to work.

A short time after, it got to the point where she couldn’t go to work. Not only was she incapable of working, she couldn’t deal with the work environment. It was with the best of intentions, but word got out. All eyes were upon her. She would walk down the hall and sense that they were talking about her. It’s not that they were bad people or that they intended to hurt her; they just couldn’t help it. It was all so unbelievable. Her presence was a reminder of how fragile life can be. It was as if her illness caused others to feel that they themselves had narrowly escaped tragedy. As if misfortune had skipped over them and landed on her. It was like seeing a terrible car accident, the witnesses had to talk about it to relieve their own anxiety. They now treated her differently. They treated her as if she were sick and crushed her with their kindness. For some one like her, it was tough to accept empathy and she couldn’t bear pity. She met once again with the partners, negotiated a buyout and the firm announced that she was “leaving to pursue other interests.” She lied to her colleagues, telling them that she wanted to spend more time with the kid and that she planned to do some “consulting.”

It was ok to be home with the kid. It was different. As a former career woman, being a homemaker presented new challenges. It was an opportunity to add another dimension to her relationship with the kid. She threw herself into the role, trying to make up for the all the time that she had been away. It wasn’t long before she realized that, given her health, she didn’t only have trouble taking care of the kid, she was having trouble taking care of herself. One sad morning she looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. She sat on the bathroom floor and cried. That’s when she decided it was time to go home to Mom.

She opened her eyes, looked across the room, and stared at the cork board above her desk. A long time ago, Mom created a shrine to her daughter, an artful collection of memories that retraced her daughter’s life. Colorful pins that she had received at soccer tournaments. A certificate for winning the sixth grade spelling bee. Pictures of her and Suzie, her “growing up” best friend, the sister she never had: their first day of kindergarten - a Polaroid of the two of them holding hands as they entered the classroom on the first day of first grade; their first swim meet - Suzie took top honors; High School Prom; the day that she decided on a career - standing in Battery Park with the Statue of Liberty behind them.

Dad took that picture at the Statue of Liberty. It was their reward for having the two highest grades in high school calculus. They took the day off from school and Dad took them to see Ms. Liberty and go shopping in SOHO. But Dad insisted that they walk down Wall Street. They went to the World Trade Center to see the options trading. She thought it would be boring but it was the most exciting thing that she had ever seen: the frenzy, hustling, bustling, yelling, screaming. She had no idea of what was going on, but it all looked so exciting and she wanted to stand on that floor.

Suzie’s wedding picture, she was maid of honor. Her wedding picture, Suzie was maid of honor. Her wedding....

She closed her eyes and though about Josh. She met him while attending law school at NYU. He was in a graduate theatre program at the Tisch School of the Arts. He was so, “hawt.” It was just a few months before graduation. They enjoyed a torrid romance, explored SOHO and the art scene. They ate great food at cheap restaurants. They would take walks late at night and, on the way home, stop for a Chipwich at the deli.

She admired him. He used another yardstick to measure success. He had the courage to do what she didn’t. She wasn’t willing to take risks. She needed to know that she could support herself comfortably, stand on her own two feet. She didn’t want to depend upon a man. It was her passion, it defined her. She lived to work. Sure, she loved the kid, she was generous about the way that she provided for her. But she lived to work.

He worked to live. At any one time, he would hold multiple part-time hourly jobs so that he could sustain a modest existence, pay for acting class, voice lessons, and have the flexibility to attend auditions. He had a passion about things. He loved to cook and would come up with the most wonderful menus. It was fun to see him in the kitchen, throwing around ingredients and making a huge mess. But there was a deep intelligence underlying his passion. His menus were not arbitrary but a carefully constructed structure of color and flavor. He didn’t “spoon out the chow,” he decorated the plate. This was a man who could spend 20 minutes deciding on tomatoes - touching, feeling, smelling – selecting vegetables was an erotic, total body experience. He was also a mass of contradictions. He could argue about the right type of wine to use in Coq au Vin while chomping down a Big Mac. He could discuss Kerouac while watching Looney Tunes. He thought Bugs Bunny symbolized America’s role in a hostile world. And he could speak beautifully about the freckles on her nose when they made love.

They got married. Although she made enough money to support the both of them, he insisted upon keeping his odd jobs. He didn’t need to work quite as much, but he worked enough to pay for his never ending classes and have some walking around money. His odd jobs had gotten to be an embarrassment. She was an up and coming associate at a major investment bank when he was working at Starbucks. When people asked her about her husband, her colleagues would jump in to say that he was a British lawyer. Her faced would flush as she quickly explained that this was their idea of joke and that her husband was a “barista” and not a “barrister.” Then her colleagues would look at one another, in feigned disbelief, and say, “That’s not what you told us.” It wore her down. When she found herself telling clients that her husband was a lawyer, she found a new job.

Moving to a smaller firm didn’t resolve the issue. She felt resentment about his lack of concern over household finances. In anticipation of her rising personal income, she made financial commitments – a condo, a car, insurance, maintenance – and found that despite her well above-average earnings, money was tight. He didn’t seem to notice. She tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t engage. So they did the next logical thing, they had the kid.

She didn’t want her child to grow up in the city, so she bought a house in New Jersey. He never wanted to live in New Jersey and hated the fact that he needed to commute into the city to attend auditions. Although they had some help with the kid, he had to quit his part-time jobs to be more of a “house Dad.” It became more difficult to schedule auditions. He felt trapped and got grumpy. She felt resentment over his grumpiness, his inability to recognize her financial contribution, and her heart began to wander. Worst of all, he was no longer her best friend. She began to view him as an obstacle.

She now shared her confidences and frustrations with the guys at work. He was aware of this, felt isolated and withdrew. That only made the feelings of isolation mutual. Rather than work on their marriage, they just gave up. It was difficult for the both of them to stay involved after their divorce – they loved one another too much. He went out to LA for pilot season and never came back. She felt that he was running out on her child. He said that he didn’t fit in with the life that she was providing their child and didn’t want to be in the way. He was just young and stupid. She asked him to relinquish his parental rights and was shocked when he quietly agreed. He sent money, but she didn’t bother to deposit the checks. He sent gifts to the kid, remembered her birthday and special milestones. He even remembered her birthday and sent his best wishes in a creative and joyful way. They never talked. There was too much sadness and pain.

None of that seemed to matter now. It was pride that kept her from telling him about her illness. But for the longest time she wanted him to be here with her. He lived and she wanted to feel the strength of his spirit around her. She didn’t know how to say it. She was incapable of admitting her vulnerability.

How could the freedom to love someone cause so much misunderstanding and pain? She had a theory: Love is a lot more than hormones, more than what you feel in your heart. Love is making a choice and committing that choice, especially during difficult times. Love is personal sacrifice for the sake of the common good. Love is the willingness to overcome doubt, particularly when it feels so much better to surrender to dark thoughts. You don’t only love with your heart. The heart wanders. You don’t only love with your mind. The mind wanders. You love with your whole person, that’s what keeps you on track. Love is running a marathon. A large part of running marathons is training. You never stop training. You train every day. And when you're running a marathon, you get ready to hit the wall - a moment in time when you're just exhausted, sick and ready to give up. And when you hit the wall, you tell yourself to keep going because that’s what you’ve committed to do. It's not romantic, pleasurable or logical. You just keep going. And if you keep going, just like a marathon, the joy eventually returns.

You can run a marathon by yourself. That’s where love gets tricky. You can’t love by yourself. It is not sole-sacrifice, it is not service, it is not dependence. It takes two committed individuals coming from some place of strength to make love happen. You need two people running that marathon, but committed to finishing. It’s said that we have six senses. Love transcends those senses, it is what you feel, think, hear, see, smell, and taste. Love is as much a choice as it is a feeling. It is the physical and the spiritual. It’s the ability to remain faithful to that choice in the face of adversity that deepens love.

She felt responsible for their divorce. She had put up a wall and willingly given up the opportunity to feel his love. She paused. It didn’t matter now. The loss, the pain, the sadness, the anger, it just didn’t matter. For her, there was only the now.

She smiled. For him, there was the future. It was going to be okay. She knew that he would make the right decisions and that it would all work out. She had faith in him. It will be all right. It was odd that now, so much after the fact, she was finally in a position to make things right. It would be all right. She chuckled.

There was the sound of footsteps, Mom was coming up the stairs. She thought about the warmth of her mother’s smile.

It was a beautiful Spring morning. She could hear the “chak, chak, chak” of the automatic sprinkler. The grass would be so green. The flowers would be in bloom. The sun would be so warm.

She could hear her mother stop just outside her door. She would be listening at the door, wonder whether her daughter was up. She heard Mom call downstairs, telling her father to keep the noise down. A lot of good that would do.

It was time. She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. As she breathed in, she thought about the sun, the flowers, the trees. As she breathed out, she prayed that her child would cherish G-d’s gift of nature and the blessings that he brings to our doorstep every single day. She breathed in and thought about all the times that she had denied her husband and her child the gift of her presence, the gift of her heart, and the gift of her simple acknowledgment that she needed them. And as she breathed out, she prayed that they would find the root of happiness. She breathed in and thought about the Spring, the flowers, and the beautiful day. And as she breathed out, she thought about the time that she and Josh had walked through a field of wildflowers. She breathed in and thought the first time that she held her child and that Josh was standing at her side. She breathed out and prayed that the two of them would share something special, the way it was meant to be. She breathed in and thought, “G-d is near.” She breathed out and thought, “All is good.” She smiled.

And then she died.

Ever Have One Of Those Days? #5

The Year Of The Rat

Having been raised in New York City, the thought of a rat conjures up dark images of disease and filth. I am reminded of a storefront kept by a New York City public health unit at Avenue A and Third Street. This unit was responsible for publicly funded rodent extermination programs. This store window was filled with pictures of men in orange jumpsuits standing in the bowels of buildings holding dead rats.

I remember once throwing a coke bottle at a monstrous thing creeping along a New York City subway station. I make a mental connection between rats and bubonic plague and though I don’t really know what bubonic plague will do to you, it seems horrible. Rats are yucky. I think of rats and my skin crawls.

Despite my feelings about rats, some cultures look favorably on these beasts. I come from a world of plenty and rats are a fact of life. However, for those less fortunate societies, having no rats equates to having no food. Taking this to a logical extreme, the presence of rats implies affluence. Forget the Lexus baby, I got rats.

And this brings me to Emily.

Our daughter Emily is a wondrous child. She is bright, alive and filled with passion. Although she can be demanding, she is sensitive and loving. Emily has a special weakness for animals. Ignoring what harms she might inflict upon her smaller brother, she goes gaga over little creatures and treats them with tenderness.

Back in Houston, not long after Bocephus (our golden retriever) passed on, Emily asked for a pet. We just weren't excited about having any pets in the house at that time, but we didn't want to say no. This was an opportunity to exercise advanced parenting: don’t say "no" – just say we’ll discuss this later and the child will forget.

Since we were in Houston and planning our return to California, Pam shrewdly answered that we would consider getting Emily a pet after we moved to San Diego. This proved to be a risky maneuver since, to a child, saying, "we will talk later," is as good as saying, "yes." While this approach reserves some moral right to say, "I never said yes"; the child will always feel betrayed. However, this is a calculated risk. This pet thing was likely a passing fancy, and Pam was betting that Emily would soon forget the matter.

Not long after we arrived in San Diego, Emily asked for the pet that she had been "promised." Forget the technical distinctions, our position was weakening. Pam played defense. She made the point that we were living in a rental house and that we should wait until we moved into our "real" house. Emily conceded. Shortly after we moved into our "real" house, Emily reminded Pam about her pet. In a purely defensive posture, Pam asked Emily to understand that we really hadn’t settled in yet. She begged Emily to indulge her and allow some time for "settling in." Of course, once the paint had dried, Emily asked Pam "Are we settled?" Pam asked why. Emily explained that if we were settled, Emily could get her pet, the pet that she had been promised.

Now at this point, you may have noticed that all of the action had been going on between Pam and Emily. You might ask what Kirk was doing during all of this. Well, Kirk was being a father. Realizing early on that I did not have the material to wage this war, I conducted diplomatic operations. Whenever Emily asked me about a pet, I would ask her questions about preschool and her friends. When pressed, I would simply respond with, "Ask your mother." Upon reflection, I’m very proud of the way I handled this situation. I managed to do a fair amount of talking without really saying anything.

Anyway, once the grout dried, Pam surrendered. Following the "call it a victory and get out of Vietnam" school of spin, Pam rationalized the situation to me as an educational experience (what she failed to say was that we were the ones being educated). I nodded knowingly. Given her flair for theatre, she decided to make this into an event. Pam, inventor of "Fall Festival" and "Fantastic Fridays," instituted "The Search for the Right Pet."

The "Search" as it had come to be known, fueled several family conversations.

Snakes were out of the question. Hamsters are not social and they bite. Ferrets are good with adults but they can be nasty with children and somebody said that they have a musk. Having experienced disco, I remember everyone was wearing musk at one time, but I suppose that was different then or at least a different kind of musk. Gerbils - well they’re gerbils - there's that whole Richard Gere thing - ugh.

I suggested a small dog, not a very small dog – like a "rodent dog" – but a somewhat small dog. There was thing called a "CockaPoo" that wasn’t’ a recognized breed but had that midsized shaggy kind of look that went along with names like "Rags" or "Scruffy." But Pam didn’t want a dog. She wasn’t up to potty training a dog until she was through potty training Liam. And then there was the matter of our new carpets. I was determined to get a dog. I faithfully promised to help with raising the dog. But Pam just gave me "that look." I retreated.

And then there were rats.

Pam believed that a rat was the right animal. Not just any rat, but a "Fancy Rat." Although I thought that "Fancy Rat" was something that appeared on an exotic menu, Pam explained that Fancy Rats were bred to be household pets. They are sweet, intelligent and - as a major advantage - are only expected to live about two years. Pam just wasn’t sure if she could deal the "tail" thing. But if she touch a rat tail without gagging, we were going to get a rat.

I immediately exercised my "king of the castle" veto rights over bringing a rat into the house. Pam just gave me "that look." I boldly asked (inaudibly) "When are we going to get cockroaches?"

Fait accompli. On a bright Saturday morning, the family drove down to a nearby shopping center. Pam, Emily and Liam went to the pet shop to admire pets. I went to a hardware store to admire power tools.

After a time, I mustered up the courage to meet up with the family at the pet shop. Entering the store, I noticed that the San Diego Humane Society had set up a pet adoption booth. They had the sweetest little Australian Shepherd puppy, an eight-week-old ball of fluff.

But Pam, Emily and Liam were standing chatting with a store clerk. She was a high-school aged girl who looked like she listened to Megadeath. There was a rat sitting on her shoulder. Pam saw me and said "The tail’s really not that bad." She added that the clerk, who recommended rats highly, had two of her own at home. If she didn't have the safety pin in her eyebrow, it might have been persuasive.

Pam decided that we needed not one, but two rats. The rest of the conversation was just a blur. Rats were social animals. If we didn’t have time to keep the rats company, they could keep one another company. One rat was cruel. If we were to get two rats, Emily wanted a boy rat and a girl rat. Pam explained to Emily that we were going to get two girl rats because we didn’t want rat babies. Emily told Pam that even if we got two girl rats they could still have babies because they were girl rats. Pam just smiled.

Somehow, we left the pet shop ratless. We bade farewell to the rodent farm and went home. But my family was plotting against me.

I knew we were going to get the rats. I planned to take the position that, even though we got the rats, I had never agreed to it. I thought that this could give me leverage in other situations. For example, I figured that if I wanted to go to Club Med by myself and Pam objected, I could always say, "well I didn't want to get the rats." But Pam, as usual, was smarter than me. She was going to get me to agree. Pam simply told Emily that we could get the rats if Emily got my consent. She outflanked me. Shortly thereafter, while I was on the top of a ladder trying to install some crown molding, Emily approached me.

"Do you know that rats are very good for five year olds?" she asked.

"Emily, do you know where I left my hammer?"

"Papaaaa."

"Yes."

"Do you know that rats are very good for five year olds?"

"Is that right?" I replied.

"Yes, they’re very clean and nice and you can hold them and they don’t bite. They’re not scared of people. They’re very good for five year olds. Can you let me have a rat?"

"Who's going to pay for the rat."

"You are."

"Where will I get the money to pay for the rat?"

"You can go to work and get the money to buy a rat."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you love me."

"Who is going to take care of the rat?"

"Mommy."

"Why do you want a rat?"

"Because they’re very good for five year olds. they’re very clean and nice and you can hold them and they don’t bite."

Instead of taking another lap around the track, I suggested that we discuss the matter at dinner. Dinner came and went. We were going to get a rat.

The next afternoon, Pam called me at the office to report that we became the proud parents of two rats. Emily was in heaven, she named her pets Liza and Lulu. I felt a certain pride and warmth. Not for the rats, but for the joy that "we" had given Emily.

That evening, Pam took me downstairs to view the rats. They looked like rats. Lulu was grey – it occurred to me that if you have any reservations about rats, you should not buy either a grey or black rat. Liza, Emily’s favorite, was white with tan spots.

Pam picked up Liza. She encouraged me to pick up Lulu. But Lulu didn’t seem to want to be picked up. Pam said that you just have to grab them but I decided that if Lulu wasn’t into it, I wasn’t going to force the issue. Pam put Liza back into the cage. Lulu acted agressively towards Liza, nipping at her hind legs. Pam didn’t think that was normal rat behavior. I didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. They were rats and nipping seemed like a "ratty" thing to do.

The next day Pam called me at the office. "Well, we’re a one rat family" she said. I thought about the nipping. Oh my goodness, Lulu must have killed Liza. I felt guilty. I could have prevented it.

Pam explained, "I read in the rat book that if one rat is aggressive towards the other rat, you need to separate them. So I brought Lulu back to the pet store." Feeling a bit relieved – they are living creatures, after all - I mumbled something supportive and went back to my work.

Later that evening, Pam was in the kitchen, preparing dinner and Emily was downstairs playing with her rats. Emily came upstairs and approached Pam. With a big smile on her face, Emily announced that Liza was having babies. Pam was busying stir-frying. She told Emily that she must be mistaken, that Emily must have seen some dirt in the cage.

Emily insisted that Liza had two babies. To settle the matter, Pam went to see Liza. Pam arrived in time to witness Liza eating the afterbirth. But there were four baby rats and the family would soon grow to nine.

"I told you girl rats could have babies without boy rats," Emily said.

The rat thing hasn't been all that bad. A surprising number of people wanted the babies (we didn't ask if they raised snakes). We quickly returned to being just a two-rat family.

Reflecting back, I had only one real concern: Our son Liam really loved dinosaurs . . . .

Ever Have One Of Those Days? #4

Quiet Reflection

I turned 50 last Sunday.

I had thought that by this time my life would be so "under control." But things are only more confused.

Perhaps, during the next 50 years, I can learn how to live in the moment and find joy in not knowing what comes next.