• It’s reading week, or, as I like to call it, breathing week.

• Yes, my head is above water. Barely. My lips keep slipping below the surface and I’m sporting the eyes of the oxygen deprived. I don’t have much of an egg beater kick, it’s more like I’ve had a swift kick in the ass.  Who’s treading now? [gearhead edits: are you okay?] [wife edits: internal spluttering monologue] [gearhead edits: I think you need a break].

• This exchange: “what’s for dinner?”, “chicken”, “crap chicken?”, “no, actually it’s called Chicken-that-someone-else-is-cooking-your-dinner.”

• My hair looks like shit.

• Taking on an adjunct position, teaching research methods to graduate students, on top of my regular full-time job, on top of my regular full-time mothering, on top of my regular gearhead wifing, has been, in a word: stupid.

• I blame my ego.

• My ego shrugs and gives me a sheepish look, like, “whadya want me to do about it?!”  Bastard.

• I figure I’m making minus three dollars an hour on this university teaching gig, given the time I put in. [wife’s ego: don’t do the math]

• My aesthetician asked me who the hell I let “do” my eyebrows?! I swore my loyalty to her talents…but I think I’m suffering receding eyebrows, either that or my eyes are pulling towards the side of my head, kind of like a fish, one of those ugly goldfish with the bulgy eyes…maybe I’m pulling them out in my sleep…my eyebrows, not my eyeballs.

• I made a Manhattan for myself.  It was fantastic.  It made me feel like I was floating out of my socks into another dimension, another life.  Then I noticed my kids appraising my solo happy dance in the living room with…jealousy? No, scorn and disdain.  No wait, pity.  Shit.

• I turned 45 this month.  I’d like to say I’m hitting my stride.  I’d like to say that.  [wife edits: silence]

• The dog still loves me. [wife’s ego: it’s because you feed her] [wife edits: who the hell invited you to this party?]

• The Gearhead is building. Picture the barn: multiple levels, multiple cars and other mechanical toys crowding each floor. I know there’s a metaphor there somewhere, but my brain is fried.  I am sure you can think of one. Maybe a womb with a view.

• Practice gratitude. Every day.  Yes, even if it is for the last roll of toilet paper when you thought you had run out at the most inopportune moment, nylons round your ankles.

• Gratitude helps. You can honestly feel blessed your teenager has a healthy set of lungs, screaming obscenities. [wife edits: so like her father] [gearhead edits: Hey!  That’s not fair!] [wife’s ego: get with the program dude].

• I’m gonna get a t-shirt made.  It will read: Chokin’ on the Kool-Aid!

• I’m gonna get a second t-shirt made.  It will read: Mediocrity rules!  It will have a picture of me looking like Ozzy Osborne.

• I’m making a list for the things I will do, once I’m released from this academic privilege at the end of April:  1) make my own maraschino cherries.  This almost perfect Manhattan needs only one thing to make it perfect-perfect: a properly made maraschino cherry garnish.  I can’t get the good ones locally.  The ones in Toronto (yes, of course they’re imported from Italy) are mighty pricey, so hell, I’d rather spring for the liqueur in which to steep the cherries myself. That way I gain the added kick and flavour profile in my Manhattan with liqueur to spare [wife’s ego: woohoo!] [wife edits: cherries won’t be in season for a few months][wife’s ego: who the hell invited you to this party? 2) [wife edits: oh yeah, the list] sleep.  3) start writing again.  I shouldn’t have stopped.  I have no faith in my art.  [wife’s ego: that’s right.  You can’t eat art.  Better to climb the ladder, art will be there when you retire.][wife edits: but not if I whither away first.  I will feed my art and my art will feed me.]  4) Pickle my ego.  No, burn it.  Rise anew from its ashes.  Give it a cherry garnish.  See you on the other side, as a phoenix rising. Cheers!

23 Feb This entry was published on February 23, 2018 at 7:45 am. It’s filed under Libations, no recipe included, Winter and tagged manhattan, marriage, writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.